The young smith looked over his clothes. Finding nothing wrong, he inquired of his friend, “What do you mean? These are the best and cleanest clothes I have. Each item of this outfit is worth more than all the clothes I owned before leaving the home that night.”
Petrow pointed at the pieces of armor his friend carried, “I think you should go for the full effect. Wear your armor when you see him.”
Trestan thought about it for a moment, and then nodded his agreement.
* * * * *
Not very long after the cleric Gerlach left the two young men, he went to a private chamber to meet a magic-user from out of town. Korrelothar and the village clergyman gave introductions, and talked rather amiably for some time. They briefly discussed each of their hometowns, and Gerlach treated the visiting elf with some desserts rushed over from the bakery. Before long, they found themselves turning to the business at hand.
“My good man,” Korrelothar stated, “I could talk about far off places and eat desserts all day, but I’m sure we should talk about our common problem.”
“Problem?” noted Gerlach. “Does that mean what I fear it does?”
Unbeknownst to the two men, two pairs of ears passed by in the hallway at that moment.
Korrelothar waved a hand to empathize his feelings. “What I learned about the stone out front confirms something uneasy about a similar stone once held at my guild. The holy relic sitting out at the well seems to be a copy of your original. The stone was identical to the one at my guildhall, with the exception of some difference in the markings on the stone itself.”
The priest paled slightly, setting down a steaming mug he had been sipping. The elf and human did not know they had caught the attention of others. Two eavesdroppers listened outside the room as priest and wizard chatted.
Gerlach spoke, “But…I checked the stone after your arrival. The very moment I heard that someone may have tampered with it, I went out and examined it. It radiates magic as usual.”
The elf’s eyes narrowed, “How thoroughly did you check it? Did you stop only when you saw that it radiated magic, or did you thoroughly examine its magical signature?”
Gerlach started to open his mouth, but no response came. The look in the priest’s eyes confirmed to the elf that the man had only glanced at the magic of the relic. The head of the church finally spoke, but only to deflect the topic, “Surely it is the same one. Why would they plant a fake? I assume you have never been here before, in order to properly read the relic’s signature before its theft came into question.”
Gerlach had not meant it in a harsh way. The elf knew that it was only proper that the cleric seek all the facts. Korrelothar decided to lay all the grim news before the head priest.
The wizard leaned forward in his chair. His voice was still loud enough to be overheard outside in the hallway. “The stone that was kept at my guild is the exact same look and style as the one you have outside. The only minor difference between ours and yours has been a slight change in the white markings. Now, that item radiated some strong magic, though it was hard to place. I would say that it had ties to the earth elements, and it seemed to have a positive effect on any plants that were near it. There were more mysteries hidden inside, but without knowing more we didn’t think that much about it. Eventually, it became a novelty that wizards-in-training studied for research. You could say that we knew its magical signature well, though we never unlocked all its secrets.”
The elf cleared his throat, and then continued. “A short while ago, one of our researching novices recorded something which we mistook for an errant reading. He insisted his reading had been correct, and so I studied the stone to check for any changes. Lo and behold, the stone had changed. By all appearances it was the same stone, but a new magical signature was in place.”
The elf paused while that news sank in. Gerlach soon prompted him to continue. Korrelothar said, “It was a false signature. Though we did not understand it at the time, truthfully, we didn’t pay it much attention. All we could be certain of was that the magic had faded and changed. Now, many people had free access to that stone. Anyone could have designed a duplicate if for some reason they had wanted to do so. When they had their duplicate, they placed a magical signature on it to mislead anyone into thinking that it was the same stone, although they couldn’t quite match the original pattern. Any cursory examination would indeed show magic, but only a thorough look would reveal that the magic was not the same.”
Gerlach nervously sipped at his mug of tea. “In all the heavens…I would never have believed that another stone existed like ours. That was said to be a gift from Yestreal.”
Korrelothar asked, “What do you know of your stone?”
“Admittedly, not much,” the cleric acknowledged. “We know it was a gift of Yestreal that came to our village in the dark years following the Godswars, and that it would promote fertility of the fields. It was supposed to help us survive the harsh years of sorrow from those old wars. As far as I know, our village lands have always been blessed with good crops and strong herds. We were told it had a way to protect itself as well. It was partly that reason why we left it displayed openly, under the sun, in full view of the neighboring fields. Nay person has ever touched it with the notion to do harm, and we assumed if someone did that the holy relic would defend itself. What little we have learned was from scrolls we have stored away from the light. I haven’t read them in decades.”
The elf nodded, “It would do us good to read those scrolls and see what may have been forgotten. So far I described what happened to our relic; I was about to speak of yours. You see, with the unexplained changes coming over our own stone, I flew north from Orlaun to seek a sage whom I knew. He is getting along in years now, but he was one of the first ones to explore the stone’s properties for my guild. I didn’t really think there was a theft involved, until I heard about possible tampering with your stone, and the similarity in appearance of your stone compared to ours. It seems I ran into the right group of young people on my trip.”
