"A hero, like your father?"
Jerrad blinked. "You've heard of my father?"
"I've traveled a great deal. Rumors in the wood have allowed me to connect names with stories." Kiiryth tossed the apple core over his shoulder. "I am, alas, nothing like your father."
Jerrad arched an eyebrow. "But you have to be a hero."
"Why? Because I saved you from the wolves?" Kiiryth nodded once. "That may have been a heroic act, but it doesn't make me a hero. On the other hand, choosing to come here to form Silverlake—that's the stuff of heroes. Your mother, she's a hero. She saved you from the fey. And I tell you what, if she hadn't, you'd have saved yourself."
Jerrad's gaze hardened. "I couldn't have escaped."
"You were halfway to freedom, Jerrad. You'd found the Lake."
"Finding the path isn't making the journey."
"I may have underestimated you. New tactics." The half-elf played a hand along his jaw. "Let me ask you: why is your father a hero?"
"Because, you know, he was big and strong and could use an axe like no one else. He was a fearsome warrior."
"Dig a bit deeper. Do you think the first time he used an axe was to hew down men? Or was it to split wood?"
"Wood, I guess."
"And he grew tall and strong, and did so in a place where he was more highly valued as a warrior than he would have been here, say, as a woodsman."
"What are you saying? That he's not a hero?" Jerrad balled his fists. "He was."
"You won't hear me disagree. Garath Sharpax did many heroic things. That doesn't mean he started life as a hero, though. It doesn't mean he intended to be a hero. He started out using an axe, and found more ways to use it." Kiiryth gave Jerrad a quick grin. "And what I would suggest of you is that you're in the same situation."
"Great. I'll get an axe and start chopping down trees."
"Not my point." The half-elf's chin came up. "When you decided to test the magic in the wood, why did you use a circle and a cross."
Jerrad shrugged. "It seemed the easiest way to track things."
"Good. Among some people, it's believed that to control magic or evil after a person's death, it's best to bury the person at a crossroads. That way he can't follow anyone home. More importantly, if that cross is surrounded by a circle road, the spirit will forever wander within its confines."
"I didn't know that."
Kiiryth pressed his hands together at his waist. "Did you notice that when the fey moved your sticks, they planted them the way you first had, with no rotation of the cross or the stakes themselves?"
The youth's face scrunched up. "Yes."
"They did that not to trick you, but because they didn't see the shift. You did, but to anyone else, the stakes hadn't moved at all."
"But that's not..." Jerrad's stomach began to knot up. "What are you saying?"
"One other thing. What did the feathered cloak look like to you?"
"It was all bright and colorful, but when it passed into the cage it became dull."
Kiiryth raised an eyebrow. "When it passed into the cage, or when it passed into your hand?"
Jerrad stood stock still. He reviewed the events in his mind. The cloak lost some color when it passed into the cage's shade. But it retained it until I touched it.
He looked up at Kiiryth. "Enough games. What are you saying?"
"Different people have different talents. Your father's size and strength and courage made him perfect to be a great fighter. You don't have those things. What you do have, however, are all the signs of being talented at wizardry."
"What? No. That can't be." Jerrad shook his head. "No one in my family has ever been a wizard. That takes training, and I've never..."
"Training, certainly, but evidencing an affinity for magic is often how students are chosen."
"But I didn't." Jerrad frowned. "You're wrong. I can't be."
"I know what I saw, son. You were on the way to rescuing yourself from the fey. When they saw the cloak lose color, and then regain it with your joy at seeing your mother again, they understood. You have talent, and the wood favors you. Had your mother not intervened, Ellesaara's speech would have ended with her taking you back to Silverlake so she could speak with your mother there."
"The fey would be more afraid of the wood than they would be of my being a wizard."
"You're likely not wrong, but that doesn't mean you're right, either."
Jerrad dropped to his knees, his mouth hanging open. "Even if what you say is true, it's wrong. Silverlake doesn't need a wizard."
