

Sheillene: Choosing Fate

and other stories from the world of Mealth and elsewhere

Wil Ogden

Published by Wil Ogden at Smashwords

Copyright © 2005, 2008, 2010, 2011, 2012,2013 Wil Ogden

All rights reserved.
Books by Wil Ogden

Stories from the world of Mealth:

These are ordered chronologically by the events of the stories, not by order of publication. All of these books are stand-alone stories.

Sheillene: Choosing Fate

And other Stories from the world of Mealth and elsewhere.

(Novelette and Short Story Collection)

The Nightstone (Novel)

Of Maia's Mist (Novel)

The Blooddaughter Series:

Second Blood (Novella)

Blood Huntress (Novella)

Blood Reprisal (Novella)

Some of the Short Stories herein have been published in various periodicals prior to this printing.

**The Wishing Jar** (Turn The Page Magazine 2009)

Aurora's Smile

(Bards and Sages Quarterly January 2010)

Heir to the Eighth

(Bards and Sages Quarterly January 2011)

**Kythira** (Eternal Haunted Summer Spring 2011)

Fortune Favors the Fool

(Bards and Sages Quarterly January 2012)

The Honor of a Knight

(Bards and Sages Quarterly April 2013)

# DEDICATION

Dedicated to everyone who has had to choose a path in life.

# CONTENTS

SHEILLENE: CHOOSING FATE

CHAPTER ONE: PROFESSION

CHAPTER TWO: THE OTHER PROFESSION

CHAPTER THREE: BACK TO BARDING

CHAPTER FOUR: THE PAINFUL TRUTH

CHAPTER FIVE: ADVICE SOUGHT:

CHAPTER SIX: ADVICE FOUND

CHAPTER SEVEN: ULTIMATE CLOSURE

OTHER STORIES FROM THE WORLD OF MEALTH

FORTUNE FAVORS THE FOOL

PLAYING THE HERO

STEALING FOR MORE

FALL OF THE HEDGEHOG

THE COURTING MONGOOSE

THE SMITH

THE HONOR OF A KNIGHT

OTHER STORIES FROM ELSEWHERE

AURORA'S SMILE

HEIR TO THE EIGHTH

KYTHIRA

THE WISHING JAR

THE GOLDEN LIGHT

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

# ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Mike Munsil

and the rest of the Liberty Hall Writers..

# SHEILLENE: CHOOSING FATE
# CHAPTER ONE: PROFESSION

Sheillene meandered through the afternoon crowd on Weyland Street. Her hand gripped tight to her unstrung bow. It was too long to carry slung across her back in town. There were too many things and people for it to bump into. Since her hundredth birthday, she'd been to the city of Melnith fifty times. Every year since reaching the age of eligibility, she'd participated in the Prince's annual midwinter archery tournament. This year, her mother had finally let her come to the city alone.

Her mother had always favored the Inns by the Weaver's Market, but Sheillene wanted something different now that she was on her own. Most of the merchants on Weyland Street dealt in fine silks or sparkling gem filled jewelry—things Sheillene could not afford yet. A melodious trill caught her ears and she chose to follow it into an inn with a gilt sign.

She stepped through the door of Mirelle's Repose, and the music caught her before she could make it to a table. A man with a bright blue wide brimmed hat sat on a stool on a small stage and recited a ballad to the accompaniment of a guitar. It was two ditties and another ballad later when the bard put his instrument down and freed Sheillene from the enchanting tales and melodies.

She found an empty barstool and set her pack and bow beside it. As she sat, the barkeep came over and placed a crystal mug of deep amber colored wine before her.

"I hadn't asked for anything yet," she said.

"Everyone orders the Crimson Gold," the barkeep said. "It's the best wine in the kingdom and you can only get it here."

"It's true, you know." The bard who had been on stage said as he took the stool beside her. He nodded to the barkeep and the barkeep set a mug in front of him as well before walking off to attend other customers. The bard picked up his mug and knocked it against the one that still sat on the bar in front of Sheillene. "For luck and love," he said then sipped his wine. "I've been to nigh every inn, tavern and grog house in the kingdom, and this wine really is the best. There's a Valencian noir that comes a close second, but that drink requires just the right mood to enjoy it."

Sheillene had been to only the ten inns between her home village of Whisperwillow and the city of Melnith. All of them had wine and with a few exceptions, it all tasted the same. She picked up the mug and took a small sip. The flavor was full without being sweet or sour. "This is good," Sheillene said. "But I haven't been everywhere, so I'll have to take your word on it."

The bard looked to the floor by her stool. "But you carry a pack that bespeaks a woman of the road, and the bow is so well cared for that it must be your most prized possession. Between that and the famously pale shade of your blonde hair, you must be Sheillene of Whisperwillow."

"You've got the advantage on me, minstrel." She said. "I'm afraid you know me, but I don't know you."

Sipping from his mug, the bard covered his nose and mouth to hide a chuckle. After wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he said, "I've never had that happen."

"What's that?" Sheillene asked.

"I've never met someone more famous than I," he said. "I'd honestly developed the idea that everyone knew who I was, or could tell by my music."

Sheillene had seen only a handful of bards. A few had wandered through Whisperwillow on the occasional nights when her mother would take them to the village tavern for food. In her travels to Melnith, she'd seen three or four at the inns along the road. None had been so entrancing in their songs and stories as the one that sat beside her. "You're the best bard I've seen, but, like wine, I'm afraid I don't know enough."

With a graceful whirl, the bard dismounted the stool to stand beside Sheillene. With an exaggerated bow, he said, "My name is Thomas Boncanta, the greatest bard that ever lived."

"A bit modest, I see," Sheillene said.

"I cannot lie," Thomas said. "It's a curse and a blessing of sorts. Modesty is not conducive to the life of a bard. Down-sell ourselves too much and we risk lowering our rates. I'd hate to get back to the point where my only wage for a nights work is a bowl of stew, a mug of wine and a bed in the kitchen."

"Sounds like hard work for little pay," Sheillene said. "I think I like my bow and the fortune it will bring me."

Thomas nodded. "Your bow will bring you fortune and has already brought you fame. I assume you came to the city for the Prince's Tournament in two days. Vying to win again for the third year running?"

"I am confident in my bow," she said. "I can hit a pea at a hundred paces with every try. On a good day I can shoot the same pea twice."

"Now who's being immodest?" Thomas sat back on his stool and drank from his mug. He looked sideways at Sheillene with a smirk on his face.

