Relics of War

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Garander,” Azlia said. “I’m sorry we’ve kept you waiting.” She held out a small bundle, a napkin wrapped around something, and for a moment Garander thought she was returning Ishta’s discovery. When he accepted it, though, he found that the napkin held an apple and a wedge of hard cheese.

  “Thank you,” he said, but he looked past Azlia at Sammel.

  The sorcerer gazed back calmly and said nothing. His hands were folded across his belly, and if he had Ishta’s talisman anywhere, Garander could not see it. That was worrisome. “What about the thing my sister found?” Garander asked.

  “Ah,” Sammel said. “You will be glad to know that it is not poisonous. No one in your family will sicken from handling it.”

  “Yes, but what is it?”

  “I’m afraid we still don’t know,” Sammel admitted. “I have spent the entire day testing and analyzing it, with only very limited success. It does not appear to be a weapon, nor is it obviously dangerous in any other way. My best guess is that it is intended to communicate with its user, but whether it relays messages from somewhere else, or answers questions, or warns of impending danger, or something else, I have been unable to determine. It does not appear to be working at present, but whether that’s because it’s damaged, or because it can tell we are not its rightful owners, or because it simply has nothing to say, I don’t know.”

  Garander absorbed this, then said, “So it’s harmless, and useless?”

  “So it appears, yes.”

  That was a relief. Garander held out a hand. “May I have it back, then? My sister is waiting for its return.”

  Azlia and Sammel exchanged glances. “Garander—” Azlia began.

  “The baron took it,” Sammel said, interrupting her. “He’s keeping it for himself.”

  Garander’s mouth fell open. “But it’s Ishta’s!” he said.

  “Not anymore,” Sammel replied.

  “But that’s…that’s…”

  “Consider it a tax,” Azlia said, as Garander groped for words. “I think we can see to it that your family will be credited with a year’s taxes.”

  A year’s taxes, as Garander well knew from his father’s complaints, came to six copper bits or the equivalent in grain. Garander knew nothing about magic, but he was fairly sure a Northern talisman would be worth many times that amount—and besides, the thing wasn’t Grondar’s to give away, it was Ishta’s.

  “That’s not right,” he said.

  Azlia turned up her empty hands. “It’s Lord Dakkar’s will,” she said.

  “He’s just taking it?”

  “He’s the baron. He has the right.”

  “What am I supposed to tell Ishta?”

  “She’s just a little girl,” Sammel said. “Tell her whatever you like; you aren’t getting the talisman back.”

  Azlia threw her fellow magician an angry glance, then told Garander, “I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do.”

  Garander stared at the magicians in helpless anger for a moment, then fell wordlessly back into his chair.

  “Do you have anywhere to sleep tonight?” Azlia asked. “It’s clearly much too late for you to go home.”

  He shook his head silently.

  “I’ll get you a bed at the inn for tonight, then,” she said. “Come, I’ll take you there.” She held out a hand.

  Garander accepted her hand and allowed himself to be led out of the sitting room, out of the baron’s house, and down the hill to the inn by the town gate. He stood in miserable silence as the wizard bargained with the innkeeper.

  What would he tell Ishta when he got home? Her discovery was gone, and they still didn’t even know what it was! She would be furious. Not only that, he had come to visit Varag, he had seen the baron’s house and met two magicians, and Ishta, the one who wanted to get away from the farm and see the World, had stayed home and seen none of it. She would be jealous, and angry about that, as well—and with good reason!

  But he said none of this aloud. It wasn’t any of the innkeeper’s business, and Azlia had already made plain through her silence that she was not going to help him get Ishta’s talisman back. She said nothing about the talisman when she bade him good night and left.

  He spent the night curled back to back with a wool merchant in one of the inn’s cheapest beds—apparently the wizard’s generosity had not extended to anything better. He did not sleep well, and at dawn he rose, careful to not wake the merchant, resolved to do what he could on his sister’s behalf. He gathered his things, brushed off his clothes, waved farewell to the innkeeper, and slipped out the front door into the morning mist.

  He made his way back up the hill to the baron’s house, moving slowly and uncertainly. He could not bring himself to simply walk home without making at least one more try to recover Ishta’s magical device, but he had no clear idea of how he could convince the baron to return it. He had hoped some brilliant inspiration would strike, but none did.

  The guard at the door was not anyone he had seen the day before; presumably this was the man who had the early shift. It took a moment before Garander could get up his nerve to tell him, “I need to speak to one of the magicians—Azlia or Sammel.”

  The guard looked him over from head to toe, then asked, “Are they expecting you?”

  “No, but we spoke yesterday. They have something that…well, really, I suppose the baron has it, but I need it back.”

  “The baron has it? Lord Dakkar?”

  “Yes. At least, that’s what they told me.”

  “And what is this mysterious thing Lord Dakkar has?”

  “It’s a sorcerer’s talisman, left from the war. My sister found it.”

  The guard frowned. “Are you a sorcerer, then? Or your sister?”

  “No, we just found it. We don’t know how to use it.”

  The man studied Garander for a moment, and was about to say something else, when the door behind him opened and Landin looked out.