The half-elf's smile broadened. "You're a wise lad. If Echo Wood was a battlefield, then Silverlake would need a hero like your father. But who's better suited to dealing with a land steeped in magic? A wizard, or your father?"
"A wizard, of course, but I'm not a wizard." Jerrad glanced down at his open, impotent hands. "I can't do anything."
Kiiryth opened a pouch at his right hip and pulled out a small, leather-bound volume. A leather thong, slightly darker than the book's cover, had been knotted around it. "This is something I think was meant for you. Study what's within. I think you'll find it useful."
"What if I can't understand it?"
"That wouldn't be good." Kiiryth tossed him the book. "If this doesn't work, chances are a whole legion of heroes couldn't save Silverlake from what the future will bring."
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Nine
Bargains Good and Bad
Three cows and a goat!"
Tyressa, her head beginning to pound, thought better than to correct her daughter's impression. "Serrana..."
The young woman stabbed a finger accusingly at the goat tethered at the edge of the camp. "You even kept the goat as a down payment! You're going to marry me off to some half-wit cheese maker so I can have half a dozen grubby brats running around eating mud, grunting and picking lice off each other. No. No! I hate you. I hate this place. I want to go home!"
Tyressa forced her fist open. "Lower your voice, Serrana!"
"No, I won't! I want everyone to know!"
"You'll lower your voice, or I'll marry you off to one of Blackshield's get—and do without the cheese." Her blue eyes narrowed. "If you thought for a moment—thought as I know you're capable of doing—you'd understand the true importance of the offer."
"You can't seriously be considering..."
"One more word out of you, and I'll trade you for a handful of beans and a promise of a sunny day next spring."
Serrana stared at her mother, her lower lip trembling.
Cold claws closed around Tyressa's heart. I don't want to hurt you, my child, but better a tiny sting than having your flesh torn off. She took in a deep breath, then forced herself to exhale slowly.
"Whether or not you marry a Murdoon is immaterial. When Tunk Murdoon came here, he had a map of the area. He pointed out where his family set traplines, which told me where our trappers can put their lines out—to avoid a conflict with the Murdoons, and to get a good yield. He suggested a fishery."
"You were already doing that."
"I was, but he agreed to trade for smoked fish. Plus he told me how to handle the nixies." Tyressa nodded toward the forge just west of where the goat bleated. "He offered to show us iron deposits and suggested we might want to plant corn and wheat, as well as raise sheep. Now, you're a smart girl. Why would he do that?"
Serrana shook her head. "I don't know."
"You do know. It's your strength, reading social politics."
"He probably doesn't like the Blackshields any more than you do."
"Good." Tyressa nodded. "And his offer to marry you to his son—forget the price—what did that offer portend?"
The young woman sighed heavily, half-deflating as she did so. "He was offering you an alliance, cheese lord to an Ustalavic noble."
"Out here, you're not a noble."
"I know, Mother. I have one servant. One. All my good things rem
ained home. I have no friends. You wouldn't let me bring my books. I have nothing."
"You are what you do here, Serrana."
"And I can't do anything." The girl's gaze sharpened. "I wasn't raised to do anything."
Tyressa's heart caught in her throat. The girl was right. From the moment she'd taken her first breath, Serrana's life had been determined. She'd been taught the important things—the things she'd need to know as an Ustalavic noblewoman. She could dance. She could sew a bit, and could be charming. Growing up in her mother's shadow, and later as her aide in the Vishov court, she'd learned to navigate political rapids. She could soothe ruffled feathers or find the heart with a stiletto-ish comment.
But here, she's been robbed of all that. Tyressa still saw politics in the way she had to deal with settlers or the fey or the Murdoons. The same games got played, but the stakes were so much lower that Serrana saw it all as being beneath her. She'd been torn from the only environment she'd known. She'd thrived there. Here, she would wither and die.
Tyressa crossed the open-walled tent to her daughter and reached out to caress her cheek. "Serrana..."
