"Shhhhh. I don't want to do that, child. It breaks my heart to think of it. The reason I came here was so you and your brother would have the chance that will be denied me. I will never again see our home. I won't walk the halls. I won't see the sun set..."
Tyressa's voice failed as she recalled standing on the battlements, her belly swollen with her daughter, leaning back against Garath. His strong arms enfolded her. His breath warmed her cheek. They stood there, silently drinking the majesty of a golden sunset.
Serrana's arms circled her mother and she hung on tight. "I'm sorry, Mother. I don't know..."
"Quiet, girl. Not knowing is part of being young." And innocent. How I wish I could have kept you innocent.
Serrana sniffed. "Did you and father really hunt highwaymen?"
"That story could very well be true. It was before you were born." Mostly.
"Why didn't I know that?"
"It wasn't important you know." Tyressa kissed her daughter's head. "My mother died shortly after your brother was born. I became her social surrogate at your grandfather's court. Your father went to war. Your grandfather would have died had he known what Garath and I had done, so it just became part of a past that should have remained hidden."
"But now everyone knows."
"Its probably for the best." Tyressa hugged her daughter tightly. "Echo Wood has enough secrets. It doesn't need ours."
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Ten
New Secrets
The influx of woodsmen significantly changed Silverlake. Jerrad's mother successfully negotiated with the fey to return the captives. Her ability to do that won the woodsmen's loyalty. With it came their knowledge of the area and a willingness to work hard.
Jerrad more sensed the change than could quantify it. With more lumber coming in, construction went faster. The first of the longhouses—big enough to house everyone in the settlement—neared completion. People realized that even if the winter came early, they'd be sleeping in something more substantial than a tent. That give them heart, and made the first piece of his mother's vision for Silverlake substantial. Because the longhouse had once just been a rectangle on a map, now all the rectangles could become houses and stables and barns or smokehouses.
The woodsmen, because of their familiarity with the wood, canceled the urgent need for Jerrad to survey the area. They cleared a lot of space. Jerrad and other younger folks went over the cleared fields gathering firewood and anything else of use. The work didn't require any serious lifting and really didn't require that many hours.
Even Serrana pitched in, though with far less enthusiasm than Jerrad thought she should be showing. She seemed to react to very little for good or ill—save to avoid Mulish Murdoon as much as possible. Even so, she just excused herself from his presence politely, whereas Jerrad was afraid she'd flay him with the sharp side of her tongue.
The only person who didn't contribute that much to the effort was Lord Sunnock. The man would listen to his mother's plans, make notes, and say he would think about things and offer suggestions later. Had Jerrad's mother listened to him, Silverlake's progress would be slowed to nothing. It came as a great relief when he left on a mission to Thornkeep to check on supplies and to negotiate a lumber contract with the mill there. Even his household servants smiled when he was absent, and seemed to enjoy pitching in to help.
Jerrad had debated whether or not to show his mother the grimoire Kiiryth had given him. While he didn't want to deceive her, he also didn't want to waste her time. She had enough to think about. What he decided to do was to read the book and practice, just to see if anything Kiiryth had said made sense. Once he knew, one way or the other, his mother could decide whether or not he should continue.
That's exactly how he thought of it, but as he wandered to a quiet glen on the other side of Silverlake from where the woodsmen plied their trade, he realized he was lying to himself. There had never been—to his knowledge, at least—any wizards in the Vishov family. If Kiiryth was right, he'd be the first, and that would make him special. As special as my father was. Learning magic was Jerrad's chance to be a hero.
Of course, the second he realized that was what he was truly thinking, he immediately told himself he was being stupid. Wizards weren't made overnight. He might have thrilled to stories of adventuring wizards slaying dragons and winning treasure, but those were just stories. Stories mattered little in the events of real life.
But it was a story that put us here.
Jerrad sighed as he slid to the base of a birch and nestled between two moss-blanketed roots. "There are times, Jerrad Vishov, when you think too much."
He opened the booklet. At first, the lettering looked like gibberish—reading marten tracks had been easier. Then things blurred for a moment, and resolved themselves into words written in a stylized but legible form of Taldane.
That process repeated itself on each page when he first looked. Jerrad shivered. There was no doubting magic was involved. He was pretty sure he wasn't doing anything, but he thought the same about the cloak. Can Kiiryth really be right?
He began to read. The book itself appeared to be part memoir, part instructional text written by a wizard who didn't identify himself. Jerrad couldn't be certain that it hadn't been written by a woman, but his sense of it was that the author was male. The book had been written as a response to something another wizard had claimed. The author believed that a wizard's connection to magic wasn't—as others erroneously taught—a monster to be conquered, but a talent the wizard had to embrace. In the author's opinion, in viewing magic as something that could consume him, a wizard limited his use of power. He constantly dwelt in a state of fear, wondering when the beast would turn on him. Whether or not this philosophy was true, he asserted, fear would always interfere with magic, so should be avoided at all costs.
The text ended halfway down a left page, facing a blank on the right. It ended with an exercise in which the student was instructed to close his eyes, slow his breathing, and then—only when calm—turn the page, paying close attention to what happened.
