A burst of melancholy caused his shoulders to slump forward. Even very young, he'd known he'd not measure up to his father. While people would share Garath stories and tell him, to his face, that he'd grow up to be just like his father, in private they'd agree in whispers that the reverse was true. They never meant Jerrad to hear, but like the mouse his sister claimed him to be, he often went unnoticed. He remained invisible and overheard many things he shouldn't.
The suggestion, in Kindler's book, that he wasn't even his father's son took on a certain currency in some circles. Still, that was just one final victory in a campaign that had long since been won. To many, the sun had set on the Vishov fortunes, and dusk had come when Garath never returned from the Worldwound.
Jerrad knew he'd never measure up to his father's legend, so he resolved to make his father proud in other ways. The problem was that few enough people saw drawing maps and scribbling history as heroic. An old sergeant in his grandfather's guard had once showed him how to use a knife to good effect in a fight, but Jerrad had realized that getting close enough to use it was foolishness itself. Ultimately, the best he could do to honor his father was to stay out of trouble.
Serra is more than enough trouble for mother right now.
Jerrad headed toward the town green. After the recent rains, it could have been called the town brown, but the mud didn't get much past his ankles as he squelched his way through it. He stepped carefully, both to avoid slipping and to prevent a shoe from getting sucked off his foot. While his family might be in exile, he was a Vishov from Ustalav, so it didn't do to give the locals anything to laugh about.
Off to the northeast stood a trading post—recognizable from the mangy old skins tacked to the walls. Jerrad headed that way, figuring that goods flowing to and from Silverlake would likely head through it. Getting an idea about the wares and ownership would give his mother an advantage. At least, that was his hope.
Before he could get halfway there, he heard a half-strangled mewing sound coming from an alley due east. The piteous sound came again, definitely from the alley beside a stone barracks bearing a sign of a blue basilisk. If the slovenly men lounging on the porch were any indication, the Blue Basilisks were a mercenary company. Their lack of interest in the noise or his approach suggested strongly why they were unemployed.
Without thinking further than checking that his knife still rode in his hip sheath, Jerrad headed toward the alley. He would have sprinted, but the mud slowed him—especially when he reached the road at the green's edge. He splashed his way across, spattering himself with what he hoped was mostly just mud, then plunged into the alley and back around past the Blue Basilisk.
As he turned the corner, he realized how foolish he'd been. He tried to stop, but the greasy ground betrayed him. His heels flew up instead of digging in. He landed on his back in a great sploosh of mud, and skidded to a wet halt halfway down the alley—straight into the midst of three of the most hideous creatures he'd ever seen.
He was pretty sure he'd count them as hideous even if they weren't glistening from the wave of mud his entry had washed over them. They blinked big red eyes in oblong heads. Triangular ears, some notched, others pierced, stabbed out, further broadening their heads. Brown peg teeth blossomed in broad grins.
Goblins!
The one at his feet tossed aside the kitten he'd been squeezing to make the noise that attracted Jerrad. "And what has we here? Can't be a man."
"Not a golem."
"Not a giant."
Jerrad drew his knife and brandished it.
"He has a knife."
"A long knife."
"He has, he has." The goblin at his feet half-closed his eyes. "Three of us. One of him. But he has a knife."
Jerrad tried to draw his feet up and stand, but they slipped out from under him. "A long knife. I'll use it."
The goblin on the left drew back. "He'll use it."
The one on the right's eyes grew wide. "A long knife he'll use."
"Can't have that." The goblin leader's face scrunched up, then he hocked, pursed his lips, and spat.
Green mucus blinded Jerrad. The boy swiped at his eyes with his left hand, but that just splattered mud over his face. Then hands grabbed his ankles and pulled him forward. They twisted, rolling him, and a heavy weight landed on his shoulder blades. Hands drove his face deep into the mud.
His lungs burned. He tried to buck and throw the goblin off his back so he could get a breath, but the leader hoisted his ankles up. Jerrad tried to kick, but the goblin dug claws in and hung on tight. Then a foot stepped on his right wrist and he lost his grip on his knife.