She'd only tried the pea trick twice, but had succeeded both times. It was merely a matter of arcing the first arrow high and slow and launching the second with high speed and a minimal arc. "If I didn't believe in myself, I wouldn't have taken to the road. If I weren't as good as I think I am: would you have recognized me?" she asked.

"Excellent point," Thomas said. "After you win the tournament, what will you do? The next archery tournament of significant merit is not until spring."

"The Everton Silver Vanes," Sheillene named the next tournament. "I will head that way and stop along the way to show off my talents in exhibition. It should give me enough to feed myself."

Thomas lifted his mug to his lips and tilted his head back as he drained the last from his mug. He set it on the bar with enough thump to gain the attention of the barkeep. He then turned to face Sheillene squarely. "It's a dangerous time of year. A lone traveler on the road risks falling prey to a Vulak ambush. They come down from the mountains in the North and West when it gets cold to get their hands on Abvi steel and Abvi flesh."

"Perhaps you missed the part where I'm good with my bow." Sheillene picked up her bow and ran her hand along the unstrung string. "I could kill a dozen raiders before they got close enough to shoot their own bows back." She'd never killed anything other than something she could call dinner. She hoped she'd not freeze or panic in a dangerous situation. If she could keep her cool, she was certain her boast would not be an exaggeration.

"I wasn't warning you," Thomas said. "I was worried about my flesh. I carry a sword, but it's just a pretty jeweled thing and I barely know which end to hold. I think I was trying to ask if you'd travel with me, since we are both headed the same direction anyway."

"I'm too young for you," Sheillene said. "I don't know how old you are, but if you've had time to travel as far and wide as you say, you are far older than my hundred and fifty years."

Thomas laughed then said, "And I am too old for you. I'm far older than my travels would indicate. My interest is purely in the safety in numbers, and the safety of having the best archer in the kingdom at my side."

Sheillene turned back to her mug and slowly drank the rest of her wine while she pondered the idea. Certainly travelling alone was boring and lonely. There was safety in numbers.

Thomas interrupted her thoughts. "I'd pay for your protection as well. Well, not so much in gold, but a little gold. I could teach you to play an instrument. You have strong fingers; you'll be a great lute player."

"Then I'd have to teach you to shoot a bow," Sheillene said. "To make it fair."

"Then we have a deal?" Thomas asked, extending his hand.

"We do." Sheillene grasped his hand and shook, trying to be strong and not have her grip remind him she was a woman.

As soon as their hands parted, Thomas hopped off stool. "Great, let's go get you a lute."

"It's late," Sheillene said. "The markets are all closed."

Thomas picked up Sheillene's pack and took a step towards the door. "I know a great luthier and we need to catch him while he's still sober. He should be waking up soon, and then he'll start drinking and keep at it until morning when he'll pass out. He can plane and shape wood marvelously while sauced, but he loses the ability to speak coherently after his first bottle. Come on, while we still have time."

Sheillene slid off her stool then looked back at the barkeep. "I haven't gotten a room yet."

"And you won't, here." Thomas said. "This place is for people who have far more gold in their pouches than most men will see in their lifetimes. I know a great place that's far more affordable and I guarantee you'll be able to get a nice private room there."

After glancing around the room and noticing the abundance of silk clothing and lavish jewelry, Sheillene gestured for Thomas to lead the way out.

He led her off the main streets and down several streets barely wide enough to open a door into. He stopped at the door of a shed and without even knocking, opened the door.

Inside, under the light of a single bright magelight, a man sat at a workbench shaving a block of wood. The floor of the shed was littered with sawdust, wood splinters and empty wine bottles. He looked up at Thomas and frowned.

"You didn't use your guitar in a bar brawl again, did you?" The luthier asked.

Thomas stepped through the bottles and embraced the man at the workbench. "No, Nate, my friend here needs an instrument. I was thinking she had the fingers to make a good lute player."

Nate set his tool and the block of wood on the bench and grabbed a half full wine bottle. After taking a swig, he gestured to Sheillene to approach. "Let's see your hands."

Sheillene stepped closer holding her hands out before her. She spread her fingers and turned her hands over and back, not sure what the luthier wanted to see about them.

"Strong muscles, thin fingertips, good." Nate said then took another drink. He gestured with his wine bottle at the walls of the shed which were covered with hanging instruments of any shape and size that used strings. "If any call to you, take it."

Sheillene's eyes fell immediately to a cherry wood instrument with over a dozen strings. The waxed wood glistened in the glow of the magelight.

"Take it, I said." The Luthier reached over and prodded her with his wine bottle. "Don't just gawk at it. That lute's a little quieter than some, but will hold up to more of a beating. It's meant for the travelling bards."

"Sheillene is a wanderer at the moment," Thomas said to Nate. Then, nudging Sheillene, he whispered. "Grab it before he actually hits you over the head with the bottle."

Sheillene reached over and lifted the lute from the wall.

Thomas stepped close and manipulated her hands until she held it as if she were going to play. "Each pair of strings play a note, except this one is just one string, not a pair. It's the highest note. Pressing these fingers here can make any string or pair of strings play a higher note." He seemed to take great care not to touch the strings.

Sheillene said, "Do you want to demonstrate?"

Thomas stepped away and shook his head. "No, the first notes not played by the craftsman should be played by you. Your lute should be a part of you. It would be almost indecent for me to touch parts of it."

Tentatively she plucked each of the strings. Then she strummed them in their pairs. She could feel each note, each vibration. Then she tried to change the tone of the strings by pressing them against the neck board with her fingers. The change in tone was constant for each pair of strings. She then tried to replay one of the ditties that Thomas had played at Mirelle's. When she finished, she looked over at Nate and Thomas. They were both smiling at her with their mouths agape.

"So, what's next?" She asked.

Thomas took Sheillene by the elbow and stepped out of the shed. "Thanks Nate," he called back as he closed the door. Nate replied but Sheillene couldn't make out what he said through the door.

Sheillene pulled her elbow away from Thomas. "What are you doing?"

"I'm taking you to the inn I promised," he said, stepping into a tight street. "Then we will be parting ways."

Sheillene's mind whirled. "I thought you needed my protection. I thought you were going to show me how to play one of these. Don't I have to pay Nate? What do I owe him?"

Thomas stopped and faced her. "Nate won't charge for his instruments. That's why he lives in a shack in an alley." He stepped up and put a hand on each of her shoulders. "I'm sorry, I can't travel with you. You're a natural like none I've ever seen with your lute. If you can pick up a song on hearing it once and play it perfectly, if a little stiff, the very first time you hold a lute; then I can't have you with me. You've got a future ahead of you as a bard, but two of us at our level of talent can't be too close together on the road. We'd cut into each other's livelihood. If you're going east, I'm going west."