The visiting elf rested his head thoughtfully on one arm, recalling his experience examining the village stone. “Anyway, I looked over the magical signature of your stone thoroughly as I could in such a short time. It confirmed something…”
Gerlach leaned forward to hear what the wizard had to say. Outside the door, the two eavesdroppers almost forgot to breathe.
“Your stone reads not only a false signature, but the same false signature as this stone.”
From beneath his robes, Korrelothar Balshav produced a stone that was remarkably similar to the holy relic in front of the church. “This is the fake from my guildhall. As you can plainly see, on the casual outside examination it is a remarkably identical style of the stone you have outside. It radiates a minor magical field, designed to fool any casual observer. Even more important, this stone radiates exactly the same false field that surrounds the one currently on display by the well. Whoever created this fake also created the one sitting out by the well right now.”
Gerlach visibly paled, and placed his head in his hands. “We have failed to keep the gift of Yestreal? Why would anyone want our relic?”
Korrelothar shook his head. “I have nay clue as to the why of it. I am willing to bet that there is something more important about these stones than what we know. Someone wants these very badly, and secretively! They went through extreme efforts to hide the thefts.”
The priest let loose a sigh as he considered the effects of losing such a wondrous gift from their god. “I would welcome you to go over the old histories with me. Maybe together we can place the pieces of this puzzle. I would like to find out more of this artifact’s history.”
Both rose, but did not move to leave the room as of yet. Priest Gerlach looked to his study desk, at a carving that represented the God of the Sun and Weather, the deity that promotes the harvest of crops. The cleric had another question on his mind, “Does your guild have any clue as to who tampered with your st
one?”
“Just one clue,” said Korrelothar. “The last person to research the stone before its reported tampering gave a name. He was not a member of our guild, but he paid well to access our studies, which many do.”
The two pairs of ears outside gasped at what was said next.
“He gave his name as Revwar.”
The cleric furrowed his brow, searching his memories for the name, “Revwar? Should I know that name from somewhere?”
The elf wizard nodded, “You should soon enough…he was the one Lady Shauntay saw tampering with your relic before she was kidnapped. By an account given to me by her rescuers, he had a similar stone on him during the fight in which she was freed. I’d say we know who our thief is.”
Outside in the hall, Petrow and Trestan backed away from the door. “You hear that Tres? Our relic was indeed stolen and replaced by a fake.”
Trestan nodded, “I heard. It’s scary to think of what might happen to the fields this year. I can’t believe I had it sitting on the ground right in front of me, and yet was unable to take it back.”
Petrow was silent for a moment, “What do we do now?”
Trestan set his jaw, and his resolve, “There is nay that we can do. It is beyond our influence. Right now I have to get ready to face my father. That will be a scary enough task I fear.”
Trestan and Petrow turned and resumed their walk to the church sanctuary.
* * * * *
Trestan and Petrow saw Hebden the moment they stepped into the main chapel of worship. He had his eyes on the door they arrived through, and Trestan would have guessed he had stared at that archway a long time waiting for his son. Petrow mumbled to excuse himself and quickly shuffled past Trestan and towards the exit. Hebden Karok only had eyes for his one son. Father and offspring locked gazes for some time, each not sure what to say.
“I missed you,” Hebden offered. “I didn’t know whether to look for you or buy a gravestone.”
Trestan tried to speak past a lump in his throat. “I missed you too father. I…I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”
The older smith looked into the face of his son, “Why didn’t you tell me? You couldn’t have left word as to where you were going?”
“I wanted to.” The young man could not help but think of his father’s inquiring voice behind the closed door that night. “You would have talked me out of it. I regretted leaving as I did, though likely, if I had talked to you, you wouldn’t have let me go.”
Trestan noticed tears in the older man’s eyes, and he too began to get misty vision. Gently and quietly, Hebden reached out his arms to his son. They shared a tight hug, and the stress and sorrow of missing each other rolled down their cheeks.
“You are all I have, son. It was very hard not knowing where you were.”
“Father, I prayed up to the stars at night, the same ones that glide over the village. I asked for the gods to spare you sorrow, and to speed me back home to you. I admit there were scary times, but I found something in myself out in the wilds that I am very proud to have. I’m so glad to be back home with you.”
They parted to arm’s reach, but then Hebden took another step back, looking his son up and down. “Look how my boy has grown. Where is your rope belt? Your old trousers?”
Trestan stood as tall as he could as his father scrutinized him. The old rope belt was gone. The old and dirty tunic, shoes, and all of his old clothes were gone. The younger man wore new clothes, made of quality material. He wore the same dark red tunic he had worn to the common room of the Eagle’s Nest, during the evening their group had met Salgor. His boots were made of good leather, and had seen a bit of walking. Atop the young smith’s head sat a helm, slightly notched at the front and on the visor where the scimitar had nicked it. From legs to arms, there was a mixture of armor. Leather and padding provided the largest portion of it, though also supported plates of metal over some parts. Bracers and greaves protected the limbs. A shiny breastplate covered most of the upper torso, with the exception of a hole burned through the lower third of it. On his back hung the Sword of the Spirit, Sir Wilhelm’s old elvish blade.
Hebden pointed to the hole in the breastplate. “That must have hurt.”
