by Damien Lake
Farr started to reply, then stopped while he considered. Dellor needed no extra time to think about it. “You want him to form reports on threats represented by bandits and greedy land owners and fractious neighbors? Why? We don’t need yearly reports on them. They haven’t posed a respectable threat in generations, despite their numbers!”
Replying thoughtfully, Farr asked, “Does he know that?”
Dellor looked incredulous. Orlan answered, “No, I do not think he does. The histories the trainees learn are flooded with tales of the early days and the trials our ancestors faced. Most scout trainees begin their patrols with visions of defending the village against the raging armies of old, and the Guardian trainees are even worse! You are the chief overseer, Farr. How many times have you overheard them arguing late into the night about the battles fought against the Sordel’lei?”
Farr smiled slightly. “Many times. It seems to be the primary pastime of the younger glory seekers.”
“In any event,” Orlan added with a significant look at Dellor, “we shouldn’t overlook the threat posed by a force of warriors. Despite our defenses, events can still go astray. Just because they haven’t been a nuisance in generations does not mean they can’t be. Remember Thomas’ favorite saying? It is as good advice to us as to the youngsters: assumption lies at the root of ninety percent of all mistakes.”
Orlan could see Farr had started to adopt his idea, so focused his attention to Dellor. The elder councilman still looked skeptical and said, “That may be the case, but excursions into the lands beyond the forest can incur unforeseen ramifications.”
“We wouldn’t send him alone. Not at first. Adel can accompany him for the first town or two, to teach him how to blend in, how to behave in the fringe towns. Can you spare her?”
“If I rearrange the patrol lineups,” answered Farr. “We may have to advance a few trainees to supervised patrol work a little sooner than is customary.”
Dellor acquiesced and announced, “Then, if the majority of the council agrees, we will send young Colbey out to form his reports.”
Orlan agreed. “We can compare his breakdown of non-magical forces against past reports to assess his accuracy.” He turned to Farr and pointed out, “Make sure he knows this. It will encourage him to be thorough, and hopefully teach him patience at the same time. While he is taking his time, he will, with luck, become sensitive and receptive to the lives of those around him in the fringe towns. It should take him all the summer to finish the reports, and hopefully he will come to hold a bit more respect for others.”
Farr nodded and stood. “I need to find a free Guardian to deal with Colbey’s rampaging trapper. On a separate note, have we decided how to deal with the dryad issue? That’s what I wanted to ask before Colbey distracted me.”
“No,” said Dellor. “I am calling a full council meeting tomorrow morning to finally put an end to the matter. We’ll put this proposal before the table at that time.”
“Good. It should have been dealt with by now. Until tomorrow.”
Farr left the door open, granting Orlan his favorite view of his home. The village was almost entirely airborne, built within the great Euvea branches. Suspension walkways hung from tree to tree while other routes along the branches connected trunks in a network of paths. Low rails lined the main byways to keep the children from tumbling to the waters far below. Spiraling steps wound around several of the massive trees, allowing access to lower areas or leading further upward into the canopy.
The council chambers overlooked a forest pool situated under the village; indeed, the village had been located there specifically because of the pool. An artesian well kept water constantly flowing from below ground. Water covered nearly two miles of the forest’s heart, though its depths were mostly shallow enough to wade. Moss grew on roots and rocks under the surface which colored the water a healthy green. Four feet deep in most places, the depth plunged over the well, deeper than most could measure. The Euvea grew upward through the water so the forest seemed submerged.
Orlan gazed across the village. Night lanterns along the walkways glowed in firefly swarms, their reflections sparkling across the water so the pool captured a field of false stars within its depths. He hoped young Colbey could someday become as calm as the waters below.
Chapter 02
Caring for his mother, Lilly, during her illness left Marik little time for anything else. Since her failing health forced her to stay home, Marik needed to provide for them both as best he could. The income from her work of dying cloth for Minta, one of Tattersfield’s few merchant exporters, was lost to them.
The days slowly passed while their lives adjusted to the new hardship. When the first medicines they received from the herbman quickly vanished, Lilly gave Marik a small pouch. Within he found several coins and a gold nugget larger than any he had ever heard of.
“Take it to Minta. She’s the wealthiest exporter in town and I’ve sold to her before. She will give you coin for it.”
“Before? Mother, what’s going on? Where did you get this?”
“Rail always left behind his earnings whenever he was home, Marik. The last time he was due back, this arrived instead. The pouch had four of these and a note from him telling me to use them as we needed.”
“Father sent these? Why didn’t he come home and bring them himself? It’s been five years!”
“I don’t know, Marik. I haven’t heard from him since. Go and sell the last one. She won’t pay you the full value, because she’s a merchant. But you can still get a half-gold for it.”
She dissolved into a coughing spell. Marik left quick as he could, the nearly empty medicine pouches spurring him on. Several townsfolk glared at him when he dashed past. He neither cared nor noticed. His mind still struggled to accept the pouch’s contents. Father, with this kind of wealth? How? And why didn’t he bring it home himself?