"But I only know the one song, maybe the other three I heard you play." Sheillene thought back to the other bards that she'd heard on the road to Melnith. "Okay, I could probably pull thirty songs from my memories.

"That's a full night's show," Thomas said. "You've got another way to earn your board if you want it."

"If I can do it, anyone can," Sheillene said. "Music is simple; I never knew how simple it was. I don't get why everyone doesn't play an instrument."

Thomas took a deep breath, then, after exhaling slowly, said evenly, "Because to just about everyone else in the world, Music is not simple. It takes me two or three weeks to learn a song to the point where I feel comfortable playing it for an audience. I've known a couple people who can play naturally, but no one as perfectly as you. That ditty had twenty three distinct notes and chords and changed rhythm six times. The only advantage I have over a bard who can do what you did is my immense experience. Now, do you want me to lead you to this inn or not?"

With his new frantic mood, Sheillene didn't feel comfortable around Thomas. "No," she said. "Just give me the name and the street. I'll find it."

"It's called the Brown Inn. The sign is just a brown bed on a yellow sign. It's six streets that way then two streets north." Thomas pointed down the alley in front of him. "Don't take this to mean I don't like you. I do like you as a person and would call you a friend. But you are a risk to my lifestyle and I have to be wary of that. Good evening, Sheillene of Whisperwillow. I wish you safe travels." Thomas set her pack on the ground as he walked past her then headed down a different alley than the one he'd indicated for her to take.

# CHAPTER TWO: THE OTHER PROFESSION

Nearly half a century had passed since Sheillene had first played her lute. She'd not seen Thomas in that time and she hadn't chosen to make a career from her music.

Sheillene opened the door to the sheriff's office of Stonewall Village and stood aside.

Her partner Taren dragged a typical bounty by bound arms up to a constable sitting behind a desk. "Twenty gold," Taren said, setting his custom Matderi-made crossbow on the desk in front of the constable.

The constable looked at the weapon. Sheillene could see his eyes counting the eight locked and loaded bows around the center stock, all pointing at the constable. Sheillene knew the triggers weren't engaged, but the constable couldn't know such a thing. He'd likely never seen a rotary-multi-bowed crossbow. He stood and stepped away from the aim of the weapon then looked at Taren then at the prisoner. "Nice toy, the bounty for this lowlife is sixteen gold."

Sheillene pulled her Hunter's medallion from under her shirt and Taren did the same.

"Master's premium," Taren said. "Twenty gold, please. Consider it payment for the rope. Or we could untie him before we go. This guy was wanted for pugilizing a constable, wasn't he?"

"No," the constable said. "Tax Skimping." He reached into a drawer in his desk and pulled out a handful of coins. He counted twenty gold crowns onto the desk. "You get your premium, Taren. It's been a while since you've been up to these parts. Who's the new sidekick?"

Taren gestured back to where Sheillene stood near the door. "That's my partner, Sheillene of Whisperwillow."

"The archery champion?" The man behind the desk focused his eyes on Sheillene and looked her over.

"She's a master in the Hunter's Guild, now," Taren said. "Be lucky we didn't charge a double premium. We certainly could have." He picked up the coins off the desk and placed some in his pouch. He gave the prisoner a last shove and kicked him in the rear to ensure he fell forward. "Tax Avoidance, eh? He put up more fight than I'd expect from a purely monetary crime."

"Taren!" Sheillene yelled. "There's no need to batter the bounty. We've collected, we can go now." It bothered Sheillene that Taren treated the people they brought in like they were animals, but otherwise Taren was decent enough company. When she was a child, he had been a friend of her mother's for a few years. It had been Taren that first shown her how to use a bow.

After again crossing paths with him at a dive of a bar in Everton, she'd spent a score of years at his side, learning the trade of the Hunter's Guild. It didn't always entail collecting bounties. Sometimes it just meant hunting for food or skins. Sometimes it meant tracking. Sometimes it meant killing when the bounty was posted for a particularly vile criminal.

Not all bounties were posted by government officials. Sometimes normal people wanted someone for one reason or another. Taren stepped over the fallen tax evader and gestured for Sheillene to join him at a section of wall covered in postings. Sheillene glanced over the names and drawings of faces on the board then dug in her pack for a roll of scrolls. After crosschecking, she posted two more that weren't on the board yet, pasting them over two bounties that she knew had already been claimed.

"Look here," Taren said, pointing to a poster with two portraits drawn on it. "Twenty thousand, we could both retire."

"For a little while anyway," Sheillene said. The poster said it wanted Kita and Leo Phyreshade returned to Romanova alive. A double box drawn around each portrait was a secret guild code. Only the heads were to be delivered. That explained the high price. That and the last known whereabouts: Ignea.

"Ignea is not safe for Hunters," Sheillene said. "It's a city of pirates and they band together against outside threats."

"Ignea is six leagues from here and we are never this close," Taren said. "Its twenty thousand gold crowns and these people don't look hard to deal with. It's not like we're going in with our medallions hanging out. Let's head east and we can talk about it on the road." He took the poster from the wall, retrieved his crossbow, and then headed toward the door.

"I'm not making any promises, Taren." Sheillene followed him out to the street and headed east.

When they were outside of town, she spoke again. "You know I don't like these kill contracts." The Hunter's Guild didn't require anyone to take any bounties. Membership simply gave access to the lodges in most cities and the opportunities to take bounties.

Taren shrugged. "No one's going to pay twenty thousand to get rid of someone who doesn't deserve it. All of these people are criminal scum, whether they are the ones posting the private bounties or those targeted by them. Innocent people don't get involved with lowlifes deeply enough to invoke that level of ire."

Sheillene had taken two kill bounties in her two decades as a member of the Hunter's Guild. One was a smuggler that had taken a run from a competitor and the other was a murderous noble who was above the reach of the local law. She hadn't known the details until after the deed. But as Taren had told her, innocent people do not make targets of themselves.

Finding leads on the Phyreshades proved remarkably easy. The first tavern they checked with identified them as the owners of an inn at the edge of the dock district: The Hedgehog.

Two men stood beside the door of the Hedgehog. One was a young human with bulging muscles barely covered by a black leather vest and the other was a Matderi that leaned heavily on a war hammer, almost as if it were a crutch.

"You are going to play the part of bard?" Taren asked.

Sheillene pulled her lute out of her pack and began checking the tuning as they approached the doorway.

