Ch. 4

The dawn had once again come too fast, but at least it was a lucky thing the rains had stopped the day before. Garth was bleary-eyed and his head was sleep-wooled, but the excitement of the day tingled in his chest. Birds were beginning to sing, their chirps and shrills bounding across walls of the castle courtyard in light-toned echoes.

Arthur the master of horse—a squat keg-chested man, bald with a fiercely proud black beard—and Jared the stable boy had finished saddling the horses, and now hoisted the last of the saddle packs to the horse’s backs to fasten to the saddles. Sir Valmar and Sir Brannon aided them when they came to their own horses, taking the extra measures of fixing shields and bulky bags of clinking heavy plate armor to the saddles.

Garth’s horse was smaller than the others. Nevertheless, he was happy Lord Piclayre had given him his own horse instead of bidding him to ride double with Sir Brannon. Garth could ride, and he wasn’t bad at it, either. He doubted that they’d need to ride faster than a trot, though. But, there were bandits on the road. Garth’s horse was a cream-and-earthy brown palfrey, still young but large, strong and healthy. The men would mount larger, swifter, and stronger rounseys. Garth’s horse whinnied and brushed its hooves against the soft, dewy grass of the courtyard. He held the reins, but it was unlikely that the horse would wander. Garth could tell he was a good boy.

His stomach rumbled softly, so he produced a honeyed oatcake from his pocket and nibbled at it. They were mildly sweet and coarse, and Garth liked them. But, he wished he had some meat. Breakfast wouldn’t be had until mid-morning, well after they had left Arclise to venture north to be away from Arclise. Gilber had said goodbye to Garth last evening—really more of a mumble—and Garth had simply nodded in return. They hadn’t spoken much to each other when it wasn’t required of them. Even when they had romped about with the other boys, they never really spoke or met each others’ eyes. And Gilber hadn’t stirred from his pallet beside Garth’s when Sir Brannon had come to wake Garth in the gloomy pre-dawn hour.

“That’ll be the last of the pack, Sirs,” said the master of horse. Sir Brannon and Sir Valmar both clasped wrists with the man before he and his stable boy ambled off to attend to other matters.

Arsan and Ansel were late. Nobody said a word about it, but Garth knew Sir Brannon was getting vexed. He clenched and unclenched his whiskered jaw, and shifted beside his horse. The men-at-arms talked quietly with one another, and elsewhere the sounds of a waking castle reached their ears.

Sir Brannon’s patience faltered. “Alright, alright. Mount up; we’ll await Arsan and Ansel ahorse, the better to be underway when they arrive.” He raised his head above the gate, to the top of the gatehouse. “Guards! Raise the portcullis!” The sound of a winch and the clank of iron chains resounded through the shadowy depth gatehouse, and Garth barely caught the sight of the iron and steel bars raising into the roof. Though red and gold were now bleeding across the sky, it was still too dark to easily see through the gatehouse. Garth stared into the shadows; the great wooden gate was shut fast, so tightly that only a thin wisp of light managed to creep through.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He whirled and found Sir Valmar there, but the knight was pointing towards the castle’s keep. And there was Garth’s father, striding across over the slick grass. He looked worn, with blackish-blue bags under his eyes, and had probably been up all night tending to the castle watch. He smiled at Garth, and Garth gently tugged his palfrey’s reins to close the distance between he and his father.

“I wanted to say goodbye before you left. I haven’t been able to see much of you or your mother lately, but I wanted to see you off.”

“You can go if you want, father. You look tired. Did you have the night watch?”

“Aye. It’s no matter, though; I can sleep for a time later.” His father, as ever, was tall. Under his surcoat and cloak, chainmail and a breastplate gave his wiry frame some bulk. He had since shed his spear, but still wore an arming sword at his belt. He gave a sort of nodding greeting to Sir Valmar and the rest of the group.

The two of them stood for minutes, close together. “That’s a fine horse,” he said to Garth.

“I wish I had a rounsey or a courser, but I like him. His name is Sweets.” Garth reached back to the horse’s head and gave his muzzle a stroke. The hair was short and bristly, but soft.

His father dug into a belt pouch and produced an oatcake. “I’m not hungry, but maybe he is.” Garth took the cake and held it out for the palfrey. The horse brought his nose close and his nostrils flared as he sniffed at it, and then brought his mouth up to take a slow bite. Garth’s father was silent for a time, and then he spoke up again. “You’ve done well, I think you should know. You’re a smart lad, and clever. You’re a good son.” Garth looked up to his face, and he was wearing a faint smile, small creases forming at the edges of his mouth. Garth smiled back.

It wasn’t long until Arsan and Ansel arrived and mounted their horses. Garth’s father helped him climb atop the saddle, even though Garth could have vaulted into the saddle like a knight would. His father gave him a nod as Arsan cried out for the gate to be opened, and was still looking on as Garth wheeled his palfrey about to fall in line behind Sir Brannon and his grey rounsey as they passed beneath the thick rock walls and ceiling of the Arclise Gatehouse. A golden and orange sky awaited them.

The town was finding its pace for the day and the streets were beginning to fill. Cries echoed up and down Aron’s Street as vendors shouted their wares and merchants went about their business. One of the men at arms, Warren, rode at the head of the column and carried a banner with the Piclayre sigil and colors, and the others heralded their coming. The crowds parted to the edges of the cobbled street as the Piclayre procession passed by.

Noon came, and the party pressed on. Garth was familiar with the gentle, grassy hills and patches of forestland around Arclise, but he was captivated by the lands outside…even if they were largely the same. The only times he had been outside of the Piclayre lands were on his way to faires.

He found himself riding at a canter near Sir Brannon. Atop the hill they were on, Garth could see some trees and a couple of small huts in the distance, to the east. “Sir Brannon, what’s there?”

“That’s the Blount lands; we’re currently on them. I’m unsure exactly where they range to.”

One of Ansel’s men-at-arms, Jon, overheard them and raised his voice as he trotted his rounsey up from behind them. “Those are the old Felsier lands, lad. Haunted, you know.” Garth, of course, knew the story but remained quiet anyway so he could hear it again. “Old Lord Felsier was a good lord, as right and proper as you could expect a man to be, and a godly man, to boot. His only oddness was his like to go riding at midnight when the moons were bright and full.

One of those nights, he got a touch of moon madness. His mind was full of horses, and he seldom talked of little else from then on, despite the insistence of his lady wife and his sons. One night, he went missing. When his sons arose to search for him before dawn, they wandered by the stable, which was quieter than the dead, and they thought that strange. But when they opened the door, they found all the horse’s throats slit, a bloody bucket, and lord Felsier dead, drowned with all the horse blood he drank.

To this very day—and I can tell you it’s true, because I’ve been there meself—horses get spooked in the stables. Some say it’s because there’s horse blood still soaked into the dirt, and we all know how horses don’t like the smell of blood. But, I know it’s because the ghost of old lord Felsier returns to the stables when the moon is full to torment the horses and drink his fill of blood. “

The story wasn’t as good as when others told it, but it was better than some. When Agga the washwoman told it, she took her time in telling it. She would tell all about Lord Felsier’s midnight ride and how a faery followed him, putting spells on him as he rode. And then she would go on about how his sons searched for him and—when they found him—he drank a bucket on blood in front of them and drowned himself in it then and there. It was a good story, but Garth couldn’t see why a ghost would want to return to the stables for horse’s blood when it wouldn’t even be able to drink the blood.

A few hours after their noontime lunch—dried cheese and dried, salted beef eaten in the saddle—Garth felt his eyes creep shut. He dreamed of sun, of grass and Arclise castle, the great stone blocks mortared together, and faceless people lazing through the corridors and great hall. And he dreamed of Cirin and Gilber; of Cirin walking him down a long stone corridor that ended on a grassy field, telling Garth how the Circle wasn’t for him. And then he dreamed that Gilber was there, and Gilber yelled at Garth for not knowing Cirin had not intended to send him to study to be a sevant. “Stupid,” he cried. “Stupid, stupid, foolish.”

Voices brought him around again. They were atop yet another hill scattered with trees. Garth brought Sweets around in a loose circle, his head swimming and the world brightening as he shook off sleep. “What’s happening?”

Sir Brannon answered him first, nodding his head to the east, through the loose copse of trees. “Travelers, a group of them with mounted men. They’re still a bit too far off to tell to which house they belong.”

Garth brought his palfrey backwards in a trot. He could see hills and sky and a village to the northeast, but it was hard to see over the men and through the trees. From what Garth knew of military matters, he knew he should ask how many there were. “How many are they?”

Sir Brannon cocked his head and nodded his stubbled face towards the east. “Oh, eleven mounted men what look like knights or men-at-arms, five additional mounted, fifty or so booters. They have a few carts among them; they look like they’re just travelers. Probably coming up from one of the alternative small roads that split off from the Day Road and join up near the Crossroads.

“Most like they’ll hail us when they get a good look at us through these trees,” declared Sir Valmar.

“Let them, then,” declared Arsan. “I’d be happy to have the company, especially if they have travelers out of Kingscoast or The Ramble.”

“Yes, they always have such pretty stories,” piped Ansel over his shoulder, his loose brown curls bouncing with each step of his rouncey. “Last time chance had me talk to a Kingscoaster, he told me a ship of Lozaari mercenaries fresh out of a war in the Eastland of Ambura had docked in Crownmark and six of them were executed for murder while in port.  The king was considering blocking the port from Lozaari ships for a time to force the message that Sagistis is a godly land. I know not what became of it.”

When they left the scattering of woods atop the hill, sure enough a man on horseback at the head of the traveling column raised a hand into the air and shouted an echoing “Hey-o!” that wafted over the distance. The travelers were tiny in the distance. Arsan declared that they would wait at the intersection of the two roads, the Old Road and the Day Road, a few hundred yards in the distance near the bottom of the hill.

As the travelers grew near, Garth could tell that the mounted men riding at the head of the traveling column wore deep blue surcoats on which was emblazoned some silver-colored device. Sweets shifted anxiously, and Garth leaned forward to give him a pat on the neck. Sir Valmar’s horse cantered sideways for a few steps, and then the knight wheeled the beast hard toward the travelers to get a better look. “Bloody hell,” he sighed. Ansel grunted.

“What’s that about?” asked one of the Beclund men-at-arms, Ren. “Me eyes aren’t as drop-on as they were when’s I was a lad.”

Garth joined in. “What is it? What do you see—I don’t know that device.”

“Oh, I think that—being a sevant’s assistant—you should,” drawled Ansel. He turned in the saddle to quietly chatter with Arsan. Sir Valmar trotted up beside them in leaned in. Garth could just hear their conversation. Sir Ansel turned his gaze towards the oncoming travelers while he spoke to Arsan. “Cousin, do you not believe we would make quicker time without being laden down with travelers? We could pass the inn and stay on the road, making many more leagues under darkness to arrive at the Goodwine lands more speedily.”

Sir Valmar nodded, his shaggy hair shifting in the wind. He stroked one of his long sideburns and said, “I agree with Arsan. Besides, they are naught but trouble. I mislike them.”