  “Who are you talking… Oh, Garander! What are you doing back here?”

  “You know this man, sir?” the guard asked.

  “Met him yesterday. Well, Garander?”

  “I came to get Ishta’s…the thing Ishta found. I hoped that Lord Dakkar might have tired of it, or thought better of keeping it.”

  Landin shook his head. “That won’t happen, Garander. The baron is still asleep, and will be for another hour, but it doesn’t matter. Lord Dakkar does not part with his acquisitions, most particularly magical ones. Go home. There’s nothing you can do here; the baron won’t give you back your talisman.”

  “But I…I really…” His voice trailed off as he saw the unyielding expressions on both guards’ faces. “It’s my sister’s,” he finished weakly.

  “Not any more. Go home.”

  Reluctantly, Garander turned away, and went home. He trudged down the hill through the town, and out the city gate with his pack on his shoulder, ignoring the guard who leaned against the tower wall.

  He had no reason to hurry now; in fact, the longer he could put off telling his sister what had become of her prize, the better. He also hoped that if he thought hard enough while walking he might eventually think of something to tell her other than admitting that the baron simply stole it. He devised wild tales about Northern sorcerers traveling through time from the past, or dragons with a taste for sorcery, but he knew none of them would do—they wouldn’t fool Ishta for a moment, and he did not think he could bring himself to tell them in the first place.

  He ate the last crumbs of his provisions and drained the last of his water before he had gone two leagues. He knew that would leave the remaining three leagues a hungry, thirsty, journey, but he was so disconsolate he simply didn’t care.

  He hadn’t wanted to go to Varag in the first place, he told himself; it had been his father’s idea. He hadn’t wanted to take Ishta’s magical toy away. He knew, though, that none of that would matter. He had taken the talisman to Varag and given it to the baron, and he was quite sure
that Ishta wouldn’t acknowledge why he had done it. It had been Garander who first said they should tell their father about the glowing thing, and that was quite enough for Ishta to blame him for everything that had happened since.

  He wasn’t even sure he would disagree with her. He plodded on, past farms and fences.

  The sky was overcast, and a cool breeze blew against his back, but no rain fell, and the long walk kept him more than warm; he would definitely want to give his clothes a thorough washing once he got home.

  He finally stepped into the family house an hour after noon, to be greeted by a worried mother who had wondered why he was gone so long and feared he had been kidnapped by bandits or eaten by a dragon, and an angry father who was certain he had dawdled intentionally, to enjoy his freedom and avoid his chores.

  Shella the Younger was neither worried nor angry; her entire response to her brother’s return was, “Oh, you’re back.”

  And Ishta, as he had expected, was furious once she learned that her discovery had been confiscated. “It was mine,” she said, once he had told the entire tale over dinner. “I found it! They had no right to keep it!”

  “I know,” Garander said miserably. “I’m sorry, Ishta.”

  “He’s the baron,” their mother said. “He can do what he pleases.”

  “It was Northern sorcery,” their father agreed. “It was probably dangerous.”

  “The sorcerer said it wasn’t dangerous,” Garander objected. “Lord Dakkar took it anyway.”

  “If it was Northerner military equipment, it’s tainted with evil,” Grondar persisted. “It may not be explosive or poisonous, but it isn’t anything I want in my house.”

  “It’s too bad we couldn’t sell it, though,” their mother said. “We could use the money.”

  “We’re getting a year’s taxes, if that wizard can be trusted,” her husband said. “That’s good enough for me.”

  “But it was mine,” Ishta repeated.

  “So go find another one,” her sister told her. “The woods are probably littered with them.”

  “The woods are not littered with them,” Grondar said, with surprising forcefulness. “We never found any talismans when we were clearing this land. Besides, you know I don’t want you girls going in the woods in any case. There may not be any Northern magic to worry about, but there still could be mizagars.”

  “Mizagars are Northern magic,” his wife corrected him.

  “They were created by Northern magic,” Grondar argued. “That doesn’t mean they’re magic themselves.”

  “I think it does.”

  “That only shows…” Grondar stopped in mid-sentence, catching himself before he could say something he would regret.

  Ishta ignored her parents and muttered to Garander, “This is all your fault.” She kicked his shin under the table—not hard, just enough to demonstrate her anger.

  “I’m really sorry, Ishta,” Garander replied. He knew better than to try to argue, even though he didn’t think it was entirely his fault. Or even mostly.

  Enough of it was his fault that he was not going to try to convince Ishta of anything, though, at least not until she had gotten over her initial outrage.

  By the end of the meal Ishta had subsided into sullen silence, her arms folded across her chest, no longer speaking to anyone. Her parents did not seem to notice—or perhaps, Garander thought, they were humoring her, pretending to be unaware of her distress. Sometimes, he knew, that was the best way to deal with this sort of thing. He could remember when Ishta was very young and prone to tantrums; back then, simply ignoring her outbursts had been the best way to cope with them, since what she had really wanted was attention.