Minta kept an office in the warehouse where her dyers worked and her goods were stored. During the day, as her laborers toiled, she could always be found there.
Marik might have met with trouble trying to see her under normal circumstances. Fortunately, everyone at the warehouse recognized him as Lilly’s son. Minta emerged from the office to offer her sympathies after the man who acted as a foreman to the dyers and a guard against theft reported his presence.
She disliked him as much as the other townsfolk. He could tell this by her entire bearing, yet she quickly turned businesslike once he produced the nugget.
“Ah, yes. I’ve bought a few of these from Lilly before. That wandering man of hers left these behind, as I recall. I’d like to know where his wanderings brought him to, if this was what he found.” She arched an eyebrow in question at Marik.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“It seems she saved the largest one for last. It’s as large as my knuckle and, look, it seems almost pure! No rock mixed in as far as I can tell. It’s damned large for a natural gold nugget. I’d have to guess it came from an unusually rich vein. You’re sure you don’t know where your father was working?”
Marik had no interested in its origins, only in how it related to his father. It was clear no one would be able to help him with that, so he pressed Minta to trade it for hard coin. In the end she proved more generous than Lilly had predicted, though Marik knew he possessed no undiscovered haggling skills. Tattersfield might think little of the son but the people his mother worked beside genuinely liked her.
With nearly three-quarters of a gold in silver coins, he went straight to the herbman’s. He needed to replenish, and he also meant to ask about other possible treatments for Lilly. The first batch of medicines was gone and his mother appeared none the better for them.
Despite Minta’s generosity, expensive herbs and costly potions devoured the minor fortune in less than a month. This left Marik with no recourse except to seek quick jobs from the townsfolk. He wanted to forgo his apprenticeship to give him time for jobs which earned coin, but Lilly insisted he
continue. Her health failed steadily so he acquiesced, though he skipped days without telling her when the promise of high pay arose.
Pate knew full well about Marik’s problems, and while he held his tongue around his apprentice, the master crafter never lost a chance to degrade Marik to anybody who would listen in the taverns. He had never made a secret that he disliked taking on a mercenary’s son. Since Marik began failing to show up regularly, and seemed disinterested when he did, he became Pate’s favorite topic to rant about.
“What can you expect from the get of a cutthroat? He’s never wanted to do an honest day’s work in all the time I’ve had him! Begging for coppers now from whoever’ll listen. Be thieving wherever he can next I’ll wager, like his daddy! You watch your possessions when you know he’s about, that’s my advice.
“I’ve seen that chunk of gold he was flashing about, too. Minta showed it to me when she was commissioning her last safe box to hide valuables like that during transport. Big as my thumbnail it was! I just ask you where a sword-for-hire could have gotten something like that ‘nless he stole it! That’s if he ever got it himself in the first place! What? Huh! That’s what she says, but who knows, eh? A woman who’d take up with that kind of man in the first place, well, who knows what she gets up to while he’s not around to keep her bed warm…”
Tattersfield had never trusted Marik to any degree. Now, Pate’s ramblings were making matters worse for him. Pate held respect in the town and the people listened to him on a variety of matters. Marik knew the woodworker to be the cause behind the increased wariness he experienced from the people he met but he was at a loss for anything to do about it.
If he confronted Pate, it would turn nasty. His temper, which used to be less volatile than the woodcrafter’s, would get the better of him. The entire town would likely stand behind Pate, however unjust it might be. Marik gritted his teeth, deafened his ears, and spent entire days wishing as he sweated under hard labor that Rail would finally return home so all these bastards would be put in their place.
His mother’s condition worsened as the summer progressed. The herbman gave them various medicines, none of which made any improvement. Marik barely made enough to buy new stocks when the pouches emptied. In the dark candlemarks of the night he wondered if the coins were being thrown away. Such thoughts sickened him. He met with the herbman several times to receive different medicines. All proved as ineffective as the previous ones.
A few coppers could usually be earned helping caravans unload their cargoes and helping tend their horses. He took to asking if any members were learned in medicines. When he discovered one, he would explain his mother’s situation. Most were indifferent to his problems, but others were willing to listen for a few moments. The ones who gave him advice usually told him to try the same medicines he had been using already. Few ever offered new suggestions. Unfortunately, the new medicines they did recommend were hardly cheap or easily found in the regions around Tattersfield.
Further inquiries among the caravans led him to obtain small quantities of exotic cures. Yet despite his best efforts, Lilly’s health continued to falter. His frustrations mounted as the long days drew on without improvement.
Marik chose to work off his anger with old equipment left behind by his father. The blade remained in fairly good shape. Not wanting to carry heavy spare equipment around, Rail had left it at home. He had dutifully cared for the equipment during his time spent with his family in Marik’s childhood. Rail would indulge Marik’s need to seem useful to a man he only saw a few times a year by letting him help clean a piece of mail or scrub grime off road-worn leather. Marik’s success at the detailed work needed by so many various pieces of equipment had been limited. Even so, the two enjoyed the time spent together.