Jerrad closed his eyes. He felt kind of silly, but something in the author's tone pleased him. He drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He did that several more times, then turned the page.
Nothing.
He opened his eyes.
The page spread was blank save for one word written in big letters on the left. "Again."
Jerrad closed his eyes again. He settled himself back against the tree. He felt a cool breeze on his cheek, and heard the buzz of an insect. A bird called from across the grove. The earth felt cool and a bit moist. The birch's roots pressed on his hips.
He turned the page.
Again, nothing.
Or was it nothing? He looked at the page and read once more the word, "Again."
He composed himself, forcing away annoyance. The fact that the pages changed indicated something was happening. The book wasn't failing him, he was failing the lesson.
Prepared again, he turned the page.
And got it.
Jerrad smiled, not yet opening his eyes. The previous turn he'd caught a note, a quiet whistle. He'd attributed it to the bird, but that hadn't been it. Hearing it again, absent any bird call, the note stood out, despite its being faint.
He looked down at the page. The instructions read, "Turn back three pages."
He flipped back to where the exercise had begun. Letters emerged in the empty space as if black bubbles surfacing in a parchment sea. A piped tune accompanied the words appearing. He couldn't match a note to a letter or even a word, but it struck him that they might match phrases or concepts. What amazed him most was that the text congratulated him on hearing the sounds, because he imagined it would have delivered an entirely different message for a deaf student.
Setting the book down for a moment, he thought back about his time in the woods, and as a fey captive. He couldn't remember hearing an
y particular notes or sounds, but he couldn't be certain there hadn't been any. In the fey camp he would have put things down to someone unseen playing music; and in the wood, he was absorbing so very much that odd sounds would have been put down to a bird or bug or something else.
He returned to the book, waiting for the world of magics wonderful and terrible to open up for him. He flipped forward several pages, but heard nothing and couldn't make any sense of the lettering. Frustrated, but understanding why the author might have exercised caution in teaching a student, Jerrad went back to the point he'd finished reading.
The first bit of magic he got to learn didn't involve any spells, just simple sleight of hand. The author carefully explained how to manipulate cards and dice, all without using any magic at all. The student was admonished to go off and practice things until he could perform them perfectly, without anyone being the wiser.
This made no sense to Jerrad. That wasn't magic. It was just trickery that beggars and bards performed to amaze or swindle the unwary. The idea of learning such deceit disgusted him, and he almost threw the grimoire away.
Then he read the line that materialized, accompanied by an ominous buzz. "Be forewarned: Magic can always be detected. Using it to do that which does not require it is to warn your enemies of how truly dangerous you are—and to show them how terribly foolish."
∗ ∗ ∗
Maraschal Sunnock, despite spending an inordinate amount of time in Thornkeep in the company of the Blue Basilisks, had not warmed to their company. He had chosen to place them on retainer, which their leader took to mean that Sunnock had designs on Thornkeep or Silverlake. He let her think that was true because it kept her occupied figuring out how she would betray and slay him, making herself Lady of Echo Wood, once he'd given her enough money to finance a proper rebellion.
The only thing the Blue Basilisks had going for them, aside from being one of the better-trained private armies in the region, was a wine cellar filled with bottles looted from a number of decent cellars. Sunnock had always had a fondness for Nirmathi black wines, and the mercenaries discounted the wine well below its market value in Ustalav. Its availability and their generous pours were the only things which made life livable in Echo Wood.
He would have explained that to his guest, but Pine Callum quaffed a sour ale and fingered the small sack of gold coins Sunnock had handed him. Sunnock wanted to assure him the veneer would not rub off, but the man would not believe him. Callum is disinclined to be trusting. Fortunately, I can trust to his greed.
"As I was saying, Mister Callum, when you reach Ardis, you'll convey my message immediately to Baron Creelisk. He'll give you two more of those purses, and a chance to double your fortune yet again by returning with a message for me."
Callum squinted at the bulging purse, then raised his gaze to Sunnock's face. "You're doing this for her. Get me away, so's I can't get my men back."
Sunnock laughed easily, then sipped his wine. "I can assure you, I was appalled at how she treated you. Were my report not ciphered, you could read that there in the packet. I have little interest in having your life, or anyone else's, upset. It's best for me, and for my master, if the Vishov initiative fails. Her stealing your men has made it more likely that it will survive the winter. My master needs to be informed of this, so he can take steps. Since you hate Tyressa Vishov nearly as much as my master does, you'll find your alliance with us to your advantage."
"Two more of these?"
"At a minimum." Sunnock nodded solemnly. The chances of Anthorn Creelisk giving the man money were fairly good. He might even reward him further, if Callum were to provide extra insights or prove trustworthy. Failing those two things, however, chances grew that the baron might subject the man to a variety of painful amusements—ostensibly to gain information, but not always effective.
And yet, my master always seems to be happier after such work.
"He gonna be coming here, to see to that woman proper?"
"It's possible, though he might leave her to you."
Callum nodded, not so much with his head as with the whole of his upper body. His unshaven jowls became quite animated. "I'm your man, then."
"Very well. You'll want to leave in the morning. Early."