  This time, though, he thought that what she really wanted was justice, or at least an acknowledgment that an injustice had been done. Pretending nothing was wrong did not seem to him as if it ought to be the best approach, but their parents presumably knew what they were doing. They were the adults here, after all.

  Then Shella distracted him, demanding descriptions of what the women in Varag wore, and Garander was kept busy trying to recall details he had hardly noticed in the first place. The only woman he had seen for more than a few moments had been the wizard Azlia, and he very much doubted that her garb was the height of fashion; even Shella admitted that magicians wore whatever they pleased, whether it was in style or not.

  By the time Shella let him escape Ishta had gone to the room the two girls shared. Garander knew better than to intrude there; that was exclusively female territory.

  He did not see her again that evening.

  The next day Ishta refused to speak to Garander. In fact, it was three days before she once again acknowledged his existence in any way. Even then she said as little to him as possible, and ignored everything he said except for direct questions or requests. She was not much friendlier with their parents; only her sister, who had taken no part in the disposition of the Northern talisman, was treated with the usual consideration.

  Garander did not press Ishta. He assumed she would come around in time, and things would return to normal. If she wanted another apology he was ready to provide one, but he was not going to force one on her. Besides, he had enough to keep him busy with preparations for winter.

  He certainly hoped that Ishta was over her anger by the time the snows came; being cooped up in the house for days at a time was bad enough even when the whole family was getting along. Huddling around the hearth with an angry girl, ready to find fault at every opportunity, would be utterly miserable.

  Chapter Four

  The cold autumn rain and wind had swept most of the trees bare, and had covered the sodden ground beneath their branches in a slick brown mat of fallen leaves. A month and a sixnight had passed since Garander’s return from Varag, and he and Ishta had reached a state of silent truce. She had tacitly acknowledged his apology, but was not yet ready to forgive him completely. She spoke to him only when necessary, telling him nothing unless he specifically asked.

  For his part, he did not try to force the issue. He spoke to her as he always had, but made no complaint and took no offense if she said as little as possible in reply. He did not spy on her, or follow her around, or make any attempt to supervise her; he was her brother, not her parent. It was pure accident that he happened to be coming around the corner of the barn just as she slipped into the woods.

  “Oh, death,” he muttered to himself.

  He wasn’t really surprised. After all, Ishta had been sneaking off into the woods for years, even when she was getting along with everyone; when she was angry with her family, she had all the more reason to disobey. She was probably hoping to find more Northern sorcery.

  He didn’t think she had seen him; she had been looking into the woods, not back toward the barn. He hesitated, trying to decide what to do. If he did nothing, just let her go, and something went wrong, if she got lost or hurt, he would be responsible and their father would be furious. The odds were that she would be fine, but the risk was more than he wanted to take.

  But if he tried to stop her, that would undo all the peacemaking he had managed since he got home from Varag.

  Besides, he was curious. Where was she going in such damp, dismal weather? He stuck the shears he had been carrying in his belt, and turned to follow his sister into the gloom of the forest.

  The wet leaves underfoot were slippery and required caution, but they did not rustle or crunch like dry leaves; even though he was just a farmer, untrained in any sort of wilderness skills, he was able to move almost silently through the woods. He was also able to follow Ishta’s trail readily, by seeing where her feet had flattened the leaves.

  She was not wandering randomly; she was walking in a straight line, or as near to a straight line as was possible among the trees, into the forest. Garander thought she clearly knew where she was going. That worried him, though he could not say why. He quickened his pace, and before long he spotted Ishta’s green jacket moving through the woods ahead o
f him.

  She didn’t look back, didn’t see him; all her attention seemed to be focused forward. Then she raised an arm and called, “Hai!” For a moment Garander thought she had spotted him, but she had still not turned her head, or slowed her own steps. Then he saw movement ahead of her, something dark and quick, and he stopped walking, slipping quickly behind a tree and peering out to see what his sister was up to.

  Then there was a man there, standing in front of Ishta. Garander had not quite seen him arrive, but he was definitely there.

  Garander did not recognize him. He was still fifty yards away, but even at that distance Garander was fairly certain this man was a stranger. He did not dress or move like anyone Garander had ever seen before.

  He was tall and slender, and dressed entirely in black. His tunic was cut tight and short; if he had followed tradition and set the length for life at the distance from shoulder to knee when he was twelve, this man had clearly been a small child, but made up for it later. His black leather breeches were also cut tight, and tucked into his boot-tops.

  That was unusual, but the really strange part, the part that immediately let Garander know that something out of the ordinary was happening, was that he wore a round black helmet that gleamed like glass even in the shadowy woods. It covered his head from just above his eyebrows to the nape of his neck, hiding both ears. Garander had never seen anything remotely like it.

  The stranger wore a pack on his back, held in place by wide straps over both shoulders rather than the more usual single shoulder-strap; these in turn connected to the widest belt Garander had ever seen, and the belt and both straps were adorned with various pouches and other attachments. There were several other unfamiliar objects slung here and there, protruding from his harness; they looked like tools of some sort, but Garander could not identify a single one of them with any degree of certainty.

  And all of this equipage was black. Some was drab, some was glossy, but all was black.