Trestan blushed as he looked at the area. “That one got away, but you should have seen the beating we gave to many of his friends.”
Hebden smirked, “You’ll have to tell me about it soon as we get inside our home. It put a strain on my heart to see you returned, only to warch you be carried to a healer. I didn’t realize you considered that pampered girl to be that much of a prize.”
“She wasn’t!” At that Trestan shared genuine smile, disarming his father at such a quick admission. “I found many prizes on the trail, and she wasn’t one of them.”
“Such as?”
Trestan spoke honestly, “Well, I found my courage; my will and strength when faced with determined foes. I found my own self-respect and self-reliance. I saw a part of the world that was beautiful and dangerous at the same time, and I was glad to go out and see it. I found new friends that gave me different perspectives.”
The young man paused, though Hebden could see there was more coming. He waited for his son to finish. “I guess I found my faith. I prayed for guidance to the goddess Abriana, and she was there for me. She helped me through the path and I’m guessing she got me back home safely.”
Hebden asked the next question through worried eyes, “So, are you looking to become a paladin then? Like Sir Wilhelm?”
Trestan was a bit taken aback by the question. “I hadn’t really thought of anything along those lines. I guess I did let loose the warrior spirit within me, but I was looking forward to coming home and swinging the hammer once again. I did have a taste of another lifestyle, but I wasn’t seriously thinking of becoming an adventurer. I just went step by step until my heart was satisfied.”
“Well, your life is your own path, don’t feel tied down by the hammer,” although Trestan heard the words, he didn’t seriously think his father wanted him anywhere but the smithy. “If you must go I can’t stop you. I’m hoping that you don’t go. I really wouldn’t know how I’d manage without you working and growing up by my side.”
Trestan gave his father another hug. “I don’t think there will be any more adventures for me for awhile, unless it’s a woman.”
Hebden ventured, “Please don’t tell me it’s that Tessald girl.”
Trestan laughed, “Not in a million years! The next time I see her on the street, she will be lucky if I even let her buy horse jewelry from me!”
CHAPTER 17
Dusk descended upon the land, and the residents of Troutbrook seemed to have more illumination out than usual this night. Several fires lit the main street outside the inn. Joyous noises accompanied the light and smoke: slamming tankards, laughter, the chewing of food or the burps that followed, people chatting jovially with their neighbors, and lastly the sound of music and singing.
Troutbrook was in the full swing of a festival!
One merchant, who often sold his candies from a cart down closer to the bridge, had moved his portable stand next to the main intersection of town. Other merchants did not complain, as they indulged his treats during the festive evening. Some partygoers leaned out of the inn’s second story windows, whistling and shouting, enticing some young maidens to come up and join them for drinks. Men and women donned outfits designed to attract attention or simply be fashionable for the celebration. All wanted to be part of the revelries surrounding their newfound heroes, even if it was simply the desire for any reason to have a festival. Several young couples were sneaking kisses, while older couples brought out chairs and sat around the main street chatting with neighbors. Townsfolk helped set a carnival atmosphere, in which several people entertained. The carpenter’s oldest son walked on a pair of something called “stilts”, which caused giggles from the smaller kids as they looked up to him. Laughter and jokes surfaced often, some being re
told to the same person who had originally spread them around.
Among one group of young ladies and men, Petrow enjoyed free wine while sharing a tale of his adventures on the road. The wine had already loosened his tongue more than usual, helping him exaggerate certain moments.
“…And there I was, using my brand new waraxe to cut through her ladyship’s bonds. She could have kissed me right there if not for the angry minotaur guarding her. I urged her to run, but she stuck around asking me to be her hero and knock the thing down. What could I do? A whole camp of armed men stood nearby, but they were also afraid of the monster! I told myself, ‘Petrow, you make a living chopping down trees…just look at those minotaur legs, they can be chopped down too!’ So I charged in.”
Petrow made motions with his arms as he talked about the fight. He pretended to be swinging his axe, spilling some of his wine. Those with him weren’t sure how much to believe, but they had fun listening to his rendition. Petrow continued on with his exaggerated version of events, “Without any help from my friends, I faced this monster one on one! Axes clashed, and I must admit, it had a strong swing. Finally I got a couple hits on it, but the thing just shrugged its loss of blood and kept coming. I shouted for Lady Shauntay to run, but she stubbornly insisted on staying to watch me win. I swear, I didn’t want to continue the fight if I didn’t have to, but I had nay choice. Finally some misfortune befell me, as the creature shattered my axe. I still made a good show of it, dodging its axe for several minutes, and some of its swings actually hit several of its comrades. It dropped four of its fellows trying to catch me! Eventually, I found myself surrounded by three men with drawn swords, and I would have still fought…had not another crept up on the young noble and knocked her out…”
Not everyone was interested in hearing of the adventure. There was much talk about fishing going on among many gatherings that evening. Despite the tales of the return of the noble, and the rumors of the hometown heroes, tales of fishing took center stage in many conversations. After all, Troutbrook’s local pastime focused on angling. At least one avid fisher brought up his collection of poles to the festivities, where he showed them off to a cousin.
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