Arsan cocked his head, stretching his neck and then his arms while he replied, “No, I think not. It would be prudent to linger and travel with them. We wouldn’t want to ride off and give them cause to mislike us. Besides, we can have news of the travelers and the knights are like to bring news from the wider world. You, Valmar, can stay away with the men and the common folk if you are made so uneasy by the knights. Please, though; do try to make a good showing.”

Garth squinted hard at the oncoming travelers and his eyes locked on the distant and tiny device borne on the surcoat of the lead-most rider. He saw the plain, deep blue surcoat and the silvery device on it—some rectangular thing, taller than wide, with some sort of open space in it. And then Garth saw the small emblazoned flame in the center, and the ring-like handle atop the thing, and recognized it as a lantern, a silver lantern. “Oh,” he said. “Those are the Knights of the Silver Lantern.”

“They’ll be playing at shepherding, then. They’ve a flock well in hand, I see.” Sir Valmar brought his grey rounsey backwards and tugged a reign to bring the horse around. The horse hesitated and trotted sideways before deigning to turn around and canter towards the Piclayre and Beclund men-at-arms. “Gods damn this horse. Well then; I shall leave you lords to deal with the Silvers,” he called towards Arsan, Ansel and Sir Brannon. “I will administer to our men.” Sir Valmar’s long face was dark yet prideful, the edges of his lips bracketed downward as he carried his chin high. With his characteristic half-lidded gaze, he appeared more insolent than usual. Garth would have earned a slap for such a visage.

Garth watched Valmar as he rode by, twisting in the saddle to watch him pass to be near the men-at-arms, sunlight glinting off the arms of his chainmaille shirt. “Right then; form rank behind Lord Arsan and Lord Ansel. Stand tall and act proud to have waited for those foot-sloggers to reach us.” The men-at-arms chuckled and began to trot their horses towards their places behind Arsan and Ansel.

Garth was unsure of where to go or what to do. He could have sat mounted aside Sir Brannon or Sir Valmar, now moving to flank the men-at-arms, or trotted Sweets next to Arsan and Ansel.  He wheeled Sweets around to follow Sir Valmar.

“What is the matter?” asked Garth.

Sir Valmar looked over his shoulder to speak, saying, “Pay no mind, Garth. Go back to Sir Brannon.”

“As soon as you learned there were Silvers, you got into a mood. Why?”

Sir Valmar huffed and paused a moment before saying, “There are some who would rather keep their distance from the Knights of the Silver Lantern for an inability to forget the past.” The knight stared ahead, blankly and his voice trailed off to a thin exhalation.

Garth spurred Sweets so that he sat aside Sir Valmar, looking up at the slim knight, up past his long square jaw to his eyes under his thicket of hair. Garth responded, “Why? The Silvers are good, are they not?”

“To some, yes. Others may argue that point. There are also many who believe the Paladins are all honor and holiness, and there are others who believe something else. At the least, some around these lands may tell you so of Sir Gilfred Guisdame. But begone, back to Sir Brannon. You will be wanted at his side.”

 “Garth,” called Sir Brannon, twisting in his saddle to motion to Garth. “Take a place beside young Lord Piclayre. And don’t disturb the knights unless you are addressed; they are men of import with work to be done. If dismissed, you are free to ride and talk with the smallfolk.”

As Garth spurred Sweets towards his place, the hot late-day sun beating at his back, he wondered why nobody had told him what to do in such a situation before they had left Arclise. He had to wait for Sir Brannon to give him orders before he could act on anything. I feel a fool. I must look like a stupid child.

Behind him, Garth could hear Sir Valmar telling a jape. Normally his japes were loud and baudy, but he kept his voice hushed so as to not annoy Arsan. “…and when they had set up, the town’s master bade the mummers begin. The youngest boy set himself to juggling while his sister went about dancing…”

They then waited. The sun was hot still, though now all manner of spring insects and pests were beginning to grow more active and a fresh breeze was about. Crickets chirped in the lush hedges and trees scattered about nearby, and the greenish-yellow long grass swayed in the wind. The group of travelers grew steadily closer, and Garth could now faintly hear the louder conversations as they approached. Sweets pawed a hoof at the dirt road.

Valmar continued on with his jape. “Now, when the mother fell from her stilts and the balls she had juggled fell down around her, the town’s master laughed along with his retinue. But, they quickly became horrified when the son dropped his breeches and set upon his mother like a dog to a bitch in heat…”

Garth now listened to Ansel, who leaned in towards Arsan to talk softly to his cousin. His voice was so low that he could only catch bits of his words, though. “…talk to the men? It isn’t seemly for them to talk…I don’t believe.”

Arsan responded, saying “I believe the men will be fine. The Lantern Knights…too engrossed with us to speak much to them. And more besides, they have…pilgrims about the Rangelands. Doubtless they…with a few men-at-arms. Be easy, coz; save your worry for the Goodwines.” Garth wondered at the parts he had missed. Did Arsan and Ansel not want the others to speak with the Knights of the Silver Lantern? Perhaps they didn’t want only the men-at-arms to speak? Or maybe Garth had misheard; he was sure Arsan wouldn’t mind, but maybe Ansel did.

Valmar continued on, but had hushed his voice even more so that it was hard to hear. “And now the father took his son from behind while…sister with the goat, and covered in…the town masters’ lady wife swooned…near faint with bewilderment and sickness, the town’s master cried ‘Stop…who are you creatures?’ The daughter stood up from beneath the goat, spread her arms…said happily, “We’re the landed nobility!” The men-at-arms struggled to hold back muffled laughter, and one burst out with a barely-restrained snicker. Garth thought it might be Arney. Behind, Garth heard Sir Brannon softly reproach Sir Valmar.

“Glory to!”  The lead rider shouted, invoking the office of the King of Sagistis. Garth saw that underneath his maille hauberk and surcoat that he was a thin man, at least as old as the elder Lord Piclayre and probably older still. His face was aged yet well and lively, close-cropped hair denoted a sense of duty—or so Sir Brannon had once said of close-cropped hair—and his eyes were sharp. He thumped his fist to his chest in salute.

“Welcome!” Arsan shouted his response and sat tall in the saddle. He looked like a lord just then, his long, light brown hair gently tossing in the breeze with the falling, rich yellow sunlight blazing in it. He spurred forward to meet the lead rider, and his retinue went with him. Garth’s horse bobbed lightly under him as Sweets carried him closer to the newcomers.

“Well met,” spoke the lead Knight of the Silver Lantern in a firm voice that crackled under the influence of years spent in use—and probably loud use, thought Garth. “My name is Sir Konrad Krasteil, Ward Captain of the Knights of the Silver Lantern and lord of Fisher Hall in Riverwynd. If I am not mistaken, your coat of arms is Piclayre—but I do not know your companion’s.”

“I am Arsan Piclayre of Arclise, son of Lord Guyon Piclayre who rules there. My companion is my cousin, Sir Ansel Beclund. And we are indeed fortunate to meet a traveler so prominent as yourself. What is your pleasure in these lands, my lord?”

“My brothers in oath and I escort pilgrims and travelers from the Greenway Road to the Crossroads. We impose order and uphold the law on the roads.”

“Ah, is this act Lord Osmund’s will? He has done well, I think, in granting us such prestigious road wardens.”

“No; we work of our own volition. We have had the pleasure, however, of traveling with Osmund men and have learned that Lord Osmund, regrettably, could send only a small number of additional men to aid with the safety of the roads in the days leading to the Faire.”

“Our liege is generous,” said Ansel, his voice clear and crisp. Garth could not whether or not he quipped.

Arsan spoke up, saying “How goes the work of the Chantry’s knightly orders and the labor of the Faith itself? It has been some time since we have chanced to talk with one so close to the Faith itself.”

“The Chantry knightly orders have had little to do, of late. Whether this is a blessing or an ill tiding is unclear to me. However, with a faire season upon us, my brothers have been stretched across the realm escorting the smallfolk and enforcing godly justice on the roads. The rains, however, have been a disappointment.”

“And what of the rogue militant order? Has the Chantry made their fate known?”

“Our Chantry’s mercy has extended itself. For a time, at the least. The Knights of Judgment have been suspended and the knights themselves ordered to Crownmark for wardship. Our Chantry holds them close until such a time as when their fate may be judged according to the Book of Mercy.”

Sir Konrad’s companions rode flanking Sir Konrad, Arsan and Ansel. Sir Brannon rode slightly behind, quiet and listening.

Ansel cut into the exchange between Sir Kinrad and Arsan. “Forgive me, Sir, but these knights are traitors to the realm and thusly traitors to the Chantry. What business do they have walking this world?”

Sir Konrad was silent a beat, then nudged his head toward Ansel. “Though the Book of Judgment poses swift and firm action, the Book of Mercy supposes that we, humble men, display mercy until such judgment is necessary. It was decided that we should follow this interpretation, an interpretation of mercy.”

Ansel chuckled dryly. “A gracious decision, Sir. Though I may be but a man and weak, it gladdens my heart that men of such moral standing grace this world.” Garth would have supposed that Ansel would deliver some jape or a jest, yet none came. “And what man among men delivered this verdict?”

Sir Konrad said easily “A man of my brotherhood, Sir Philip Ronnell the Devout. Close to the Patron, he is, and a respected man in the Chantry. Some orders and men took issue with his suggestion, the King included, but in the end the Chantry saw the wisdom of his words and bade the king heed the wisdom spoken in Sir Philip’s words and written in the Book of Mercy’s text.”

“Your order is widely known for its wisdom, and the cause is plain to me,” said Ansel.

“You would gladden me to say such to Sir Sutton Tanes. We had much objection from the Paladin. Though he is a great sword arm, I fear he is not known for his temperate disposition.”

Garth snapped his gaze to Sir Konrad’s back, the man’s deep blue cloak stirring lazily in the late-noon breeze. Sir Sutton was a hero of the realm, a Paladin clad in pure gold and immaculate white. And not only a Paladin, but the youngest of them all at the age of twenty and five. Garth had never seen the man, but singers and storytellers cried out his praise, his valor, and his glories. When the traitor Geddon Romatorre rose from the Killcrag Coast with the Lyonales, the now-deposed Wardens of the West, Sir Sutton fought in the first battle of the war in the defense of the Iron Marches, again at the battle of Weeping Meadow, and others Garth had forgotten. He even won lord Geddon’s surrender after having slew Geddon’s cousin before the man’s eyes.

Garth could not presume to interrupt the men, but he clung to his palfrey’s reins, straining his ears to listen through the late afternoon breeze. Though the weather was warm, the breeze cooled him and he pulled his cloak more tightly about himself.

“No; they say Sir Sutton is not the most level-headed of the Paladins. Perhaps you should have called upon Sir Joryn Lyonet. As I recall, he was most eager to end the occupations and recall the armies to their own lands.”

“Sir Joryn was long away in southeastern Kingscoast, eager to repair the damages the Arrish had wreaked on his home. There was little that could be done to bring him to Crownmark.”

“And what of his vows? Did the man not swear to attend the needs of the realm with his brother Paladins?”

“The Valys king sent Kolbein Runder to his family’s lands. Otherwise, he permitted his white shields to leave, save for Sir Gauth Fensdale whom he insisted remain with the throne. Sir Guisdame chose to remain, refusing to be remiss in his duties as a Paladin by leaving the king unprotected.”