"Stop there," The Matderi doorman blocked the entrance with his hammer as Taren approached. "You can't bring that loaded weapon into the taproom." The Matderi leaned his head a little closer. "Is that Garavan's work?"

Taren smiled and nodded. "Yeah, he made it for me."

"Not bad," The Matderi said. "I didn't know he'd gotten past the four bow mark. Eight is damned impressive. You're safe in there, but you can keep swords and boarding axes if it helps you feel safer. But you've got to unload the crossbow to take it inside."

"If you insist," Taren said pleasantly. He took the lever out of a belt pouch and inserted it into the stock behind the bows. He aimed it at the ground and pulled the lever all the way back. The bows spun around the center stock and eight snaps sounded out in rapid succession. The dry mud of the street had a small cluster of holes where each bolt had passed completely into the ground.

A look of complete awe passed over the Matderi's face. "Oh, that was nice," he said, "You didn't have to go and waste eight bolts like that, though."

Taren put a hand on the Matderi's shoulder and said, "It wasn't a waste. The impressed look on your face made it worth it. It's not every day I get to impress a Matderi."

The Matderi laughed as Taren stepped through the door.

The other doorman spoke to Sheillene as she stepped through the door. "If you're looking to entertain, you'll want to speak with Kita behind the bar. She handles the rates for bards and minstrels. I can't promise any luck though. The innkeeper's daughter has been cuddling up with a pretty impressive minstrel. He's been on stage every night for several weeks."

"Thanks, I'll give it a shot anyway." Sheillene said. Inside, the taproom was dark compared to the afternoon sun outside. When her eyes adjusted and she could see the human woman standing behind the bar, a hard knot formed in her stomach.

Kita Phyreshade was several months pregnant. When she saw Taren approaching the bar, she panicked. She couldn't kill a pregnant woman and wasn't about to let Taren do it either. She dropped her lute on a nearby table and grabbed the nearest chair and charged at Taren's back. The chair splintered to pieces as she brought it down over the back of Taren's head. Taren crumpled into a heap.

Instantly the two doormen were on top of her, throwing her to the floor and holding her down.

"Now missy, that's not the kind of behavior we like to see here," The Matderi doorman said. He held her right arm at the elbow and at wrist against the floor. The other doorman had a similar grip on her left arm.

Taren slowly crawled to his feet and looked at Sheillene with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Let her go," he said.

"She could have killed you," The muscle-bound doorman said.

"Nah," Taren said. "I'm tougher than a chair and she knows it."

Kita came out from behind the bar and stood beside Taren. "What's going on here?" She asked.

The doormen hadn't released their grip on Sheillene. She struggled, kicking her feet wildly and screaming, "Run, Kita!"

Kita just stood there, looking more confused.

Taren stood alongside her just shaking his head. "Okay, maybe you shouldn't let her up yet," he said. He handed the parchment with the wanted notice to Kita and gestured to Sheillene. "She thinks I'm here to take you away."

Kita studied the document a moment then nodded to the doormen. "Let her up."

Sheillene stopped struggling and the doormen let go.

"Let me see that," The Matderi doorman hobbled over to Kita and grabbed the posting. "You two Abvi are Hunter's Guild?" he asked Sheillene and Taren. "Taking a bounty in Ignea: you're very greedy, very brave or very stupid."

"Today I'm leaning towards stupid." Sheillene stood on her feet and stepped to face Taren, just out of swords reach, but close enough that she could stop him from attacking Kita if she had to. She wasn't expecting violence now that the doormen were so close. The unarmed human wouldn't be a problem, but even with a gimp leg, the Matderi looked like he knew how to use that war hammer as more than a crutch.

"It looks like Lucius is still peeved at Leo. This is a kill bounty." The Matderi said.

"What does that mean, James?" Kita asked the Matderi.

Taren answered for James. "It means that someone wants you and Leo dead and is willing to pay a ton of money to see it happen. I don't know how a lame Matderi would know how to read a Hunter posting though."

James didn't explain. He just placed himself between Kita and the two Hunters.

Taren dropped his crossbow onto his shoulder and said, "I'm not staying to explain. I wouldn't kill an unborn child or the woman carrying it. I probably wouldn't kill the father of an unborn child either for so little gold. I'm sorry you didn't know me better after so many years as partners, Sheillene. I can't trust you to have my back anymore. If our paths cross again, we are friends, we would never be anything else. Goodbye." He headed out the door without even glancing back.

"So you hit him to stop him from hurting Kita?" The muscular doorman said.

Sheillene just nodded.

"Well then we owe you, even if he wouldn't have hurt her. We can't know if he wouldn't have or if he would have, but we know Kita is safe now because of you."

"I wouldn't say that, Bouncer," The Matderi said to his fellow doorman. "She's still a Hunter; she still has a bounty she could collect on. I am not leaving her side until she leaves town."

"What's going on?" A man asked as he entered the taproom. Sheillene recognized Leo from the portrait on the posting.

Kita recalled every action and word since Sheillene and Taren had entered the bar.

James handed him the posting. "The box around the portraits means they want you, dead or alive."

A single box would mean dead or alive. The double box meant only dead would count for the bounty. Sheillene did not correct the Matderi.

Kita and Leo walked over to a corner booth and sat down. James took Sheillene to the bar and offered her a jug of wine. Sheillene accepted. It didn't taste very good, mostly like water. The Matderi would know that such drink was tortuous to an Abvi like Sheillene. Still, Sheillene smiled and thanked James.

A young human woman walked in off the street and stopped just inside the door, "Why are you two not at the door?" She asked.

"It's a long story," Bouncer said. "I guess I can get back to the door, James is covering the Hunter." The muscle bound doorman went back to the door; he stepped aside to let the woman and, a man accompanying her, enter. The man wore a bright blue hat she'd seen before. Sheillene immediately recognized the man as Thomas, though she hadn't seen the bard in decades.

"Sheillene!" Thomas said, and walked over to the bar and sat beside Sheillene. "You seem -- what's the word? Penitent, you seem penitent. I take it you aren't working as a bard, despite still having the lute we got you so many years ago."

Sheillene didn't respond verbally, but instead pulled her Hunter's Guild medallion from inside her shirt.

"I'd heard that," Thomas said. "I'm kind of glad you didn't take up the life of a bard. So, who'd you come to collect on?"

Sheillene pointed to where Kita and Leo sat talking in hushed tones. "Those two, but I won't be collecting. It's a kill contract and I don't kill pregnant women."

"And James doesn't believe you?" Thomas nodded to the Matderi standing beside Sheillene.

"I'm just being safe about it," James said. "I can't get paid if my employer gets killed."