The girl turned from her. "Isn't it enough that you've taken me away from everything, Mother? Telling me that talking to farmers and fishwives and bandit lordlings is the same as being at court is disgusting. You may choose to believe that, but I know it's not true. I hate it. I hate being here. I hate you."
Before Tyressa could start in again, commotion to the west interrupted her. One of the fishwives came running toward the tent. "What is it?"
"Men. From the forest. They have axes."
"I'll be right there." Tyressa turned to her daughter. "This isn't over, Serrana. You hate being here. I understand that. But hating this place, hating me, isn't going to return you to Ustalav. Accept that."
Tyressa stalked from the tent, keeping her head up. She wore simple clothes—a thin woolen gown gathered at the waist by a belt. Most days she wore boots, but she hadn't put them on that morning. The skinning knife she normally kept in the right boot she'd transferred to the small of her back. Aside from her bearing, and the fact that her clothes were in better repair than those of most others, no one would have picked her out as special in the settlement.
A small crowd had gathered at the western edge of the camp. A half-dozen tall men in leathers and well worn tunics formed a semi-circle behind a rotund man. He'd not shaved in a while, making his toadish aspect even more grotesque. His being bald, save for a few liver-spots, and his propensity for blinking, did nothing to approve his appearance.
"I am Tyressa Vishov of Silverlake."
The big man took one look at her, then spat at her feet. "Pine Callum."
"What can I do for you, Mister Callum?"
The men backing Pine smiled through thick beards. "It's what I'm doing for you." The man pointed at four men. "I'm taking them to join my crew. They'll be cutting wood for me."
"Indeed." Tyressa kept her face impassive. "And what makes you think they want to work for you?"
"I don't think that, and don't much care what they think." Pine spat again, shifting a bulging lump of something from inside one cheek to the other. "You folks here got the fey all riled up. Went out to find one of my crews and they was gone. Only found their tools, so I need men to work 'em. Yours will do."
"I see. And why is it that you think I'll agree to this piracy?"
"Being as how I got my biggest men with me, and another twenty working the woods, and you ain't got spit, I guess I can take them." He smiled at her with teeth stained green and spotted with vegetation. "I got me a contract with the mill in Thornkeep. Iffen I'm late, I don't get paid but a quarter what I get if I'm on time."
"I understand your motive. What does Silverlake get out of this?"
The man's blinking sped up. "What do you get? Nothing. I ain't paying you nothing." He stepped forward and grabbed her chin in a fat hand. "Course, when we get paid, we might just come back here to celebrate. Your menfolk ain't much, but your women are kind of easy on the eyes."
Tyressa tried to shake her head, but Pine hung on tight. "You might wish to reconsider, Mister Callum."
"You can't honestly be that dumb."
"Not dumb." Tyressa shifted her right hand forward. "What you feel pressing hard against your loins is a skinning knife with a very sharp hook. If you pull back, or I pull up, you'll lose bits I think you consider precious. You'll want to let go of my chin."
"You wouldn't dare."
Steady, Tyressa, steady. "Do you know the story of how I grew to love my husband? Garath Sharpax. He may be known to you."
Pine's grip remained firm. "I don't recollect hearing that name. Or yours, before today."
"I can't expect River Kingdoms bandits to know much of the world, can I?" Tyressa stared into his piggish eyes. "When I was young, my father decided his children should be able to defend themselves. My brother didn't take to it much, but I did. My father entrusted me to Garath for training. This began a strange courtship. Do you want to know what we did for fun?"
"I don't..."
"Of course you do." Tyressa raised the knife a hair. "We used to go hunting. Hunting highwaymen and other unsavory creatures. I wasn't much older than my daughter when I gigged my first bandit, and I have to say, you're not even half his size."
She heard gasps from among the settlers, but ignored them and looked at Callum's men. "Your master has decided his fate, but yours is still open. Silverlake's going to be a good town. You may like living in the woods now, but is your life now the one you want for your children? Do you really have a future out there? If a tree doesn't drop on you, or a blizzard freeze you, or lightning kill you, you know Callum's just waiting to cheat you out of a fair wage."