Eventually, following the natural course of boys growing into young men, Marik asked his father to teach him how to use the sword he always carried. Rail had been willing but pointed out his son’s inability to hold the heavy sword for more than a few moments. He promised to teach Marik when he grew bigger.
The lessons from his father were as scattered as Rail’s infrequent visits home. Marik had seared each into his mind. They were precious moments spent with his father so he would never allow the memories to fade. He relied on them now to keep him from flying into a furious rage. With the old sword that had seen better days, he worked up a different sweat in the evenings behind the cottage. It was almost as if he could feel the impotent fury at his helplessness leaching from his soul with every sweaty drop squeezing through his skin.
Tonight he had chosen to work on endurance rather than practicing form or specific movements because he thought it would tire him the most. After raising the sword with both hands above his head, he slashed down hard, forcing the blade to stop mere inches from striking the earth. Once he had held it there a moment, he raised the sword again to repeat the motion. It developed the muscles in his arms while giving his entire body a workout as well, since he forced himself to stand arrow-straight throughout the exercise.
Imagining Allen’s head at the bottom of the sword arc helped his practice immensely. Pate’s son usually refrained from displaying hostility openly toward Marik, instead leading his circle of friends to scorn him. The other boys enjoyed hurling insults in his direction when their paths crossed. Lately they had been throwing more substantial objects than words and he now walked out of his way to avoid them. Bruises across his body were evidence of several small stones and a heavy old boot.
The sun had half disappeared behind the horizon. Its final warm light made the sweat dew sparkle where it dripped from his brow. Working off his frustrations helped but did not solve the greater problems underlying them. He could do nothing that would change the town’s views concerning him. Pate had never seriously trained him in wood crafting and intended to leave the entire shop to his son.
Marik hardly cared; he had never seen a place for himself there anyway. The real problem lay in that he was unable to find any place in the town he could see himself occupying in the future.
The solution to that seemed clear enough, though the execution would be problematic. If his place was not in this town, it lay elsewhere. Except his mother had fallen ill and he could never leave her. He could not have left even if she were well, but especially not when she needed him so badly. Also, the roads might be safe enough for caravans, yet traveling alone would be hazardous, especially without a clear idea where he wanted to go.
If only his father were home, then he would know his path clearly. He would leave with Rail and learn all the best practices of a talented swordsman…
His mother’s voice drifted from the cottage. He replaced the blade in its worn sheath and pushed the frustrated thoughts from his mind, entering the cottage to see how he could help her.
* * * * *
“Here he comes!”
“Then get down here.”
“He still alone?”
“Ya. Don’t got a mule or nothin’.”
“Huh? Hey, why’re you so hot about a lootless wanderer?”
“Shut up, you. He’s walking, but he’s loaded! Get his pack an’ we’re set for seasons!”
“Yeah? Well then—”
“Both of you shut it! Now you two get over there in the trees. We got this side. Wait till he reaches that shadow there.”
“Fine. Then we got to get a bottle. I’m dry as dust.”
“Go on. He’s almost here.”
* * * * *
This, thought Colbey, is exactly what I hate about the outlands.
He did not give the four ruffians a last glance where he left them crumpled in the road, each bleeding heavily, if not fatally. If they had sense enough to clean the dust from the gashes after they crawled away, then the long recovery might bless them with enough wit to comprehend their folly. Colbey recognized one from the town he had left moments earlier yet never considered going back to report to the local guards. It was none of his concern.
What was his c
oncern was getting through this cursed punishment so he could tell the council members exactly what he thought of them. Colbey knew why they had sent him out here, and it had nothing to do with the supposed threat represented by military forces outside the forest. ‘This is what happens when you talk back to us’, that was the message. He supposed ‘shape up or suffer’ might be another.
It surprised him how much he missed the Rovasii’s depths. He had experienced no joy at all during this exile and still wondered at Adel’s enthusiasm when she had learned of an extra trip to these filthy hovels this year. Her buoyant attitude had served only to annoy Colbey further the longer he’d been forced to endure it. When she left him on his own after the second town it had been a relief.
Now he wandered from town to town along the forest’s fringes, asking ridiculous questions and being attacked by every disreputable cutthroat who happened to glimpse his coin pouch when he stopped for a night. It would have been tolerable if new or useful information presented itself, but he could have told the council everything learned so far before he had ever left!
Seven towns down, only twenty-four to go. By the Twelve, what a depressing thought that was. Colbey would be lucky if he returned by winter at this rate. Another good reason not to double back and report to the town guards.
With no enthusiasm at all, Colbey shrugged his pack into a comfortable position and continued his journey through exile.
* * * * *
Leaves were changing their hues and lazily spinning while they fell to the ground, the foremost sign summer progressed inexorably toward its close. The fall winds washed across the hills outside town, still lacking the bite of their winter cousins. In the golden glow of the setting sun one autumn evening, Marik laid his mother to rest in the hills beneath the grassy sea.