Leo stepped up to the bar, "And for the next few months, your employer is going to be our daughter, Tara."

The young woman who'd come in with Thomas said, "What?"

Leo took the jug of wine off the counter and drank deeply. He set the jug down and said, "I need to go to Romanova and straighten this out. I'm sure I can at least bribe Lucius to renege the bounty. He's just afraid I'm going to come back and challenge his claim to his senate seat. I'm not interested in ever going back to that political hell-hole. Lucius is a bastard and is abusing his power, I'm sure. But I don't care about anything Romanova any longer. I just want to raise my family and be left alone. If I have to go to Romanova one more time to guarantee that, I will."

"I'm going with my husband. I still have six weeks until the babies are due and the trip should take three weeks by boat this time of year with a good sea captain. We should be back by midsummer at the latest. We're leaving your brother with you, Tara."

"I get the whole inn to myself?" Tara asked. "Like, I get to run the place?"

"When are you leaving?" James asked.

"As soon as we can pack," Leo said. He took Kita's hand and headed towards the living quarters upstairs.

Thomas tapped James on the shoulder after Leo and Kita left the room. "What happens to Sheillene?"

"As soon as Mister and Misses Phyreshade are safely on a boat, Sheillene is no longer someone we distrust. Though she could, possibly get to Romanova faster than Leo and Kita and..."

"She won't be going anywhere," Thomas said. "I'll be keeping her here as my apprentice."

"I thought you didn't want me performing anywhere near you." Sheillene carefully stepped away from the bar to retrieve her lute. She picked up her instrument and began playing the most complex song she knew to remind Thomas why he'd decided not to teach her to play so many years before.

"Right," Thomas said. "I don't. So for the next couple months, I won't be performing. I'll be living off my sixty percent cut of your earnings."

Sheillene slowed her song to a stop. "I don't know if I can afford that kind of pay cut. I'm coming off a job that would have paid quite a bit."

Thomas's face dropped to dead serious. "How about we pretend you weren't a killer-for-hire? It's something I think we'd all do best to forget, especially, you, Sheillene."

# CHAPTER THREE: BACK TO BARDING

It had been a busy night at the Hedgehog. One of the barmaids swept the floor as Sheillene settled into an empty booth with a pitcher of beer. She set her lute carefully on the table, close to the wall.

The patrons had all been shuffled out the door except for a few at the gambling table eager for another chance to lose their months wages. Sheillene appreciated the thrill of a good card game for coin, but for an Abvi like her, playing poker with the short lived humans that populated the city was very similar to taking candy from children.

The innkeeper, Tara, came over and sat across from Sheillene with two glasses. She filled both with beer and passed one to Sheillene. After taking a long sip of her own, Tara said, "You're very good for only taking up as an apprentice bard four weeks ago."

"Thank you," Sheillene said. She picked up her glass and poured it down her throat. Taking the pitcher, she refilled her glass and took a small sip. Singing all night had dried her throat and made her thirsty.

"Too good," Tara said.

Noticing that Tara was not smiling alongside the compliment, Sheillene asked, "Too good?"

Tara nodded. "Have you noticed that Thomas, your teacher, and my fiancée, only gets to get on stage one hour a night? He's arguably the greatest bard in the world, and he fills my taproom so that people will stand outside the inn's doors for hours to catch a few notes of his music and I only let him take the stage for an hour."

"I'd assumed it was his choice," Sheillene said. "I thought he was giving me more time to learn the ins and outs of the trade."

"Are you kidding?" Tara said. "Thomas would spend his whole life on stage if his throat could take it. He still thinks he should get up there from sunset to midnight. I have him convinced that I prefer him by my side than on stage and I get lonely when he's not at my side."

Sheillene bit at the bait. "But, that's not why you don't like him up there."

Tara rotated her beer glass on the table, but didn't take another drink. "Let me ask you this, when he's onstage, singing, how many people buy drinks?"

"I don't know," Sheillene said, "Thomas is so good, it's almost enchanting. I don't really pay attention to anything other than the music and the songs." Thinking on that a moment, she realized the problem. "I guess it's the same for everyone in the audience."

Tara nodded. "It took me forever to figure out why on my busiest nights, I did less business. Thomas draws crowds, but they only get one drink at the start of the night and forget to get more. I do so much better as an innkeeper if they get more."

Sheillene sipped the last of the beer from her glass and reached for the pitcher. Realizing it too was empty, she slid her empty glass to the middle of the table. "You're not saying that I'm actually doing the same thing, to a lesser degree maybe?"

"Here," Tara said, pushing her mostly full glass to Sheillene. "The problem is that with you it's not to a lesser degree and you're not as famous. I get fewer receipts before you start singing and nothing after you start."

Sheillene felt a burst of pride, but the look on Tara's face was not celebratory and kept Sheillene from expressing the exuberance she felt. "As Thomas's apprentice, I have to defer to him for changes to my performance schedule. You should talk to him."

"Thomas is my, um..." Looking away from the table for a moment, Tara fell silent. "We're too close to have this kind of conversation. He see's your learning as paramount importance and I see maintaining enough profit to feed my family as paramount importance. I've tried to talk to him about his playing, but it's his life, he's immovable in his stance that he should strive to be great in every performance. He'll expect the same of you, I'm sure."

"Well, I can't talk to Thomas either." Sheillene examined the bottom of her empty glass then the empty pitcher. Tara wasn't taking the hint. Perhaps she didn't need any more beer. A ditty about pirates draining the rum keg dry popped into her head. It wasn't the kind of song Thomas wanted her to sing. He liked the emotional ballads and historical epics. The kinds of songs that gripped the hearts of the audience and with his talent, Thomas could make the audience feel every emotion of the tales. If Tara were to be believed, Sheillene had gained a similar degree of audience empathy.

She wondered if she could use that in a different way – a way that would benefit Tara and make it worth having Sheillene onstage. What if she did play the drinking songs? Would the audience respond by drinking more?

Sheillene told Tara, "I have an idea for my next performance. I think it should resolve our little impasse."

Three songs into her first set of the night, Sheillene noticed the bittersweet smiles on the faces of her audience and their untouched drinks. She glanced over at Thomas and winked as she brought the song to a soft close.

Thomas looked confused. She hadn't shared her plans with him. She stood up from her stool and strummed a full trill across all the strings of her lute. She then broke into a very energetic ditty about draining every bottle. She didn't make it halfway through the second verse when several of the patrons rushed the bar, reaching for the bottles behind the counter without waiting for Tara or one of the barmaids to help them.