“A bold move, allowing his shields to take leave from Crownmark when the realm was reeling from the turmoil.”

“No doubt he wished to display his certainty in victory,” suggested Ansel. “As well he should have; the rebels needed shaming.”

“Perhaps,” remarked Sir Konrad. “Though the latter battles of the war were shame enough, save for the push to Crownmark. We taxed the rebels with steel, and they paid in blood.”

“I attended Crownmark for three weeks during the Tourney of the Lion at the war’s ending. The fields outside Crownmark were as green as summer, but the streets ran red with traitor blood. I saw one of the Romatorre bannermen and seven of his knights executed by hanging and tossed to the crowds for mutilation, and all in the same hour. What was the count of the executed? Three hundred?”

“That and more, if the king cannot be persuaded of mercy. Cousins of the Romatorres are accused of spying for the rebels during the war; the father and three eldest sons are to be executed by hanging and their house dissolved.”

“And what say you on the matter?”

“Our knights devout advocate for mercy when mercy can be given. We stand by the notion that the traitors should be spared of their lives and allowed to atone in a Chantry brotherhouse. Perhaps by giving their lives most fully to the gods they may ease the burden upon their souls. The people, however, clamor for blood.”

The sun began to sink low into the sky and some armsmen left the traveling group and returned with a brace of rabbits along with some roots, grasses and leaves for a stew. Sir Ansel and Arsan exchanged some quiet words. Arsan trotted his rounsey to Sir Konrad, and announced “If you are unacquainted with the land, Sir, there is on the road a league or two from here an inn. It is much esteemed as a resting spot for travelers on this road and yet is not as crowded as the Crossroads, a five leagues farther still. If we press on to the Crossroads, we shall not arrive before heavy dark and we may not have the good fortune to find adequate within the inn or its premises.”

Sir Konrad considered a moment, and said “I believe I know this inn you refer to. At this time, I am unsure if we shall find lodging within it, but I believe we may find accommodations in the yard, if necessary.”

Arsan took Sir Brannon with him to inform the armsmen and travelers, and Sir Ansel took his leave to speak with his armsmen. Garth kept his rounsey at a slow, even amble behind the three Silvers. He waited a moment and considered. Arsan, Ansel and Sir Brannon had retreated for a time, and the three Silvers remained quiet in their saddles. One yawned.

“Speak only when spoken to.” That ghostly memory of Lord Piclayre’s words rose up in Garth’s mind like smoke wisping up from a dead fire. Sir Brannon was there in Garth’s thoughts, too; the man’s squinted eyes and square, strong jaw made his face hard as he reminded Garth to speak only when addressed.

But Lord Piclayre was leagues away, and Sir Brannon was busy shouting out orders and answering the questions of the smallfolk in the walking column of pilgrims.

“Sir?” Intoned Garth, as politely as he could manage. All three knights twisted toward him as he approached.

“Yes, boy?” spoke Sir Konrad.

“You know Sir Sutton Tanes?”

“Aye. And I’ve clasped wrists with most of the paladins, as well as taken bread and spoken of matters of the realm with them.” Sir Konrad eyed Garth over before motioning him closer. His companions took but little notice, talking softly among the two of them. “And what is it to you?”

Garth shifted uneasily in his seat. “Which of the others do you know?”

Sir Konrad’s hard lips softened into a smile. “Of the thirteen who take seat in the Hall of the Paladium, I am familiar with Sirs Brannod Celwain, Emmon Farrosa, Gilfred Guisdame, Jonath Hargrave, Kolbein Runder, Sutton Tanes, Lyonet Thesse, Gauth Fensdale, Arlan Vallis—men of renown, each one. Do you wish to know of Sir Sutton Tanes?”

“Yes, m’lord.” Garth’s chest surged with glee as he recounted the stories the traveling bards, the mummers and the storytellers brought of the young unstoppable knight.

“What I can tell you is that he is as the stories and songs say. He is tall and slim; he does not look as strong as you might think, but I assure you that he is deserved of his title. He is a lion in the tourneys and he was a mighty whirlwind on the field of battle.”

“Is he a good man?”

Sir Konrad’s lips jumped into a smirk. “Yes and no, so as the Chantry tells.

“Even the traitor Arren Romatorre was a good man, at least in some ways. And while he was good in some ways, he was wicked in others. Such is the same for many men, and Sir Sutton is the same. The Chantry teaches that the wickedness in men is to be tempered by the good, and I’ve found the greatest men are those who follow this teaching most stringently. Now, Romatorre’s wife, that is one person whom I have not found redeemable. A wicked creature, she. She spurred her husband to murder and steal, and in the end she did not ask forgiveness.”

“If that is so, has not the Chantry its own wickedness?”

Sir Konrad gazed straight ahead, then turned his head to his companions. He laughed, and his companions joined with him. Garth thought one said he was a clever boy, but he couldn’t be sure. Sir Konrad said, “That, boy, is the fallacy of man. And who are you to ask such questions of the will of gods and men? I see you carry a sword. A page or squire, then?”

“It’s only a wooden sword, m’lord. My father was an armsman and freelancer, and is now captain of the night watch at Arclise castle. He trained me to soldier. But now I am a sevant’s assistant.”

“To be sent to the Circle, are you?”

“No, m’lord. M’Lord Piclayre and his sevant have chosen…” Garth paused and his eyes traveled down to gaze at the saddle he sat upon. Gilber’s fat face and Sevant Cirin’s voice echoed in his head and Garth knew all over again the hard realness of knowing the Circle was not for him. “They have chosen another to send for learning at the Circle.”

Sir Konrad gave Garth the silent and long look of a discerning gaze, such a gaze as was honed by years of use. It was then that Sir Brannon’s voice cut the air, as did the measured thumping of his horse’s gallop. “They did wrong, then. A pity; I’ve found a quick mind is often the best of minds.”

“Garth! Come away, boy!” Sir Brannon rode up alongside Garth, and grabbed him by the collar of his surcoat, about to lead him away like a dog carrying its pups. “You disobeyed, boy. Sir Konrad Krasteil is a busy man.” Sir Brannon’s usually calm voice was gruff and harsh with anger, and he jerked his arm to send Garth reeling in his seat. Garth was forced to rein Sweets around, lest he tumble from his saddle.

“At ease, Sir. I bade the boy to come speak with me. It is no fault of his.” Sir Konrad gave Garth a knowing look. The knight’s hollow eyes and hard mouth transmuted into the slightest of smiles, like the faintest wisp of spring warmth on a cold winter’s day.

They reached the inn not long after nightfall. True to word of mouth, it was large. The main lodging building was three floors high with many covered overhangs on the outside to provide sleeping quarters when the inn was full. And if those were all occupied—which they were—travelers could stay on the grassed grounds outside—which they did.

When they had passed through the gate to the inn—for the buildings of the inn were walled in by a stony and roughly-masoned enclosure—a mercenary guardsman stopped them to ask for their coin. A few coppers for use of the yard at least, he said. They would be charged additionally for space on the floor of the common room or a room. To his knowledge, said the guard, there were no more rooms available, nor space in the common room. There were, though, patches of grass not yet occupied. Ansel grumbled something about being robbed, but Arsan handed over the coin for their party.

Arsan secured a room for himself, Ansel, and Sir Brannon. The erstwhile occupants of the room, a merchant and his wife, needed to be moved from the room into the yard. They seemed contented, however, when Arsan provided them with a few silver crowns. The merchant eagerly rushed his wife away into the yard after being paid many times what he paid for one of the best rooms the inn had to offer.

“There’s a thing, a lord’s son buying a room off of a commoner,” softly quipped Ansel.

While Arsan, Ansel and Sir Brannon had secured a room, they elected to stay with their men in the yard until such a time when they wished to sleep. The Knights of the Silver Lantern with Sir Konrad Krasteil, however, did not seek a room and were contented to sleep in the yard. “We serve the common folk,” said Sir Konrad, “so we should not balk from bedding down next to them.” He and his Silvers elected to stay with the Piclayre and Beclund men. And now, they were gathered around a couple of small fires with a milling mass of other travelers all around.

The sky was dark with the twin moons bright in the sky—one a pale blue quarter-moon, the other a pale yellow full moon. Garth measured the distance between them; only five or so inches.

A blanket of stars lay glittering in the clear black sky—a belt of more stars than one could count shining like countless jewels surrounded by a treasure trove’s worth of other pale gems. Garth sat yards away from the camp fire, staring up at the stars, when Sir Valmar came trudging past without a word. He came from the two fires with the Piclayre, Beclund, and Silvers’ men, and went grumbling to his blanket. He nodded his head to a man who walked past him in the direction of the fire, and Garth saw it was one of the Silvers—the one who was pale of face with long greasy black hair and a hooked nose.

The man stopped at Garth as he walked past, the chainmaille of his armor clinking softly as he walked. “Boy, you should come to the fire. Are you not a sevant’s assistant? Perhaps you can learn something of value. Come along, then.” Garth then rose and followed the Silver knight to the light of the campfire.

Sir Brannon and Arsan gave Garth a quizzical look as he entered the light of their fire alongside the Silver. The man said he had summoned Garth to sit at the fire after seeing Garth sitting alone, and the men cleared a spot for him.

“The Rittermar Lord has paid twice for the erstwhile Hillspar lands. The surviving Hillspar heir and the King have each paid into the ransom demanded of the Arrish lords, and this is happening all across the Iron Marches. It’s a farce.” Arsan

“If we are overlooking the fact that the hillspar heir is eleven years old and has no real coin or treasures of his own but instead borrows from ‘charitable’ allies, then yes. He has paid ransom on his own lands.”

“A shame, that. All this time and they can’t make an end to the war. Some of our brothers in the Iron Marches have reported that the Arrish lords make a mockery of the whole thing. They ask for ever-higher ransom prices and accuse the Sagistan lords of being miserly when they balk at the prices.” Silver

“It’s a bleeding shame that the King hasn’t gathered the realm to march into Arri and bleed them until they give up the ransomed land.”

“The realm has tired of war. The King’s coffers are ample, whereas his armies have dwindled,” yawned Ansel.

“Sagistan law allows land taken in war and held for one year without dispute to lawfully pass to the conqueror, though,” interjected Garth.

The men were silent for a moment as eyes turned to the boy who spoke in the fire-lit ring of men. “By my life, the boy is right! The Hillspar heir was too young to know the law, and he was held captive by the Arrish. He never disputed their claim on his lands. Clever, boy,” said Sir Konrad without a smile, nodding his head towards Garth in acknowledgment.

The talk soon turned to that of the Chantry’s matters, as involved as they were now in maintaining peace across the lands. The Knights of Judgement—the Chantry’s now infamous rogue militant order—was once again brought up. Everyone had something to say about it. Even Fles, Warn, and the other armsmen with their common folk companions weighed in on the matter from their nearby small campfire until a man disturbed from sleep by their voices beseeched them to “bugger off.”

The night drew late, and Sir Brannon sent Garth to bed when Garth yawned.