As she spoke, Tyressa slammed her right shoulder against Callum, knocking him back over the leg she'd hooked behind his. He crashed flat on his back, both hands going for his groin. She held the skinning knife aloft, a swatch of brown homespun caught on the hook.
"How about it, Pine? How much for the wood in Thornkeep? How much was your share?"
"I have costs, you know. They eat."
Tyressa looked past him. "And he charges you for that food, yes, and for your tools? Docks your pay if something goes missing, and something always goes missing, yes?"
One of the woodsmen nodded.
She shook her head. "Highwaymen treated their hires better."
"I take care of my men. Better care than they take of themselves."
"Here's the offer: You come to Silverlake. You cut wood for us. You learn to build—giving you some skills you can take anywhere. You can winter here, stay longer if you want. As long as you're peaceful, we won't have a problem."
Another of the woodcutters took a step forward. "What he said about the fey be the truth. They got some of ours."
"Taking wood where they shouldn't have been?"
The man shifted his shoulders. "Might could be. But one of 'em's my little brother."
This really isn't your fight. "I'll see what I can do. No promises." Tyressa exhaled slowly. "You'll want to speak to the others."
"Beg pardon, my Lady, ain't no others." A tall man leaned forward on his axe handle. "Pine don't have no problem lying as needed."
"Apparently. If you want to join us, you'll need to gather your things. Let Pine go where he will. If you know the mill with which he had the deal, I'll send Lord Sunnock to renegotiate." She resheathed the skinner at the small of her back. "Is that acceptable?"
The woodsmen exchanged glances, then nodded. Two came forward to drag Pine Callum away.
Tyressa turned and found Serrana standing there, not ten feet away, wide-eyed, arms hugging her stomach. She wanted to speak to her daughter, but wasn't certain what to say. The pounding in her head prevented coherent thought, and the look of surprised horror on the girl's face sickened her. Shaking her head, Tyressa walked past, back toward her tent.
"Mother."
"Not now."
Serrana darte
d after her, catching her right forearm. "Mother, how much of that was true?"
It felt as if spring melt had slushed through her guts. Tyressa turned. "Why don't you ask the question you really want answered?"
The girl glanced down. "Would you have done it? Could you have done it?"
"Could, yes. Would, absolutely."
"But how?"
"How could I?" Tyressa flung her arms wide. "How could I do any of this? I do it because I must, Serrana. You haven't fully comprehended what's happening here, have you? This isn't some game. We're not hiding here, waiting for the prince to decide it's safe for us to come home. Your uncle committed treason. He was convicted of it. The prince had every right to order the Vishov name effaced from every monument and erased from all books. Our home could have been shattered, the stones scattered, the forests burned, wells poisoned and land salted. We could have been killed or sold into slavery or given as playthings to monsters worse than anything you've seen in a nightmare."
Blood drained from the girl's face.
"Well, here we are, because the prince was my friend, and because of his profound respect for your father. Here I am, someone trained to oversee estates now having to build one from nothing, in a land with few friends and a bumper crop of enemies." Tyressa forced her hands open. "Yes, your father trained me to defend myself. I'm thankful for it. This place will demand everything of me and everything of you and your brother."
She pointed back out to the settlers. "Those people trust us. They came believing I would keep them safe because Vishovs have always kept them safe. I have no title anymore. I have no fortune to pay them. They came because they trust me. That means I have a sacred duty to them. So, geld a man at high noon, without a second thought, yes. Marry you off to some local, or keep you unmarried so I can use you as a prize to play one enemy off against another, yes, I would do that."
Serrana's face fell. "Mother?"
No, no. Serrana stood there, face ashen, shoulders slumped and arms limp. She barely breathed, and her eyes couldn't have gotten wider. Tears began to well.
Tyressa gathered her daughter into her arms and stroked her hair.
Pathfinder Tales: The Crusader Road Page 8