Tara stood in the corner, chugging at a bottle of whiskey when Sheillene slapped her hand on her strings, silencing them.

Thomas walked up to the stage and took Sheillene's lute from her hands. "I think we should talk about this."

Sheillene grabbed her lute back. "Tara needs to sell drinks to stay in business. I was just trying to help."

"You can't abuse your talents," Thomas said. "You can't manipulate people into making themselves sick from beer, wine, whiskey and I think I saw one guy reach for a bottle of lamp oil."

"And we can't abuse the innkeepers who give us a stage," Sheillene said. "We're supposed to draw in profits for them, not steal their patron's attention."

"Our art is our gift to the world." Thomas turned and gestured to the audience. Most of the people were finding their seats again. A few were talking with Tara about how to pay for a whole bottle of whiskey or rum. "We are obligated, by possessing the talent, to share it in the best way possible for our audience."

"If we want to be purists, we can find a clearing or a street corner and busk for pennies." Sheillene sat on her stool and fingered through a scale. "It's time to relinquish the stage, Thomas. I have a set to finish."

Thomas leaned close to Sheillene. "No more songs that force the audience to drink," he said quietly. He then left the stage.

Sheillene sang a ballad of love and false betrayal and the audience wept, but they didn't even sip from their drinks again. Not a single patron bit into a pretzel or salted nut.

When she realized a new opening, Sheillene smiled and winked at Thomas again. He stood up and took a step toward the stage, but stopped when Sheillene started her next song. She didn't know a song about what she needed so the made one up on the spot using a simple two chord rolling rhythm. She improvised lyrics about squirrels fattening up for the coming season. When she stopped playing the audience rushed the bar, but at least that time they were choosing their drinks.

Thomas stepped up to the stage and shook his head, not saying a word.

Sheillene smiled and cringed, waiting for her mentor's scolding.

He folded his arms across his chest and looked toward the bar. "I suppose it's a fair compromise," he said. "I do like to play with a roof over my head."

"Good," Sheillene said. "I wasn't sure I could continue in this profession if I was going to be abusing the hospitality of innkeepers across the lands."

"Just one thing," Thomas said.

"Yes?"

"The lyrics to that ditty need work," he said. "I never again want to hear the line, 'he bit his nuts, he chomped his nuts, he licked..."

# CHAPTER FOUR: THE PAINFUL TRUTH

Sheillene opened her door, if just to stop the knocking so she could get back to sleep. Thomas stood in the hall and he wasn't his usual smiling-at-the-irony-of-life self. He looked serious. He had his blue wide brimmed hat off of his head for the first time since Sheillene had met him. She'd half expected him to be bald, but he wasn't. Or maybe he was. She looked at him with only one barely opened eye lest she become fully aware and awake.

"Thomas, it's not noon, yet," she said. "It's not natural for a bard to be awake yet. I was onstage until well after midnight and kept my throat wet with enough beer to drown a galleon's crew. Why are you here?"

"You weren't always a bard," Thomas said. "It hasn't even been a year since I took you as an apprentice."

"Really?" Sheillene said. "It seems so much longer, half of it since I opened the door. If you're here to talk about how generous you were to offer me the chance to learn under your wing, could it wait until dinner?"

Thomas's hands tightened around the rim of the hat he held in front of him. "If that were why I was here, then it could."

Sheillene sighed; she realized her brief conversation had awakened her brain and a conversation was inevitable. "I'd invite you in, but the room you arranged for me has no chairs and you aren't going to be in a bed with me, ever. Can we talk downstairs?"

"Not really," Thomas said. "But, we can take a walk."

Sheillene considered getting dressed, then looked down to realize she still had her clothes on from the night before, including her boots. Tightening her hair tie, she groaned as she stepped out of her room and down the stairs. There were people in the taproom, but she didn't look to see who. She just waved good morning as she walked out the Inn's door and into the streets of Ignea.

The streets were more crowded than she'd ever seen them. People carrying crates or baskets moved briskly through the streets. Everyone seemed to be going somewhere, but no two people seemed to be going the same somewhere. It was high paced chaos.

Thomas caught up with her, his hat once again in its natural place atop his head. She asked, "What's going on. Why is everyone so rushed? Where are they all going?"

Thomas shook his head and laughed. "It's called work. These people all have to earn a living or shop for the day's food. You do understand the concepts of a normal life?"

"I thought so. I'd never seen a city street in the morning, especially not a Human City. We Abvi are never this rushed." She walked into the alley beside The Hedgehog and turned to face Thomas squarely. "You didn't bring me out here to teach me about the culture of a people whose lifespans are one tenth of mine. What must we discuss that Tara cannot hear?"

"Kita and Leo," Thomas said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the inn. Despite his casual lean, his face never looked more serious.

"I'm aware they never came back," Sheillene said. "I didn't kill them. You know I didn't kill them. You took me as an apprentice so you could watch me to make sure I didn't go after them. You know I didn't kill them." She searched his face for a hint that he believed in her innocence.

His expression remained dour and calm as he looked off towards the harbor. "And yet, they should have returned two seasons ago."

"I don't know what happened to them," Sheillene said. She had a good guess that her former partner, Taren, had pursued them and collected the twenty thousand gold bounty on Kita and Leo. When last she saw Taren he was saying how he wouldn't kill Kita because she was pregnant. But then Taren disappeared from Sheillene's life. It was shortly after that when Kita and Leo disappeared as well.

"Tara is asking about her parents again," Thomas said. "I don't know what to tell her."

"Yes, you do," Sheillene said. "You cannot speak anything that is not true. If you cannot say they are alive, they are not. If you say they are dead; they are dead. Your curse can provide all the answers Tara needs."

"It's not like I know what I'm going to say," Thomas said. "The curse only affects what I say, not what I think. I've so far just not answered, but Tara is getting pushy and I'm afraid to answer her questions."

"Then I'll ask them." Sheillene hoped that she could bear the guilt of the answer she expected. "Did Taren kill Kita and Leo for the bounty?"

"Yes," Thomas said. His eyes went wide and instantly started to shed tears. "Oh gods, I didn't want to know."

"Now you know that you are justified in avoiding answering Tara," said Sheillene. "You are no longer in Limbo."

"No, now I am in Hell," Thomas said. He covered his face with his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair, dislodging his hat. It fell to the dirt of the alley but Thomas's eyes didn't follow its descent.

Sheillene put a hand on each of Thomas shoulders and brought her face close to his. "Thomas, you're the strongest willed person I know. You're witty and glib. You can distract Tara from the question for longer than she will live."