Garth picked his way over and around scattered sleepers huddled on the grass until he heard a soft and continuous scrape. He continued walking, past the tents of Warren and Fles, and Sir Brannon and his until he came to a small fire set away from the tents in a the open field. A tree—atop a hill black in the moonlight—was silhouetted against starry sky.

 Bathed in ghostly bright moonslight was Sir Valmar, his knife laid across his lap. Garth approached and sat down on the soft, damp grass beside the young knight. Valmar was running a whetstone in circles along the edge of his knife, the motion of which made a rasping scrape that sometimes got louder and sometimes got softer, but never really stopped.

Sir Valmar was chewing on a few pieces of long grass, and after a moment let out a muffled cough, then cleared his throat. “You can balance a knife, fill it with fancy scrollwork and hit it with a hammer for a year, but a good knife is a knife that is well cared for. I never had a better way to sharpen a knife than a good old whetstone. You move it in circles, like this, and it makes for a proper knife. Some say to move the whetstone up and down along the blade, but circles are best. It seems to sharpen the blade faster.”

The knife was a pretty thing. Not Sagistan in make, it was from some land from across the Eastern sea. The blade was long with a slight curve which tapered down to a point. The hilt was curved to the reverse of the blade and wrapped in fine leather. What Garth had never noticed before, however, was the delicate scrollwork adorning the flat of the blade. It was a flowing pattern, like loosely entagled ivy.  The blade reminded him of a swan in a wooded pond.

Garth didn’t say anything for a several moments and instead thought about something Cirin had told him on a rainy and cold day, back when Garth was younger. “Sevant Cirin says the circle is one of the strongest and most useful of the shapes. You can make wheels for a cart with it, and good stones for a sling, and strong roundtowers, and half a circle makes an arch that can hold up a castle. He says so many things in nature are round that it’s hard to miss how it’s such an important shape—like eyes, and the sun besides, and some snails’ shells are spirals…which are really just circles within circles. So, maybe it’s the same with whetstones for sharpening a sword.”

                “Clever.” Sir Valmar was quiet for a time. Careful; a sharp mind can be just as dangerous as a sharp sword, you know. A knight knows he’s in danger when a sword is drawn, but a smart man can’t use his eyes to see when another is crafting a scheme.”

                “I’m to be a sevant of the Circle. You can’t hurt a Sevant. Besides, I have my sword and I’m a good fighter. Noren says so.”

                “You’re not a Sevant yet, though.”

                “Yes I am; Cirin says I’m a Sevant’s pupil and so I follow the laws of The Circle.”

                “Just because you’re not supposed to harm a Sevant does not mean a Sevant cannot be harmed. And besides; a Sevant cannot carry a weapon. You seem to have a sword at your belt; a small one, but a sword nonetheless.

                Garth sniffed. “You think you’re so smart. It’s annoying.”

                Valmar chuckled, a low and almost hollow sound. “Same to you.” He turned his head to spit the grass from his mouth and the relentless scraping halted for an instant, and then never resumed. Garth looked to Valmar to find him running a cloth over the blade and hilt of the sword, and smelled the low pungent scent of oil. It reminded him of his father when the man used to come home smelling like sweat and metal and oil, before Garth was taken into Cirin’s care.

Garth reached down to grab a handful of grass, and felt the supple yet stiff blades slide through his hand before he ripped them free and cast them into the small fire. “I was talking with Warn and Fles and the others. Warn and Fles said old Quen Piclayre was wise to let the friendship with the Goodwynes go with the war and to ignore them ‘til the war was over. They say he had more important things to do, like holding the vanguard with High Lord Osmund at the battle of the Sweetgrass Field while the Goodwynes talked their way into holding a flank. But one of the Silvers says it was unwise for the old lord Quen and lord Guyon both to ignore the Goodwynes ‘til after the war, saying the van would have held stronger. Who has the truth?”

“Truth is an odd and fickle thing. You can talk to a hundred men about the war and find a hundred different truths, and none would be more right than the other. Is it true that the Goodwynes could have held a strong vanguard? Yes. They had many men and many pikes, but not many bows or cavalry. I’m sure you could see that is an odd assortment of fighters for a flank. But, that lordling Osmund wanted more men for the flank and to fight close to the woods, where they’d be well-protected from the side. That was clever, but the flank was strong and well-protected while Lord Huxley and his army worried our van like a dog on a leg of lamb. Osmund lost many men in his army that day, and lost more strength than he needed to. And—truth be told—the strong flank failed to break Huxley’s force though it did do more damage than anyone expected. Huxley’s flank was held by Gauth Fensdale, now a Paladin, and even then an excellent captain.”

 “You told me once that even paladins sometimes aren’t the noblest knights, but they are supposed to be. That’s the same thing. You said something about Gilfred Guisdame too, but you never really told me what you meant by it.”

“Yes, it’s the same thing. It is written in Great Hall of the Paladium that a Paladin is the noblest man who wields a sword. But noble deeds do not make a paladin. Kings make a paladin, and kings are often thinking of things other than noble deeds, things like alliances and money and power.”

“But what of Gilfred Guisdame? You never told me.”

“You are stubborn as a shield, do you know that? Do you really want to know?”

“Yes. It’s why I was asking.”

“Don’t you get smart with me, boy. Elsewise I might not have the mind to tell you.”

“Sorry.”

“Your tongue; you’d do well to watch it. You’re clever enough but you don’t know how to manage it yet. But as for the story…I was at the Battle of Thresh Hall with Gilfred Guisdame. The Bremleys held up behind their walls, waiting for reinforcements while we sat outside because that cousin of the Osmunds didn’t have it in him to risk an assault on the walls. Finally it was Gilfred Guisdame who proposed to storm the gate. ‘The gate is without murder holes,’ he said. ‘The towers flanking the gate are small and can fit only a few archers,’ he said.

I was younger in those days and wanted the glory. The Osmund cousin gave Guisdame the power to assault, but only with the men he could find to volunteer. My brother thought I was a madman to follow Guisdame into the gate, and gave me only two men at arms of five and twenty.

Twenty men was all we had; three knights, seven free knights, and a future paladin, the rest men at arms. We felled a mighty oak to make a ram and fashioned a canopy for it from cow, pig, and sheep hide to ward off the arrows. Smelled like a sinner’s arse, that thing, but it worked.

We rolled the ram to the gate, taking arrows along the way. A knight and some other men at arms had followed us and were picking at the men on the walls with crossbows, but the men on the walls got tricksy and started flinging down burning oil and stones. The raw hides didn’t burn easy, but the fire made the ram bloody hot. Near the end, a stone broke through the hide and one of the knights took an arrow in the leg.

They say Dirstrang and Guisdame met horse to horse and man to man in the yard with glory all around them, and that Guisdame split Dirstrang’s shield asunder with a mighty blow from his axe and then took Dirstrang’s head clean off his shoulders.

Well, I was there. The twenty men were only for the ram; maybe fifty others came through the ruined gate after we broke a nice hole in it, and many and more during the fighting. There were no horses; Guisdame and Dirstrang met on the battlements atop the castle’s outer wall. Guisdame beat Dirstrang into a bloody mess, called him a cunt, and then cast him off the top of the wall to die in the yard below. Dirstrang’s shield broke under his armor in the fall, and some men at arms took his head to put on a spike.”

They also say that Guisdame took an arrow to his leg and lost an eye in the assault, which is true enough, and that he led the charge to the keep where he stole Lord Allwyn Bremley’s surrender with the edge of his axe.

But Guisdame had been beat and battered more than the stories tell, and he barely managed to limp to the keep. Bremley didn’t take long to make a decision when a bloodied Guisdame emerged in the doorway, demanding Bremley’s surrender or his life.

We feasted like kings that night, or near as well. The larder was packed with all manner of foods; we feasted on Arrish sausage and good Southron wine, and Guisdame additionally on all the fame.”

“That doesn’t make a very good story.”

“That may be so. But for hundreds and thousands of people across the realm, their truth is in the songs that the singers sing. The singers and story tellers made pretty tales from the battle and sung and told them all across the realm, but for me and you there’s a different truth.”

“Do they know it’s a lie, the singers?”

“Perhaps, but perhaps not. There must be some who know. Does it matter?”

“Yes, because if they know then that would make them liars. And liars are punished by Lords and by the gods.”

“That may be so, but I’ve known plenty of liars who were never punished by kings or gods. Take Fles; I know he’s lied, and Noren too, and me. And probably yourself, so don’t go off so quickly to tattle. Truth is, sometimes Lords don’t care if a man has lied, and I’m willing to wager that the gods may not care either.”

“So why would they have the laws if they don’t make everyone follow them?”

Sir Valmar let out a dismissive grunt and ran his thumb gingerly along the edge of the nameless blade, the steel that glowed faintly in the moonlight. “I gave up trying to know the will of gods and men. You’ll never know with one, and with the other it’s always changing.”

Garth stared at the ground and yawned. He looked again to Sir Valmar’s knife, balanced across the knight’s knee. The scrollwork caught the bright moonslight until it seemed that the scrollwork ran bright with liquid light. “That’s a pretty knife. I’ve never seen its like before.”

He was going to ask Sir Valmar where he got the knife when the soft ruffling sound of footsteps on grass raised Garth’s head. Garth saw Sir Brannon making his way towards he and Sir Valmar. Sir Brannon stopped a few footsteps away from the boy and the young knight and said “Sir Valmar. Enjoying some quiet away from the fire and the talk?” Sir Valmar nodded and Sir Brannon turned his eyes to Garth. “Come, Garth. It’s time we should sleep.” Garth nodded his head in response.

Sir Valmar took a moment to stare down at the blade on his knee. “It’s a beauty, this knife. But I’ll make you a deal, if you’re willing to hear it.” Garth shook his head yes. Sir Valmar continued, “When I die, the knife is yours.”

 Sir Valmar then raised his hand and reached to Garth. Garth clasped the man’s wrist, but Sir Valmar shook it off. “No, I don’t settle for  that.” He made Garth clasp his hand, a gesture usually reserved for the most serious of oaths. In all the stories, a wyrder or faerie who shook your hand could bind you to his spell, and the Books of the Faith commanded that a shake of the hands commanded a solemn promise.

“It’s a deal, then.” said the young knight, giving Garth’s hand one single and firm shake.

Writing With a Purpose

“They” tell you to write with a message in mind. That’s just what they say. They are right, of course; any writing without a message to convey is poorly planned and tends to sound disheveled. It’s hard to argue with that advice, unless you’re a stream of consciousness writer. That is a whole different level which I am not brave enough to touch at this juncture.

Here’s what writing with a message reads like: He walked down the street in the cold wintery wind, the sounds of far away traffic in the air.”

That’s not bad. No, not bad by half. But, it doesn’t particularly stand out. That’s the problem: writing with a message lacks luster, that twinkling sheen that will keep eyes racing over your pages.

What they don’t tell you is writing with a message is half of the battle. I can write with a message all I want, but it lacks punch. It sounds tired, almost pedantic. It’s like planting your butt in a lecture hall in the far away back row. You are listening to a subject you find somewhat interesting, but can’t fully devote yourself to. The experience is dimly-lit, far-off, not immediate.