Jerrad wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to die of embarrassment. He'd rushed unthinking into a situation that called for a hero—and I'm a mouse—and that decision would kill him. I'll drown in mud, horse piss, and goblin spit.
Then the pressure on his chest vanished. The goblin released his ankles. Jerrad arched his back, clearing his face from the mud. He sucked in a loud, welcome breath. The sound all but covered a heavy thump and the painful screech that followed it.
His fingers found the hilt of his knife. He rolled over, then grasped it in both hands. He shook his head, clearing his eyes and ears of mud.
"Hey, stop that."
Jerrad blinked.
A young woman in homespun brown trousers and a buff woolen tunic wiped spatter from her forehead. She smiled despite the dirty stain it left behind. She had light brown hair and brown eyes. Her smile lit the whole alley up. Then she started laughing.
Jerrad's face burned, but he guessed the mud coating him hid that fact. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry? Bit o' mud won't hurt no one." She pointed the stout cudgel in her right hand at his dagger. "Goblins is gone. I'm the onliest one still in cutting range."
He lowered the knife and scraped mud off his face. "I didn't mean... I mean... I didn't know... They had a kitten..."
She offered him a hand. "Kitten cries have lured many to worse. My brother Five, he's got scars."
Jerrad shifted his knife to his left hand and took her hand in his. She proved to be surprisingly strong, and despite his slipping, she had him upright easily. "Thank you. I mean, for helping me up and, you know, saving me."
She canted her head to the side for a second. "You didn't long hesitate saying that. Not from around here, are you?"
"No. Ustalav. I'm Jerrad Vishov." He braced himself for a comment.
"Pleased to meet you, Jerrad. I'm Nelsa Murdoon. We live north of here, halfway between Silvershade Lake and the river."
"Silvershade Lake, that's where we're going to build the town of Silverlake."
"Are you, now?"
"Well, not just me. My mother and, you know, people."
Nelsa gave him a sidelong glance. "These people much like you?"
Again, he blushed. "Well, no. Some are soldiers."
"No, no, I meant brave and considerate, like you. Ain't many plunge in to help."
"I wasn't much help."
"Helped me have some fun." Her full smile returned. "Goblins don't come much out near our place, and tend to be scarce when the Murdoons come to town. But, answer me. Are your people brave?"
Jerrad nodded solemnly. "Braver than I am."
"Glad to hear that." Nelsa's smile drained away. "Building a town at the lake, brave ain't something you want in short supply."
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Three
New Friends
Tyressa reined her horse to a halt twenty feet from the modest cottage. The daub-and-wattle building with a thatched roof more closely resembled a giant mushroom than it did human habitation, but seemed appropriate for the wooded glen at the end of the narrow path. The cleared land around it had been planted with herbs, flowers, and vegetables, all well tended and heading toward a bountiful harvest.
Please let this go well.
She dismounted even before being given leave to do so b
y the elderly woman at the cottage's front door. The woman sat in a chair, pedaling a spinning wheel up to speed. She fed wool into the thread with the easy economy of long experience.
Tyressa approached slowly, casting her gaze down. "I beg pardon for disturbing you, Mother Oreena."
The white-haired woman slowed the wheel with a hand. "It's good you came alone instead of with your whole troupe. With the Murdoon girl along, they'll fare well until you rejoin them."
Tyressa arched an eyebrow. "You're very well informed."
"I know the things I'm meant to know, Lady Vishov. All else matters not to me." Oreena stood. "Please, come in. I'll make tea."
"You're very kind."
"Leave your horse. She won't go far." The older woman smiled. "And nothing will trouble her here."
Tyressa forced herself to smile in return, then dropped the reins and followed the druid into her cottage. In contrast with the previous evening, Tyressa had chosen to wear utilitarian clothes. Her skirt and blouse were newer than the robe Oreena wore, but of the same undyed woolen color. Serrana had vehemently opposed Tyressa's choice, which convinced Tyressa she had absolutely made the correct choice.