Thomas's bloodshot eyes met hers and he said, "I'm not cold hearted enough to hold that truth from her."

"Then tell her," Sheillene said. "We've all suspected it. They kept the wrong Hunter that day. They kept me because I was the one who exhibited violent behavior. Taren is a smooth talker; he might have charmed you, had you been there."

"It's moot," Thomas said. "It cannot be undone."

No longer able to understand what Thomas wanted her to tell him, Sheillene asked, "So what are the options?"

"I have no options," Thomas said. "Tell Tara I love her, every chance you get." Thomas stepped out of the alley and joined the pace of the frantic masses.

Sheillene picked Thomas's hat off the ground and stepped out after him. She stepped up onto an empty cask to get a better view of the quick moving crowd. For several minutes she tried to focus on every single person moving around on the street, but Thomas's signature hat was nowhere to be seen. Looking down at her hands, she sighed. Without his hat, she wouldn't find him.

# CHAPTER FIVE: ADVICE SOUGHT:

Sheillene ran west at a steady pace. Ignea weeks behind her, she avoided all contact with people. Instead she refreshed her memories of how to use her bow and how to hunt. She convinced herself that she wasn't running away from Ignea and the secret she couldn't bring herself to tell Tara. How do you tell a friend her parents are dead?

Seeking answers, she traveled through the untamed lands, seeking the hidden temple of Temistar. Tales told among members of the Hunter's Guild told her where to look, but also told her only the greatest Hunters could find it or even dare to try. None she'd met in more than twenty years in the guild had even tried.

Find the spring that feeds three rivers. She knew that only one mountain ridge divided the valleys of the Evenflow, the Wylde, and the White Rivers and it wasn't much of a rise in the land. At no point did there come a height where the trees stopped growing. Taking a high vantage point would be difficult if she couldn't get above the trees. Her best chances were at the top of the ridge. She'd reached the east end of the ridge two days earlier. She ran west, jogging north and then south, peering into what she could see of the valleys. She sought another ridge jutting off the one she ran along. Three water flows meant three valleys and three Valleys meant somewhere three ridges met.

A large deer jumped from the brush less than five paces in front of her and stared her in the eyes. Its antlers were fuller than any she'd ever seen. At the shoulders, the creature was taller than Sheillene. It snorted and ran past her, coming close enough that she could have reached out and touched its coat. She felt the wind in its wake and reached for her bow. With a fluid, practiced motion, she locked the end of her bow between her legs and behind her calf and hooked the string. The stag darted back and forth as it ran north, down the side of the ridge. It seemed that it was aware Sheillene had a weapon. Once she had an arrow knocked, he didn't leave her a clear shot. She started to jog after it, but she'd been running all day and her pack was heavy. If she hadn't killed a great-rabbit two days earlier, her pack would be lighter and she could have run faster.

She considered dropping the pack and coming back for it, but stopped and watched the deer disappear into the forest. She had enough meat and didn't have the means to transport such a large hide and all the meat such a beast would have. She didn't need a trophy.

Turning around she found herself face to face with a woman. Her skin was completely sun-darkened, at least what was not covered by a tight rabbit skin skirt. She almost looked Abvi, except Abvi never had hair that shade of orange and Abvi skin remained pale and unchanged by the sun. The woman was not ugly enough to be human, but was unlike any Abvi she'd seen.

"Temistar?" Sheillene asked.

"Dareia," the woman replied. "I am Temistar's Chosen. You are Sheillene. Come with me."

"The deer, it was a test?" Sheillene asked. But Dareia didn't answer. The bronze skinned woman turned and sprinted west. Sheillene ran after. She realized if she'd chased the deer that she didn't need, she wouldn't have been standing there when Dareia arrived. The deer had been a test.

Even with her full pack and strung bow, Sheillene managed to find the wind to keep pace with Dareia for over a mile. When Sheillene was sure she'd have to slow her pace, they entered a clearing with a pond at the center. Sheillene smiled when she counted three streams leading from the pond.

Stopping at the end of one of the streams, Dareia turned to Sheillene. "Drink. Rest. Temistar will come when she comes."

"She was expecting me?" Sheillene asked.

"I don't know that," Dareia said. "Maybe she was, maybe she wasn't. None but us Wylde Abvi have found this place in three millennia. We are the servants of Temistar, as are you."

"I am a Hunter," Sheillene said.

"And in your respect of the sanctity of the hunt, you serve Temistar," Dareia said. She lifted an ear to the wind and said, "The goddess comes."

Sheillene bowed her head, not sure what to do in the presence of a goddess.

"Sheillene of Whisperwillow," A voice, clear and crystalline, sang.

Sheillene looked up to see a woman dressed in doeskins and carrying a bow across her back and a quiver of arrows at her hip. She had dark brown hair, dark eyes and bronzed skin and looked very human. "Temistar?" Sheillene asked, less sure than she'd been when she'd first seen Dareia.

"Abvi always seem to think they are the elder race," Temistar said. "Just because the individual lives longer does not make the race as a whole older. But you didn't come to discover the origins of your people. You came because you doubt."

Sheillene nodded. "I am unsure I can remain a Hunter after learning what I know another Hunter has done."

"I don't see how another's actions can pertain to your choice of life." Temistar walked around behind Sheillene, but Sheillene did not spin along.

"I fear my guild..." Sheillene started but Temistar's Chosen cut her short.

"...my guild," Dareia said. "I founded it."

Sheillene had thought those tales to be rumor. Corrected, she said, "I fear our guild, The Hunter's Guild is not a guild of ideal. I fear they are going astray of what they should be doing."

"We hunt," Dareia said. "That's all that makes us Hunters. That's the bond between members of the Guild."

"There was no hunt in what Taren did. He killed a woman and her child." Sheillene strained to keep her voice under control. She didn't want her passions to disturb her goddess.

Temistar walked around and stood in front of Sheillene. "You completed the hunt when you found Kita in Ignea. The killing was just a formality."

"Just a formality?" Sheillene asked. "A family is dead. I cannot kill like that. If your guild supports such behavior, I don't know that I can be part of it."

Temistar's demeanor remained cool. "Be careful not to assign me demesne where I am not the proprietor. While I am the goddess of the hunt, and all members of the Hunter's Guild worship me so I claim them as mine, I do not claim the Guild as mine. The Guild is yours."

"As goddess of the hunt, do you condone the hunting of Kita and Leo?" Sheillene asked.

"The hunting? Yes. The killing? No." Temistar said. "Life and Death of mortals is not my concern. What Taren did was not in my name but in his and the name of his greed."