Write with a purpose. It’s the difference between a plan and a mission. The plan is the bare-bones structure; the mission is the execution and the impact. The plan is a group of officers huddled around a pile of maps; the mission is the adrenaline-fed pounding of your heart. The plan is color, taste, and smell; the mission is blinding flare-yellow, the spiciest Moroccan dishes, an acrid tang burning in your nostrils.

The purpose gives raw, pulsing life to your writing. It’s blood, and it keeps your writing warm and alive. You can’t expect your readers to get into bed with a cold, dead thing. After all, necrophiliacs make up a very small percentage of the population.

Now, we know already know what writing with only a message looks like. If you forgot already, try looking a few paragraphs above and schedule a visit with your doctor to examine a potential case of short term memory loss.

Here’s what the message was: A man walks down the street. It is cold outside.

In the above example, the message is as unremarkable as the writing itself. If you’re going to write something interesting, your planning had better sound interesting. Otherwise, when you sit down to write, you’re racing along a straight track devoid of harrowing twists and turns, gut-tugging ups and downs.

Let’s re-plan that message. Let’s give it a purpose.

What I want is this: I want to write about a young man. He is tired and desperately wants to give up. He plunges, alone, into the dead of night in the city. It is winter.

This is my purpose: I want to convey hopelessness and the sense of pure, bone-biting cold that surrounds him and also creeps into his soul.

The final product: He walked. He walked and walked, his feet shuffling on the frost-bitten concrete, scraping at the unyielding concrete, one foot, and then the other. One foot, and then the other. It seemed so easy in theory, but each step was a test. It was over, he thought. There was nothing more; no more warmth and fires or yellow-colored laughter on a balmy June night. It was gone, all gone. It was all so cold. Cold, and colder, and as bitter as the lingering taste of saccharine. He would have spit to rid himself of that cold and bitter taste, but he didn’t know how to spit something out of his soul.

So, there you have it. It’s a technique which is so simple yet is overlooked by so many aspiring writers.

You can even use this technique in business writing, PR, and can use it to some extent in journalism. Simply substitute flashy language and grammar play for formatting and emphasis. Maybe you’ll see another post on this topic.

Valentine’s day card, exterior.

Ch. 3 (entirety)

You get a chapter. One full chapter in it’s entire fullness, supple words splayed out on a digital page. You love it. As per the norm, it’s only edited enough to make it readable and consistent. Artful? Elegant? Perhaps that will come later.

Ch. 3

“We’ll need to call in at least fifteen guardsmen and a handful of knights for the faire itself,” said Lord Guyon Piclayre, seated at the back of the hall on a tall seat of richly finished mahogany chased with silver scrollwork. His eldest son, Arsan, sat beside him in a seat more sparsely adorned, and shorter. Midday light poured through the high windows, illuminating the lord and his court, along with the fifty or so commoners that remained in the hall. Garth sulked.

Since Gilber had told Garth that Garth wouldn’t be going to The Circle, Garth had avoided talking to Gilber when he could. Cirin hadn’t noticed.

A man in richly adorned clothing—a doublet of brown over a white tunic and brown breeches held about his waist by a belt with a silver buckle—stepped forward. He was in his mid thirties, of an indiscript height with a shortly cropped beard and a slight smile, as if he knew something everyone else did not. He cleared his throat, commanding sudden attention as he moved from the edge of the hall, nearing the middle walkway; something a normal commoner wouldn’t have dared. Garth did not recognize him. A guard stepped forward to put himself in the space between the man and the Piclayres seated at the foot of the hall.

Lord Guyon, a man of thirty and three years, clean-shaven and bald, transfixed the man with his cool eyes for a moment before addressing him. He was a temperate man, and whereas other lords or high born men may have railed against the man for presuming to command the attention of the hall, Lord Guyon Piclayre turned his voice chilly and locked the man in a hard gaze. “Yes? I do not know you, man.”

“Forgive my intrusion,” began the man in brown, “I do not mean to steal thought away from my lords.” The man was all smiles, and he bowed extravagantly as he finished his sentence. “I am Jon of the Arclise woodworkers’ guild, third head in the guild.”

“We know Bray and Warren of your guild.” chimed Arsan Piclayre. “We are accustomed to dealing with them. Whereby do you come in place of them?”

“Bray was taken with a matter of great importance,” said Jon of the woodworkers. In truth, Bray was always taken with a matter of great importance and always sent Warren to deal with the lord of Arclise and his men. “And, Warren has taken ill with some flux. We have been told he shall recover in a matter of days.”

“Well and well,” called Lord Guyon. “Speak.”

“At last year’s faire, as I believe the lords and ladies of this court may recall, there were a great number of thefts and run-ins with ruffians and brigands.”

Jared Ash, the steward, rushed into the breath behind this sentence. “We have already discussed the matter of safety and guard presence at the faire. Please stand back if this is what you wish to discuss; we haven’t  the time today.”

“I wish to discuss the matter of safety, to be sure, m’lord. But, I do not talk of the safety at the faire; rather, the safety on the roads to the faire. Our brothers in the nearby towns have been busy exchanging words and sometimes letters, if we are learned enough to read them, m’lords, and we remember that in years past there were a great many of incidents occurring on the roads to the faire.”

“My men cannot be everywhere at once. Can you tell us of specific incidences?” called Lord Piclayre.

Ash held his hand up to the guildsman as the man was opening his mouth. The guildsman regained his smile after he smothered a scowl. “As I recall, Lord Piclayre, a guild was robbed of roughly twenty golden crowns at they traveled the Old Road near the Larking hills, thieves liberated a senior guildsman of several precious rings containing several precious and a purse containing other precious things, slew him, and left his body on the road. The guildsman did have a retinue with him, and they met with a similar fate.” A murmur went through the hall. “This was, if I may remind you, in a time when the entire realm was bled by war.”

Lord Piclayre’s son leaned over to his father and whispered to him. Lord Piclayre considered for a moment, mouth bracketed by a ponderous frown, and then spoke. “Very well. I will grant you five men at arms to patrol the Old Road between the faire and the Larking hills. Do not ask for more, as I cannot give them to you. We will be spread thin as it is.”

The steward’s assistant—a boy of fourteen—sat frantically scribbling with his quill in thick ledger as he recorded the pronouncements. The guildsman balked. “Five swords between there and here? My lord, surely—“

Lord Piclayre’s voice thrust itself in front of the man’s words. “You will have those five swords, whatever guardsmen the other lords muster, and other travelers for protection. I will write Lord Osmund and humbly request additional swords, but I sincerely doubt any more men will be available. Your far-off brothers in trade will have to make do with that. In light of this knowledge, I’m sure you could hire a gaggle of freelancers for an agreeable price. I suggest you do so if you are concerned for your safety.”

Jon the guildsman glowered indignantly before bowing once more and turning to once again take a place at the edge of the hall. Lord Piclayre stood and proclaimed “My audience is finished for the day. If you have any further concerns, please take them up with Jared Ash, the steward of my House.” Lord Guyon turned without hearing another word and stepped down from the dais to enter a door set at the back of the hall, leading deeper into the castle. His son, Arsan, swept down behind him.

Whereas a number of the commoners were now turning to exit the hall, Cirin ushered Garth and Gilber towards the front of the hall. Garth believed he saw Sir Brannon Stokeworth and Sir Valmar Ansric follow through the door. Garth, Cirin, and Gilber worked their way past the lord’s seat, and through a heavy door banded with iron flanked by two guards in maille and wielding spears. Though the lord and his son had passed through the door only a moment before, followed by the two knights, it was already closed.

Garth had only been in the lord’s solar a mere handful of times, and even then, not for long. It was a private room for lord Guyon and his family. Inside, there was a rich hardwood central table surrounded by chairs, a couple of shelves sparsely laden with thick leather-bound books, and two high windows topped by pointed arches. Cirin said such windows could be bigger because the arches allowed them to support more weight. The floor was covered with rushes that hushed and crackled underfoot.

There were also the people, too. Lord Guyon Piclayre stood pacing by one of the windows while his son—a tall man of sixteen years old with long, light brown hair and intense eyes—stood in front of a shelf, eyeing the few books. The servants all said he was restless, like his father. Sir Brannon Stokeworth and Sir Valmar Ansric also stood, talking softly by the table. When lord Guyon heard the door open again, he shot a glance at Garth, Gilber, and Cirin. He resumed his slow pacing, glancing out of the windows as he passed them. His shadow drifted with him across the room.

The door opened again and Sir Ansel Beclund, a cousin of the Piclayres, stepped through. Ansel was, like many of the Piclayres and their lineage, tall and brown-haired. He did, however, have a stronger jaw than most of them, owing that to the Beclunds. His was an unusual story—knighted during battle at the age of fifteen by a freebooting knight—not a landed knight, a proper knight, as most would say, but by what many landed knights might call an up-jumped sellsword. He was a smart man, most would say, though he had won no tourneys to distinguish himself. Arsan quickly strode to him and clasped his wrist in a Sagistan handshake.

Lord Guyon Piclayre nodded to the newly-entered cousin and stepped towards the richly-adorned table. “You may sit, if it please you.” He continued to stand, though Arsan, Sir Valmar, and Ansel took seats. Garth wanted to sit, but Cirin made no motion to site. So, Garth stood to the right of Cirin, Gilber to the man’s left. Garth was glad Gilber was out of sight. “Is there news or business before we begin?”

Sir Valmar quipped “One of the rangers swears to the gods that he saw a faun when out ranging between here and the Crommel lands.”

“A fawn? The rangers must be getting bored if they are reporting deer,” Lord Guyon said.

“No no, not a fawn, a faun, one of those faerie creatures. I heard the story at a village I passed near on my way here.” Sir Ansel let out a laugh, Sir Brannon looked amused, and Lord Guyon cocked an eyebrow. “Except now the tale has grown and the small folk are saying there’s a gate to the faerie world that has opened around here, or some such tale, and all manner of things are coming out of it to steal children.”

“In closing, all the usual manner of boredom we’re accustomed to,” said a smiling Sir Valmar, dryly. Lord Guyon dismissively waved a hand.

“There has been news from the Goodwines; lord Ulmar Goodwine has recently died of some flux. Word came quickly from the Crommels and Dirstrangs.” Lord Piclayre was not known for dancing around the point.

The Goodwines were a newer minor house of nobles, somewhere around sixty years old, who won their station when the previous lords of their land had run their house nearly into ruin and disgraced themselves. The Goodwines had managed a small arbor and expanded it, becoming merchants who sold their wine across the Rangewold and helped the other peasants expand their fields.  When their lord was stripped of his title, the richest and most capable man on his land was a Goodwine. And so the Goodwines came into lordship.

Now, if Garth remembered correctly, they were a house now rivaling the Piclayres in size and wealth, having distinguished themselves with various deals with merchants and having won some level of prestige and  a good deal of plunder in the last war.

Everybody was silent for a moment, until Sir Ansel spoke up. “Who succeeds him?”

“His firstborn eldest, Roycen,” said Lord Piclayre, referring to the fact that Roycen was the man’s first ever son, and no known bastard children or deceased offspring had come before Roycen.”