Lord Sunnock's objection to her side-journey had revealed more about the man than even he could have guessed. He'd promoted the strategy of choosing one of the local leaders and cozying up to them, instead of trying to reach an accommodation with all of them. He'd chosen to remain in Thornkeep, in theory to await messages from Baron Creelisk, but truly waiting for Tyressa to return defeated to the town. By then he'd have a political arrangement with Blackshield or someone else and laugh at her mistake.
He cannot be right. Silverlake can't afford for him to be right.
Tyressa ducked her head and entered the cottage. Drying flowers and herbs hung from rafters. A low fire burned in a river-stone hearth and a small pot of something savory bubbled above the coals. A straw-stuffed pallet nestled in a corner, trapped between a curtained wardrobe and a wooden chest.
Oreena already sat at one of two chairs to either side of a small round table. She poured steaming tea into a pair of earthenware bowls. "Please, join me."
There's no way she had time to make the tea. Unless... Tyressa smiled. "What I've heard of you is not incorrect, then."
Oreena set the teapot down. "You're certainly wise enough to know that most tales have a kernel of truth and a skin of lies. Things which are said about an old woman living alone and unmolested in the forest—especially Echo Wood—are prone to greater exaggeration than most other stories—just as are the tales originating in Ustalav, I should think."
Tyressa picked up her tea and breathed the steam in. It carried a hint of jasmine and other herbs. She felt herself relax and almost allowed herself to succumb to that sensation.
"What I understand of you, Mother Oreena, is that you care for Echo Wood. Some say you're the avatar of the wood itself. Others say you're married to the spirit that is the wood, or in thrall to the same."
"You make my point."
"I would make another—Echo Wood is as important to me as it is to you. That's not to raise my cause to the level of yours. Before the prince and I struck the bargain that brought me here, I studied this place as best I could. The stories differ on many points, save for one: if you do not become part of Echo Wood and live with it, Echo Wood will destroy you and everything you hold dear."
The old woman's eyes opened, but focused far behind Tyressa. "This makes me wonder then, Lady Vishov, why you chose this place for your exile. Surely the prince would have allowed you to go elsewhere. Somewhere safer. Was it because your husband passed through here before he was taken from you?"
Tyressa shivered and hoped it went unnoticed. "That would have been a foolish reason for my choice. Had I been that foolish, I doubt I would be sitting here. I probably wouldn't have even seen the path to your home, would I?"
Oreena's eyes focused on her again. "Probably not. Now, if you would answer my question..."
"If I had chosen a safer place, or agreed to work for far fewer than twenty years, the prince would have agreed to it. However, his critics would have devoured him for his kindness. And his enemies now know the sort of punishment they'd face if they fail, so that will cool their ardor. I hope." Tyressa sipped the tea, letting it linger on her tongue until it became bitter, then swallowed. "It's the only way I can undo the evil my brother did."
Oreena nodded. "I see that for you. And for the prince. But your children? They're not safe here."
"Ustalav would not be safe for them, especially not at court or back in Ardis, at the Creelisk demesne." Tyressa shook her head. "My brother was never the most intelligent of men. Those who put him up to what he did have gone unpunished. They would happily use my children in the same way they used him. Echo Wood may be dangerous, but no more so than the realm we have departed."
"You underestimate the wood, my dear, woefully so." Oreena bid her finish her tea with the flick of a finger. "What is it you would have of me?"
Tyressa drained her bowl and returned it to the table. "I would not presume to your friendship, though I hope that can be earned. I wish your advice in how we create Silverlake. How can we do that so it will thrive?"
The old woman did not reply. Instead, she reached out and took Tyressa's empty bowl, swirled the lees, and overturned it, plopping it down on the table. Tea dripped down through space between planks. Oreena plucked the bowl up with a liver-spotted hand, then studied how the leaves had pasted themselves to the sides.
She set the bowl down again, but the shadow of its lip hid the leaves from Tyressa. "Lady Vishov, I must ask you this: if Silverlake thrives, in two decades will you return to Ustalav?"