Callum stood, not the least bit unsteady, and thrust a fat finger at Sunnock's face. "Just so you know, I weren't always like this. I've had better days. I understand things."
"Contrary to what you imagine, Mister Callum, I've assumed that all along." Sunnock sipped wine so its scent would cover the man's reek. "Were that not true, you would never have seen my gold, much less had a chance to earn it."
Callum plopped his tankard on the table. A bit of the beer slopped out. He straightened his spine, raised his chin, and walked out like a honorable man bound on a mission of mercy.
Sunnock waited for the door to the private room to close before he glanced at a shadowed corner. "You may come out now. How much of what you heard do you understand?"
Welinn emerged from beneath a tangle of stacked chairs and shards of broken tables. He darted to Callum's seat and grabbed his mug. The goblin's facile tongue darted out, licking up the dregs of the ale. "You gave the man money. Gold money."
"I did."
The goblin looked wide-eyed over the rim of the tankard. "Will you give gold money to me?"
"Of course."
"How much?"
"That will be determined by how good a job you do." Sunnock's eyes half-lidded. "Two weeks from now, on the night of no moon, I want you to stage a raid on Silverlake. Your people can keep what they carry away. You will be paid twenty gold for the raid, and more—much more—if it's terrifying enough that the settlers leave. I want them terrified."
Welinn set the mug down. "I've seen Silverlake. They're making walls."
"Except on the lake side. That will be last, and a month off. You'll come in from the east." Sunnock opened a pouch on his belt and pulled out a torn blue tunic woven of finely spun linen. "There is only one person you cannot kill. The girl, Serrana. She must live. If you can carry her off, so much the better, but she must not die. You can get her scent from this. Do you understand?"
"You want it terrifying. The girl cannot die. We keep what we loot."
"And the night of no moon."
"Yes, in the dark." The goblin chuckled. "The dark for humans. It will be very dark for humans."
"And golden for you." Sunnock smiled. The progress at Silverlake had given the settlers heart. The goblins would take it away. And ever closer comes the end of the Vishovs and the advent of my master's pleasure.
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Eleven
Suspicion and Honor
Serrana's scream froze Jerrad's heart in his chest. He looked around, turning toward her scream, but seeking a fallen tree or clump of thick bushes behind which he could hide. He spotted a hollow between the roots of an old tree and almost started toward it.
No, stop. You can't hide. This isn't the time for hiding.
A second scream echoing through the wood, pinpointing her location. His basket fell from his fingers. The roots and herbs he'd gathered spilled out as he started running. His sister sounded more frightened than hurt, and he found himself more afraid of not going than any trouble he'd face in helping her.
If this is her idea of a joke... He shook his head. One scream would have been a joke, but two—that was trouble.
He raced through Echo Wood, leaping over windfall trees and sliding down a leaf-carpeted hill. He half expected to end up in the sprite-bog at the bottom, but his feet hit a stone and he vaulted himself over the mire. On all fours he scrambled up the opposite side, never slipping, and making enough noise to be a victorious army traveling with tons of jangling treasures.
He reached the top of the depression and gasped. He had to look every bit a nervous squirrel, eyes wide. Oh, this is bad. Very bad.
A warrior clad in brown leathers chased with wolf
fur had a thick handful of his sister's hair. Another, taller and blond, had similarly forced Aneska—his sister's handmaiden—to her knees. Baskets half-filled with roots and fungus had spilled near both women. Feral children squatted, inspecting the contents, lifting up bits to show to a toothless crone leaning on a fetish staff.
Between the two women stood a barbarian warrior in a halter and skirt made of skins, with feathers braided into her dark hair and scars on the left side of her face, shoulder, and flank. The scars came in parallel sets of four and had to have been inflicted by a great cat or bear. The woman bore a spear and had a throwing axe sheathed over her left hip. Brown leather boots rose to her knees, and leather bracers protected her forearms.
Jerrad forced himself to his feet. He really wanted to vomit, but figured that would not be much of a help. Though I could use an illusion to hide it. He forced his fear down and made his expression impassive.
He bowed solemnly toward the warrior. "I am Jerrad Vishov of Silverlake. That is my sister and her companion."
Serrana sobbed, covering her face with her hands.
The woman rested the butt of her spear on the ground. "I am Darioth, Chieftain of the Wolfmanes. You're in our Wood."
Jerrad suppressed a shiver. The Wolfmanes were one of the many Kellid barbarian tribes who had transplanted their nomadic lifestyle south. Jerrad took it as a good sign that neither of the Silverlake women had been slain yet, as the Kellids had a reputation as fierce fighters. He had learned little of the Wolfmanes—just enough to know they had several small villages scattered through the wood and that avoiding them was best.
But we aren't near any of their villages.
"I beg your pardon. I didn't know you had claims on this area."
Darioth snorted. "This is our Wood. All of it. You and your village are within our grounds."
Aneska's captor yanked her head back, baring her throat, and drew a knife.
Jerrad opened his hands. "I can convey a warning to my mother. She is our chieftain. Or I can conduct you to her, and you can work out your differences."
Pathfinder Tales: The Crusader Road Page 9