“A petulant thing, wasn’t Roycen? When last we met at the Apple Tourney at the war’s end, he was simmering near a boil the whole time

“A bit shit-headed, you mean,” chimed Sir Valmar. “He’s still nursing the notion that his father died because of us at the Killcrags. Lord Ulmar never stopped bitching to his son how he took a lance in the chest on the countercharge like an idiot while we stood ground.” Sir Valmar crossed his arms over the table, and Lord Guyon sighed.

Ansel spoke. “The man lived years after the war ended. If his end had come by that lance, he’d have died then and there or a week later. He didn’t die an old man, I’ll tell you that, but he didn’t die the youngest.”

“Men often stay injured for a lifetime after warring, and—as I remember—Ulmar was plagued by coughing fits and maladies of the chest for his last years.” Sir Brannon Stokeworth’s voice was cautiously easy.”

“Let’s not argue this, please. With Ulmar’s death, we have more urgent concerns, and a chance to make allies again of the Goodwines as we had before. That is why I need you,” Lord Piclayre pointed at Sir Brannon and Sir Valmar, “and you,” he pointed at Ansel, “to accompany my son to spend some weeks with the Goodwines and rebuild a kinship with them.”

And suddenly Garth knew why these men had been assembled here. Arsan was Lord Piclayre’s son, and would have to go in his father’s stead while lord Guyon stayed to mete out the matters of the approaching Crossroads Faire. If a member of the Piclayre family didn’t attend, it would be an insult to the Goodwines. His younger son, Gaius, was not as talkative as Arsan, and the youngest Piclayre son—Ulric—was simply too young and inexperienced to serve as the representative. And then there was Reileen, the only Piclayre daughter, but she was a girl and would hardly do.

 Sir Valmar was a very smart man; as far as Garth knew, he was the only knight in the Piclayre lands who could read well and knew his history, some tongues, and could speak of Sagistan law with confidence. He was also witty and in good humor when he wasn’t in one of his sullen episodes; he would do well with befriending the Goodwines’ men. Sir Brannon was not quite so smart, but was older, very even-tempered, and had a very respectable sword arm. Sir Ansel was a relative to the Piclayres and could help represent the family, a distinguished fighter, and—from what Garth had heard—rather smart. Garth thought Arsan was most likely to confide in him; he seemed to like Ansel best of all his relatives, and Arsan could be tight-lipped around And Cirin, Cirin was the oldest and knew the most of almost anything of all the men in the room; he would be a good advisor.

Silence lay heavily over the room for a moment. Outside, a nest of baby birds chirped frantically, probably hidden in a nook on the castle’s edifice. “With all my respect, uncle, what if we fail? Ulmar was not an easy man to deal with, and I’ll wager his son is no easier.”

“We cannot have this feud extend any further. The Goodwines have influence, and where they walk a footprint remains. They cannot overpower us as of yet, but it would be best to be their friends, not their enemies. In addition, they’ve gathered a significant group of loyal nobles around them, nobles who won’t deal with us unless the Goodwines give them leave to. This is not something we can ignore or fail at; I won’t have it. We must remove the bad blood between our houses and forge a friendship once again.”

Sir Brannon chuckled. “Well, at least we know what we can’t do.”

Not about to let a jape go unbolstered, Sir Valmar added “It’s brilliant; we should decide the outcome beforehand more often.” Arsan laughed airily, softly.

Guyon Piclayre’s mouth twitched at Sir Valmar’s lark, and then he licked his lips and spoke. “Though there is now an issue. I have chosen Arsan; you, Sir Valmar; and you, Sir Ansel; and you, Sir Brannon, to treat with the Goodwines. Cirin,” he said, turning towards the sevant, “I also choose you.”

Garth looked up at Cirin, whose mouth bracketed in a frown. “But, my lord, you have asked me for my aid in other matters. This would surely conflict with the duties you have bestowed on me, correct?”

Lord Piclayre looked tired. He nodded and spoke impatiently. “Yes, yes. This is true, and therein our problem resides; I need you more here. In light of your absence from my son’s assignment, that admittedly leaves us short on a person with enough knowledge, patience, the skill to handle subtlety and discretion, and the stubbornness to keep at it should the Goodwines prove woefully challenging. Arsan can read and write well enough, but he’ll be taken up with the Goowines most of the time, and a man can hardly be adviser to himself. Sir Valmar is learned in much of law, and clever as the day is long, but are most likely not as fully learned in law as I would hope. Also, his experience is limited, and he can be an ass.” At this, Valmar shrugged. “Ansel, you are a shrewd man, and have a head for numbers and learn quickly, and have experience. But, you will often be taken up with the Goodwines with or without my son, and will have little time for other matters. And Brannon, you are level-headed and experienced, but can neither read nor write, nor know as much of the history of the Rangewold or Sagistan law as would be most favorable. And so, it would seem that I must find someone who can assist Arsan and Ansel in the matters of record keeping, negotiating, and perhaps lawyering.” Nobody could say that lord Guyon Piclayre was not a candid man.

Cirin spoke first, addressing Lord Guyon. “Your sister, Adele Beclund. She is most learned in the ways that you require, and has a cool temper and a stubbornness to her, yes? Perhaps she would be worth considering?”

Ansel laughed heartily, his long, light brown hair bouncing. “My father would never let mother anywhere near those Goodwines. I wish you luck trying to convince him otherwise. Perhaps my uncle, Ronal. He is a learned man, and even completed a few years at The Circle before he up and left the place.”

Lord Piclayre shook his head. “Your uncle, great a man as he may be, is a great drinker and is—forgive me—known to make a fool of himself when the wine is in him. If I remember, he left after The Wise Council’s heavy suggestion that his sudden absence from The Circle may be for the best. I cannot have that.” Sir Ansel gave a grunt of acceptance and nodded.

“I suppose, Valmar, or Ansel, I could have you read on the laws of Sagistis, or learn from Cirin. Though, you will be leaving in three weeks’ time; probably hardly enough time to learn much of anything, much less remember it. And so, I am at a loss. All the nearby houses friendly to us will either require more time to prepare or be too busy preparing for the Faire to spare their time. I may dispatch some letters, but I fear there will be no luck and Roycen insisted that we meet his family in a few weeks’ time.”

All was quiet for a moment. The men thought. And suddenly, Valmar let out an amused grunt. “You said smart, stubborn, clever and trustworthy, yes? Well, there’s a loyal Piclayre man I think we may have overlooked.”

Lord Piclayre raised an eyebrow, preparing for a clever jape. “Is it your new horse you seem to hate so much? Perhaps one of the books I own? Tell me.”

Valmar and Ansel both burst out laughing. “Oh, I believe you’re developing the good humor of Ansel here. See how he brightens the mood simply by being here? No, no; not my damned, idiotic bastard of a horse—loyal and stubborn as he may be—nor one of your books. Maybe if one of your books had a child by my horse, now that would be something to see. Well, it seems to me as if someone in this very room would be a suitable replacement for our sevant.”

Lord Piclayre sighed. “Please, spare us and leave me out of your suggestion. And if this is a damned riddle, I swear to the gods I’ll have you eat nothing but oaten porridge for a month. Out with it, man; let’s hear it.”

 Valmar’s smile was unwavering. “Well, it seems to me that we have a bright, knowledgeable, and above all, stubborn Piclayre man standing right…over there.”

Garth shot a glance to where sir Valmar’s finger was pointing. And then, he realized the young knight was pointing at him. Lord Piclayre grunted with exasperation, and Sirs Ansel and Brannon both laughed. Garth’s cheeks flushed, and he lowered his head.

Lord Piclayre stared for the briefest of moments, his eyes scanning over Garth before his brow knit itself and he glanced from Garth to Cirin, and then back to Sir Valmar. “Shame, Valmar, for playing the poor boy as a fool,” chided Lord Piclayre. Valmar shrugged and then leaned back in his chair, a fraction of a smile still on his face. The chain maille hauberk he wore clinked and rattled as he sat back.

His cheeks were on fire. Garth dared to lift his eyes up from the floor, and saw Arsan Piclayre eyeing him curiously. Garth quickly lowered his head, cheeks flaming from embarrassment. Lord Piclayre had already begun pacing and talking again, and Cirin responded. Garth wasn’t listening. His chest squeezed, like someone heavy had tackled him and would not move off. Gilber, on the other side of Cirin was probably trying not to laugh; Garth caught the sound of soft huffing. He’d be gloating about this now, too; Garth would have his taunting for weeks and weeks and weeks and he’d never stop, and then if Gilber ever came back from the Circle, Garth would have to tolerate him. On and on and on it would go.

Garth’s ears had stopped hearing anything but his own heart and the scream of his own thoughts, but he did begin listening when Arsan’s voice cut in. “Father, I would like an audience with the men here. Children, you are to remain in the hall until we send for you.”

There were maybe twenty men and women in the hall, plus Jared Ash and two guards. Ash was busy berating a freebootng artisan who had accused a Piclayre guard of robbery.

“No, no, no. We will not, may I repeat that again, goodman, we will not give you recompense for a suspected burglary by Piclayre men when you can provide no evidence or witnesses. You did not raise the hue and cry in due time, nor did you immediately seek the aid of your neighbors. Now leave, goodman. I can do no more for you.”

Garth was trying to look and listen anywhere but Gilber, but his eyes would sometimes disobey and flit over to the pudgy boy with the weak chin, who stood straight and upright and still, never looking at Garth. And his ears; his ears caught when Gilber sniffed or cleared his throat.

The next man came forth, fat and dressed simply yet in the station of a merchant or artisan, wearing a dark black, fine doublet under which he wore a silver surcoat. Gold rings hugged his chubby fingers, and Garth saw a bald spot as he bowed modestly. When asked for his name, he proclaimed “Matthis Bowdley, Steward. I came to inquire as to the state of taxes. We have received words that you and the Osmunds are considering lowering the taxes on wooden goods, earthenware—in addition to metals and stone— and will eliminate road fare, along with implementing a special lowering of taxes through your land for the weeks leading up to and months following the faire. Is this true?”

“The twittering of the birds, goodman. Metals and stone only, as well as food, and the road fares throughout the land will be reduced to a copper for foot travelers, two for riders. The road tax of seven coppers per fully-laden wagon of vegetables and the produce of the land and its animals, including woods, and a silver and five coppers for a fully-laden wagon of artisan goods; that tax still stands. Ah, also, a silver for a fully-laden wagon of un-worked metals, stone, or cloth.”

Gilber sniffed. Garth’s chest tensed. Garth’s feet picked over the cracks of the stone floor, shoes scuffing softly. He kept his eyes on Jared Ash and the merchant.

“Then I would like an audience with Lord Piclayre, if it please you, or one of his sons.”

“What for?” Ash’s face was blank, his chin tilted upwards as if the other man’s words were a stream and Ash could keep his nose above the current.

“To discuss reasons why I and my fellows believe a select lowering of other taxes would be most beneficial to Lord Piclayre, and be mutually beneficial for the merchants and artisans.”

Jared Ash sighed and dismissively waved a hand. “Goodman, we have heard every reason possible for lowering every conceivable tax, and our decision stands. Now off with you; I will discuss this no more.” Jared Ash crossed his arms. The other man left with a huff and the whirl of his cloak. His shadow cast a long, wavering blotch on the room when he stepped through the main doors into the sunlight. An attendant, plainly garbed, skittered off after him.