It felt as if a cold breeze had cut at Tyressa's spine. She looked around the cottage, then at the woman across from her. The place was unlike any she had known. She and Oreena had little past gender in common, yet in that one heartbeat she understood. I am she, and she is me.
"I see your answer in your eyes, m'lady." Oreena smiled warmly, then poured more tea into Tyressa's bowl. "You understand that, one way or another, Echo Wood will consume you. Who you were outside, if you are to thrive, will barely be a memory. You will owe your life to this place, and you will give your life for it. In return, it will give you life."
"Does that bargain scare you?"
The older woman nodded. "Every day."
The future demands a hefty price. Tyressa's flesh tightened. "Then I shall give myself to this Wood."
"Good. Then I shall help you." Oreena drank, then tightened her eyes. "To the west of the lake is a meadow full of goldenstar and bluepeas. You should camp there for the first week. There is a better pasture closer to the lake itself, but some might see that as an invasion. If you harvest the flowers and herbs, I shall be happy to trade with you for them. I shall bring you and your daughter cloaks, woven of wool I've spun myself. Few are the tricksters who would welcome my ire by inconveniencing either of you."
"And my son?"
"Well, that may be out of my hands." Oreena's eyes sparkled. "The story of his goblin encounter has preceded him into the wood. Now, few of the creatures hereabouts have any use for goblins, but they do appreciate a good jest."
Tyressa raised an eyebrow. "If not for the intervention of the Murdoon girl, I doubt they would have stopped at jest."
"There's less value in killing than there is robbing—not that goblins won't do the former to accomplish the latter, but they'd rather shear sheep than skin them." Oreena shrugged. "Nelsa's arrival plays well here. The Murdoons have earned respect within the wood. Your son, however, has been the butt of goblin joke, and there are others who might wish to play even bigger jokes on him."
"I'll keep Jerrad close to me, or have a guard with him."
"And make obvious your fear that he cannot handle himself? That would make him far more precious to you, and therefore that much more of a target."
"You don't understand..." Tyressa's left hand curled into a fist. "He's not
his father. He has great heart, and is loyal and intelligent."
"You fear he's too little for the wood."
"I fear he's too little for the world." She rapped her knuckles twice on the table. "I doubt there's a mother alive who doesn't harbor the same fears for any of her children, but Jerrad..."
"There are mothers, Lady Vishov, who have driven their children into the wood in hopes it devours them. People get lost here; but people also find themselves. You will urge your son to be cautious because you must, but he's long since off the teat. You can't do much more for him."
"I'll tell you here and now, I won't lose him. I won't."
Oreena reach out and settled a gentle hand over Tyressa's fist. "Take care making oaths, for this place has a way of testing your resolve. Sorely testing it."
Tyressa opened her hand, turned it, and grasped Oreena's. "I'll trust your understanding of the wood."
"Good. Then perhaps the wood will help you find yourself."
Tyressa almost shot back that she knew who she was, but caught herself. That might once have been true, because her life roles had been simple and expected. Daughter—headstrong and adventurous, but dutiful—then wife and mother. After Garath had gone away, she served her father as keeper of his household, caring for him. Then when her father died, she'd done the same for her brother. Before he sought to destroy Ustalav.
After that, the roles changed. Her role as mother remained, but redefined itself as her daughter grew rebellious and her son grew as quiet as Serra was loud. The role of rebel had been thrust upon her by her brother's actions, and exile was something she picked for herself. And now I'm an explorer on a mission that the most charitable see as difficult and the rational see as suicide.
"Echo Wood, Lady Tyressa, will see you as no one else does."
In Oreena's comment she found clarity. Save for explorer, all of those roles had been dependent on others. Parents, siblings, husband and children—they had all been the defining factor in who she had been. It wasn't that she had minded, or chafed in those roles; but they had been thrust upon her, never the result of study and planning.
Pathfinder Tales: The Crusader Road Page 3