‘It was stupid to think I’d be a sevant.’ Garth’s thoughts careened off the inside of his head, loudly, making him almost dizzy. How could he be a sevant? He was low-born; the son of a roaming sword arm and a cloth-maker. Sevants were the sons of lords and rich merchants, who shed their gold rings and richly-inlaid swords to don a sevant’s robes and put up in the Circle atop its high hill to learn the mysteries of man and the world.

‘Garth. Nobody is named Garth’. His chest tightened again. He wouldn’t be a sevant, but he couldn’t either be a knight, or an armsman, or a sellsword. He would never joust—all steel from head to toe— in tournaments and win chests of gold and glory, he wouldn’t defend his lord and the people of the land, he wouldn’t even fight for coin and bread to live by. No, he had his little rough pallet stuffed with straw in the servants’ quarters, and his place by Cirin, fetching things for the old Sevant. ‘Maybe one day I’ll be Gilber’s assistant, when we’re both old and crooked and wrinkled as rotting apples. That would be funny. Gilber would laugh at that.’

From the corner of his eye, Garth saw Gilber shuffle his feet and leaned against one of the thick wooden supports that lined the edge of the hall. He looked at Garth for a moment, and then looked back at Jared Ash. Gilber fidgeted again, those chubby arms of his uncrossing themselves from across his paunchy, jiggly chest and dropping to his sides. Once again, he looked to Garth. Garth kept his eyes away.

In a hushed voice, Gilber said “I wonder what they’re talking about.”

Garth didn’t want to answer. ‘Stupid. They’re talking about the Goodwines and Roycen, and themselves and us. What else would they be talking about?’ Garth sniffed a half-laugh. Gilber cocked his head. “Roast pork. That’s what they’re talking about. What else?”

Gilber’s mouth twisted into a pout. It looked like a pig’s mouth like that. “Stop that. Now you sound like Sir Valmar.”Garth said nothing in return. No, he didn’t sound like Sir Valmar. Valmar was clever and funny. Garth was neither. Garth once again dragged his eyes to Jared Ash. A woman, dressed plainly but not roughly, stepped forward to address the steward.

“My name is Ali, wife of the bailiff of Hew’s Rock,” said the woman. “My husband is laid sick in his bed with some flux, and I was sent in his stead. The rabble over in the Crommel village seem to have lost two fat sows and seem to think we are to blame. The last we heard, they were sending for Lord Crommel.”

‘Garth isn’t a hero’s name.’ It was true; they were never named Garth. They were named Roryn the Roarer, or Emerrel Wytchbane, or even Raff the Trickster. But Garth…Garth didn’t have a hero’s name, and he wasn’t as strong as Roryn the Roarer, who wrestled a mammoth to the ground and took the stones from a castle wall one by one until it collapsed. Garth didn’t know spells as Emerrel Wytchbane did, and he had never endeavored to learn sorcery or to hunt and kill the wyrders who were bringing men to the fires of the deepest hells. And Garth wasn’t as clever as Raff the Trickster. He doubted he could cause two guardsmen to do much more than laugh at him, much less accidentally hand an entire kingdom over to him.

And neither did he even have a proper knight’s name. The Paladins had names like Sir Gilfred Guisdame and Sir Kolbein Runder, or Sir Sutton Tanes. Guisdame had taken a keep against all odds and gave an eye to do so. Sutton Tanes defended a narrow marshland pass for a fortnight, and Sutton Tanes was the best swordsman of the day, or so they said. The Paladins, they were heroes; all clad in the purest white enameled armor, chased with gold or sapphire blue, or emerald green. Men looked up to them and knights followed their example. A Paladin was a hero. Knights were heroes, too; Garth knew of plenty who had been valiant in battle and had done great deeds all across Sagistis in the name of the King. And even lowly armsmen and sellswords were the stuff of songs; Tollard the Pious who rose across Sagistis to raise the banners against the False Kings six hundred years ago, or Blackhand Ben, a ranger whose right hand became black with frostbite, so he learned to fight with his left and slew bandits and murderers and rapers. And then there were people without swords, like Tom of Duskendale, who wandered across the land tricking evil lords and ladies, and stealing girls’ hearts. But Garth was Garth, the plain and simple son of a sellsword and cloth-maker.

Jared Ash was hearing a woodcrafter’s grievances against a rival guild in a nearby town. “Under law, you cannot call charges upon their guild because you suspect the commission was exchanged from you to the other guild.”

“But, steward, the work was under contract!” exclaimed the woodcrafter. He was in decently fine clothing, but wore a woodcrafter’s apron of thin deer hide and carried tools at his belt. “I have the contract and the commissioner’s mark here,” the woodcrafter said as he produced a rolled-up bit of parchment from his belt. It was bound with a bit of string. Ash bade the man to bring the contract forward, and the woodcrafter did so, depositing it in the steward’s hand before backing up to stand a short distance away, directly in the middle of one of the lances of sunlight protruding from the high windows. His hard-soled boots trumped against the stone blocks.[A1] 

Jared Ash gingerly unfastened the knot and unrolled the parchment, examining it a moment before speaking. His eyes squinted and he frowned. “With your permission, I will keep this contract and submit it to my lord’s sevant to review. However, Goodman, it appears that that commissioner for your work had never outlined the nature of the work in the contract, nor provided a date for the effort to commence. This may render the contract impractical and invalid. Nevertheless, I will submit it to my lord’s sevant for his review. If he feels that the contract is valid, my lord Piclayre will review the contract and take action as necessary. You may come tomorrow to retrieve your contract and hear the verdict.” The steward stepped over to his assistant—busy penning the records of the proceedings onto a long piece of parchment—and handed the contract to the boy. The woodcrafter thanked Jared Ash and moved along on his way.

Gilber turned to Garth again. “I think Jared Ash is growing shorter with the people, lately. I think it’s because of the weather and the faire. It seems like all the people are nagging him and the Piclayres about it, though I can’t hardly see why it’s his fault if—“

Garth boiled over. “I don’t care.” He didn’t need to look at Gilber to realize the boy’s mouth hung open. ‘Good’, thought Garth. ‘Maybe something finally got through that fat head of his.’

“What?” Asked Gilber.

“What?” hissed Garth. “You know what. You’re going to be a sevant, going to go off to leave for The Circle. I was supposed to do that!” Garth’s anger was roiling out of him. He clenched his fists and ground a foot into the ground. Gilber stepped forward, but Garth was quicker and stronger besides, and so he swatted the boy away with one hand. Nobody important seemed to notice, though Gilber shot worried glances over towards the assembled crowd, towards a few small folk on the other side of the hall who were craned their necks to see what small scuffle was about on the other side of the hall. Gilber didn’t try to approach him again. Gilber would go away and train for all those years, and then go off to be a sevant in some lord’s castle. He would eat with the lord, talk with the lord, and serve the lord on all the interesting and fun things that happened around the castle. Garth would be waiting on some knights and maybe a lord if he was lucky.

“I’m sorry…” stammered Gilber. He was quiet for a moment. “I know you wanted to be a sevant.”

“I don’t care if you’re sorry. I hate you,” hissed Garth. He turned away from Gilber. Gilber said nothing.

Nobody who mattered was named Garth; no great knights or paladins or heroes of old legends. And now, he’d spend his days wandering around and chasing after lords to scribble down this’ and that’s on a sheet of parchment or vellum, and listening to bored lords speak to their people in their big, breezy halls.

His father, what would he say? Garth liked the gods, but not so much as other men…but that wasn’t enough when his father had wanted him to be a godly man. And Garth was no page or squire, even though his father had spent hours and hours training him to hold a sword and spear and sending him off with children to wrestle. And his mother; Garth wasn’t a great caravan-leader or merchant, and he would never have gold or gems or other such riches to bring home, and he’d never see the land from the southern dry-winded shores of Arri to the frost-grassed fields and snowy woods of the Old North, nor the stormy western shores with their great ship-breaking cliffs or the bountiful hills and woods of the eastern coast. And when the other boys went off to war for their lords or went to take up trades elsewhere, Garth would remain and grow aged and wrinkled as a weathered leather jerkin.

He couldn’t work iron and steel as Ulric the Younger, nor stone as Yoren the Mason, nor cloth as Tansa. And he certainly couldn’t boast and talk as well as Tansa, nor—try as he might—sneak half so good as she. The heat came to his face and his eyes tensed, the world blurred, and Garth felt a drop of salty tear crawl down his cheek.

Finally, Sir Brannon Stokeworth arrived in the doorway next to the hall’s dais and motioned for the boys. The obeyed and followed him to the Piclayre solar. There, the men were crowded about the table and the room as they had been before.

Lord Piclayre spoke first. “Cirin tells us that you have been studying Sagistan laws and customs. How much do you know?”

Garth paused, mouth open. “I…” he trailed off. “He taught us—me and Gilber—the old Iron Ways and the new laws brought by the gods.”

“Do you know them? Can you recite them?”

“The old Iron Laws are much less merciful than the laws brought by the gods. They come from the old Celgars and Thars, the Iron Kings of the North and West. When the Chantry came with the Dains, it disbanded many of their old laws and added new ones to be like the Book of Mercy and the Book of Justice. They kept the old laws that created kings and bound lords to them and peasants to the lords, and also kept the way of taxing as the Old Laws, but added the king electorate system and gave freedom of movement to those who paid their debt to their lord.” Garth went on and on, until he began to run out of breath and felt dizzy. Cirin asked him questions, which he answered. Garth said some lords and kings were stupid because of the way they treated laws. Cirin scowled at that, and Sirs Valmar and Ansel smirked. Next, Cirin asked him to talk about the court customs of Sagistis, and Garth tried as best he could to remember and retell all Cirin had taught him.

At the end of it, Lord Piclayre looked to Cirin and nodded. He looked to Garth, saying “You’ve done well; I see you have been paying Cirin your due attention during his lessons. I believe you should accompany my son to the Goodwine castle while Gilber stays to help Cirin and continue his training as a Sevant. Arsan, what say you?”

Arsan looked to his father and nodded his head. “I think that would be most suitable. Garth, while Gilber is destined for the Circle, I believe you will do well as a courtier. I know you were hopeful that you would go to the Circle, but we all believe this will suit you. As such, three weeks hence, you will leave with us for the Goodwine lands.” Garth’s head panged with panic. If he was serving at the Goodwine’s estate, how would he attend the Crossroads Faire? His mother had wanted him to be there with her to help with the stall

“But…” Garth trailed off, and stared down at his feet, cheeks blazing. That was wrong; a servant should not speak out against his lord—any lord, for that matter. Cirin flashed him a scowl and hushed him.

Lord Piclayre rejoined. “You have something to say?”

Garth watched his feet brush from side to side, the shadows of his feet and legs softening as they lay across the floor rushes. He looked up and stared at the hawk-on-hill sigil on Lord Piclayre’s surcoat. “No, my lord.”

Lord Piclayre turned from Ansel back to Garth. “This is not to be taken lightly, Garth. You are charged with great responsibility, as you represent the Piclayres and all of our people—lords, knights, goodmen, and commoners alike. You must be well-mannered and quiet; do not compete for Lord Goodwine’s attention or the attention of a member of his court. If you speak, be soft-spoken and courteous. Remember all of the customs and courtesies you have learned. But remember this: your duties are to watch and listen, and to serve my son Arsan in whatever way he requires of you.

Sir Brannon Stokeworth will be your keeper while away. If you must speak about an urgent matter, or a matter of importance, you will report to him first and speak your mind. Is that clear? You will not go to the Goodwines or their men to speak of any such thing until you have consulted with Sir Brannon Stokeworth. Have you understood all of these conditions? Can you do these things?”

Garth looked the lord in the eyes and nodded. “Yes. I can do that.”

“Cirin tells me that you are often hasty and unruly. Is this true?”

Garth might have lied, but how could he now, stuck in the gaze of his liege lord? Cirin had told him such—that he was wild and short-sighted—many times, usually just before tweaking his ear or giving him a clout on the head. Garth considered an excuse, considered claiming that Cirin didn’t say that—at least, not often. But, that would be no good, and then Lord Piclayre would say he needed to find someone better to accompany his son, and Gilber would look smug and satisfied. So, Garth again nodded. “Yes, that is true.”

“This is not the time for that. Gilber is going off to the Circle, but being a Sevant’s assistant and a courtier is a responsibility of great importance. You cannot be rash. You cannot be defiant. You must temper these inclinations, or I will have no choice but from the Goodwine lands recall you to Arclise. Is this understood?”

Garth nodded. “Yes, my lord. I understand. I will behave.” Lord Piclayre nodded in approval. Cirin looked to Lord Piclayre and fixed him with a gaze that seemed to last so uncomfortably long. But finally, the aging sevant looked from Lord Piclayreto Garth and nodded slowly. However, in that gaze and nod was approval.

Arsan spoke, saying “Well, I believe that finishes our business here. I think, father, that I would like to speak when we have concluded this assembly.”

Ansel cut in quickly after, rushing into the brief pause. “I as well, Lord Piclayre. Er, I would like to speak with you after this assembly.” He wore no mail or armor of any kind; just a tunic and surcoat. He twisted his torso to face his cousin. “Perhaps I may join Arsan?”

Arsan wedged himself in right after Ansel had finished speaking. “I mean no offense, coz, but I believe that I would prefer to speak to my father in privacy.”

Ansel cocked his head and smiled a wide, bright smile. His teeth were perfect, or as near so as Garth could tell. “Oh, you wound me, cousin! You wouldn’t be plotting some jape for me, would you? That would be most hurtful, and you know that I love you so.”

George R. R. Martin, “On Fantasy”

Probably one of the best musings in regards to fantasy literature I’ve read.

“On Fantasy”

by George R. R. Martin
     The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real … for a moment at least … that long magic moment before we wake. 

     Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true? 

     We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La. 

     They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to middle Earth. 

originally published in The Faces of Fantasy: Photographs by Pati Perret copyright © 1996 by Pati Perret

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Copyright © George R. R. Martin. All rights reserved.

Ch. 2, part 2

It’s going slowly; I’ve reworked notes, done some revising, and gradually poke away at it when I have the time or inclination. But, I love it!

Ch. 2, part 2

“Cirin will most like let me go. Most of the castle will stop there at some time.” The Crossroads Faire was one of the largest in Sagistis because it was located on the crossroads of north and south—the Old Road—and east and west—the Day Road. It brought merchants from all across the realm and Arri, and even some traders from across the sea. His mother’s brother was a merchant from Arri who took his sister Aria and older brother Vic as apprentices. He said Vic had a merchant’s tongue and a head for numbers, and Aria had one of the best eyes for wares that he had seen, and she could also work cloth well.

He loved the Faire, with its colors and sounds and smells. There were traders from all over speaking in strange accents, men with tattooed faces, dyed hair, and who rode strange beasts. He had once seen a man who rode a giant flightless bird—a Qopo from the shadowlands of Hazum—with orange and pale yellow feathers, which ate fruits, worms and bugs. He had gone to pet it but it quorked curiously and twisted its head away. He had been afraid it might bite him with that huge curved beak, although the dark-skinned merchant from across the sea had said it was harmless. The merchant had shown him how he could mount it, riding it in a tight circle and making it jump over Garth’s head. When he had finished, the man dismounted and tossed the creature an apple, which it devoured in two big gulps. It had nuzzled the man’s hand affectionately, with an odd cooing-quorking sound. Garth still hadn’t dared to try to pet it again, and the merchant had laughed as Garth backed away from the beast.

There had been singers from the Kingscoast with their voices and pipes that sounded like honey, northland bards with beards and lutes, and the shouting singers from Arri whose voices boomed and cut their air like swords. There were puppeteers and cloth workers from Arri, jewler merchants from the Gardenlands, the finest horse breeders from the Rangelands and Southerlands, and expert armorers from the Wyndlands. An old man had claimed to be a wyrder and said he could tell your fortune from a drop of blood and blades of grass, a troupe of performers had come from the Kingscoast and claimed they had trained with the famed Laughing Men of Elibin—oversea troubadours who worshipped a god of mummery, and a man had brought a dancing bear. There had even been a tourney that lasted three days.

“Is Aria faring well?”

“Yes, just so.” said his mother. “Your uncle says she can spot all the qualities of a ware like an eagle spots mice in a field. She’s taken to the wood flute well enough, too, and is well-liked in the caravans all over Arri.” She walked to the spinning wheel where his younger sister worked.

His sister was maybe the most likeable of Garth’s brothers and sisters. She had an easy smile, was quick of mind, and smart, too. She was small for her age, though, but had her mother’s fine dark hair and almond eyes, as well as her tan skin. She said she fit in so well with the Arrish that she had begun pretending she was born there and laughed when people discovered she had been born and lived in Sagistis.

“Has father been well?”

His mother barely looked back over her shoulder, but Garth could see she nodded. The little Arrish woman said nothing.

“Father has been quiet lately. I haven’t had the time to see him, or he hasn’t had the time for me.”

His mother shrugged without looking back. “I’m sure he is well, Garth.”

Garth said nothing in return, eyeing the back of his mother’s dress. After a moment of silence, she looked back over her shoulder and turned to walk toward him, through a ray of sunlight cast into the room by the large window that caused the dust faeries to play in the air. Garth looked at her, and remained silent. His mother sighed. Garth spoke, saying “I know something is wrong.”

His mother straightened and cocked her head at the tone in his voice. Her lips pinched, and Garth knew that a slap might come…but it never did. Garth turned his head down to look at the stone floor, and softly added “You always get quiet when something is wrong.”

                She sighed. Garth heard Roya shift in her seat, certainly uncomfortable. The soft, pulsing hum of her spinning wheel turned softer. His mother—by no means a tall woman, though still somewhat taller than Garth—closed the distance between them and put a hand on his shoulder. “You are to go to be a sevant, yes?”

Garth nodded, finally raising his head to look his mother in her eyes, almond-shaped eyes the color of burnt wood.

“Then you will be leaving.”

Again, Garth nodded. His mother said nothing for a long moment, and sighed. She straightened, and her hand on Garth’s shoulder became lighter and moved to his head, getting lost in the mess of hair.

“You are a growing boy. Becoming a man…is a blessing, but perhaps not the easiest trial a boy may bear. You know what they do in the Arri when a boy becomes a man, yes?”

“Yes, maya.” His mother had told him of this before, when she told how her brothers became men. When an Arrish boy began to grow a man’s hair on his face, he became a man. As when a girl grew up and became a woman, the family had enjoyed food and drink, music and dancing, and neighbors and strangers could come to enjoy the merriment. Those who came would often present gifts to the boy, sometimes great horses and swords, and sometimes a leg of roasted lamb or fresh fruits, depending on how rich or poor the family was. But—as with newly-grown women—it was the family of the boy’s duty to present the boy with a knife.

Because men and women in Arri were freebooters and owed no debt to a lord other than what they incurred, and could travel as they willed, being grown up was full of great freedom. But that knife symbolized duty—duty to aid and protect family, and to use that knife if ever it was necessary. But one more responsibility that adulthood demanded was to never use that knife when it wasn’t warranted. Men and women in Arri could duel each other for honor and to settle quarrels when both agreed to do so, but to murder an Arrish man or woman made one an outcast.

Garth’s mother had shown him the knife that her mother and father presented to her—a gift bought largely by their richer uncle. The hilt was of bone, the small crossguard of steel chased with silver, and the blade a thin leaf-shaped thing as long as a grown man’s hand length. Garth had once asked if she had ever needed to use it. She had smiled, and said something about that, sometimes, men and women had to do what they had to do. She had never been the warrior; that was his father’s world.

“You are growing,” she said, tussling his hair a little more. Garth pulled away. And soon you will be a man.”

Garth knew this, but also knew there were years until he would be a man grown. So much time; the day felt as if it would never come. But, she wasn’t answering his question. “You don’t make any sense!”

His mother stiffened, and Garth twitched his head aside—barely perceptibly—expecting a slap or pinch because of the voice he used. Once again—mercifully—neither came.

“Watch that tongue,” said his mother, sharply. “You might have big eyes for seeing, but you also have a big mouth. I was saying that you will grow soon, and sometimes when boys grow, they leave. Not so much as in Arri, but it can happen even here in the Sagistan land.”

“Well, I’m leaving for The Circle.” Garth stood straight; he was almost a man and could act it.

“Yes, I know. And when a boy is so young and growing fast, it can seem that manhood has suddenly taken him away in the night when nobody is looking, like a faerie. You are so young, but you will be leaving home soon. Your sisters and brother will be sad to see you go, as will your sister and brother across the leagues to Arri. It is not the easiest thing for your father, and it is not the easiest for me. We had hoped you might stay to help with your brothers and sister and the shop.”

“Father wanted me to be a priest,” said Garth softly. His father’s voice echoed faintly in his head, on that day he had learned that Garth had taken up with Gilber and Cirin. ‘You were to be a godly boy, a godly man.’

“Yes, but the rains or droughts may change a land over time. And, time does the same to little boys who grow into men. Perhaps, though, this is for the best” She sounded like father now, and his talk of the gods and how they provided what people needed when they needed it most.

‘Why can I not be a man of the Circle and a man of the gods? It doesn’t matter, anyway. Besides, being a Sevant is better than being a priest.’

“I’m not a little boy,” Garth huffed.

‘Bite your tongue, Garth.’

His mother sighed, and a slight smile flashed on her tanned face again. “I don’t think you’re all grown up quite yet.”

‘Sevants are better than the gods. Sevants can actually do things.’

Garth walked back through the streets of Arclise. It was past noon, now.

Still not done. I’m like 92% in love with it, though. Silly as hell.

Currently in development.

Made in Gimp. Totally unfinished; needs more work on the background, the colors need to be smoothed, the inking trimmed, and the thing just generally cleaned up.

It also needs the caption “It’s the inner beard that counts” in that gray area underneath. 

My action face, and my action face glorified. Created using a photo of myself taken via webcam, edited in GIMP and then Inkscape for the “rays”. The only effect used was a blurring filter. I then re-textured my skin, eyes, and the shadows to get rid of stubble and to give it a painterly look. Yay.