"I just don't know that I can call myself a Hunter if doing so means I am the same as Taren. I don't know that I can be part of the Guild." Sheillene said. "I have other options. The world of entertainment is now open to me."

"Sheillene, you are a great Hunter and have potential as a bard," Temistar said. "If you came to me to ask my permission to quit the role of Hunter, you have it, but you don't need it. I cannot tell you what to do with your life. I cannot tell you whether or not to worship me and I have no control over the doings of your guild. Earn my favor and I will assist you if you pray. You may feel better to know that the killings of Kita and Leo did not earn Taren any favor with me. "

Sheillene held her bow in her hand still strung, an arrow still lodged in her grip but not nocked to the string. She knelt and started to set the bow on the ground, but didn't want to let go. For a moment she stayed on the ground, wondering if she was ready to give up the bow. She was angry at what Taren had done. She felt it soiled a profession she had seen as noble and pure. But now the guild had no integrity in her eyes and she didn't want to be part of that immorality. Still she did not want to relinquish her bow. "I'm not ready to decide," she said.

"I'm not forcing you one way or the other, Sheillene." Temistar said. "But you should find conviction in your decision when you finally make it. Know what you want to be and don't waver in your path. As my Hunter, I know you can always find the right path."

Sheillene looked up, but the goddess had disappeared, as had Dareia. She picked herself off the ground and looked into the pool of water. She saw her reflection holding the bow in one hand and the lute neck jutting from her pack on her back. She didn't know how she'd decide which path to follow.

She looked at the sky and noticed the sun had started its descent towards the west. For the moment, it was as good a direction as any and she followed it.

# CHAPTER SIX: ADVICE FOUND

Her home was just as she remembered it. She considered simply stepping into the cottage, but having been gone half a century, she decided to knock.

Her mother answered and grabbed Sheillene into a hug without saying a word. "Welcome home," her mother said. The words were muffled into Sheillene's shoulder.

"I'm not sure I'm staying long enough to call it home again," Sheillene said. "I'm just looking for something familiar for a short while." In fifty years she'd only once stayed in one place for longer than a week, and that hadn't been entirely by her choice.

"I've heard tales of you, daughter." Her mother pulled her by the sleeve into the cottage and sat her at the table by the hearth. Sitting across from Sheillene, her mother asked, "Is it true that you've been following Taren Mason around?"

"Not anymore," Sheillene said. "I ran into him in Everton and he recognized me and took me under his wing and taught me the ways of the Hunter's Guild."

"I'd hoped never to hear that name again," Sheillene's mother said. "When you were young, I know he was a friend of the family, but he was not a good man. I told him to leave before Aemelia was born. I told him to never come this way again."

Sheillene agreed with her mother. Taren was not a good man. It was his actions that made Sheillene need to come home and find a new start. She didn't know if she wanted to remain in the Hunter's Guild. She could make her way with her lute as a bard, but there were parts of being a Hunter that she loved. When Taren Mason had killed a pregnant woman for coin, it had given her something about the Guild to hate.

Then Sheillene realized her mother had mentioned her sister. She was too young to realize the meaning when Taren had disappeared when Sheillene had been a young Abvi. "Taren is Aemelia's father?" she asked.

Sheillene's mother's expression faded as she turned to the fire and nodded. "I'm lonely sometimes. I'm all alone out here a league and a half from the village. My standards are not where they were during my first millennia of life. Your father didn't stay long enough to tell me his name and he was a better man than Taren. Taren was a liar and always looking for easy money and I guess I was just his kind of desperate. I let him stay for a few years. I liked that he taught you how to use a bow. Honestly he was friendly and nice most of the time."

"He'd seemed nice to me most of the time, too," Sheillene agreed.

"But on two occasions he collected a bounty in Whisperwillow and it was not pleasant to watch," her mother said. "I didn't mind when it was just me and I know he was safe for you to be around, but I didn't like him enough to want him to stay forever."

Sheillene understood. "You sent him away before he could know that he was a father. You didn't want him bound to you in any permanent way."

The door opened and Aemelia walked in. She stopped in the doorway to brush the dirt from her bare feet. At almost ninety, Aemelia was almost an adult, but when she looked up and saw Sheillene, she squealed like an infant and jumped over and gave her a tight hug. "Hi, Shelly!"

Sheillene winced subtly. She didn't use that name with anyone else.

"So, tell me about all the great adventures you've had beyond our little village," Aemelia said and released Shelly from the embrace. "Momma says she hears you are getting yourself into trouble. She said that when she saw you again she'd likely put you over her knee." She turned to her mother, "Momma, did you spank her yet? I don't think I want to be here when you do."

Her mother sighed. "I'm not spanking anyone, Aemelia. Sheillene's troubles are their own lessons."

With a hint of disappointment in her eyes, Aemelia shrugged and said, "So, Shelly, if you didn't come home to be spanked, why did you come?"

Sheillene replied, "I can't just come home to see my mother and sister?"

"You've been away over forty years," Aemelia said. "Momma was wondering if you'd ever return to visit at all. So something had to break in your life to make you change your habits and actually come home."

"I guess you aren't a kid anymore, Elia." Sheillene set her lute and her bow on the table. "I'm good enough with either of these to make a good life for myself. I love them both but both have aspects that I don't like.

"I could live as a Hunter and collect bounties and travel around the many Kingdoms of the land, but there are people in the Hunter's Guild who give it a bad reputation and the Guild itself may deserve the reputation because it condones such behaviors. It keeps my skills up with my bow and I can probably still win any archery tournament I choose to enter.

"I'm very talented with my lute and spent years under the tutelage of a Master Bard. I can sway and move an audience to any mood. It's actually much harder work, but the hours are shorter and there is a lot of travel, though the pay is not as good."

"What is a Hunter?" Aemelia asked. "Everyone hunts for meat now and then; can you really make a living at it?"

Her mother answered before Sheillene could. "Hunters are people who track animals and people for money. They bring them back to someone who pays for them. Animals are usually brought back dead. People are usually brought back alive. But there are exceptions to both."

Sheillene didn't like the assessment. It was both true and fair, so she nodded.

"You kill people?" Aemelia's voice was shrill and she took a step away from Sheillene.

Again, Sheillene nodded. "I have, but I don't like to. That's the biggest aspect that makes the life of a Hunter unappealing. I used to believe that innocent people didn't get themselves into the kind of trouble where someone would want them dead. But, as it turns out, that's not true. In the Guild, anyone can register a bounty and leave anonymous payment at any Guild Hall. Killing just has a minimum price."

"You have to kill people?" Aemelia asked, her voice shook and her eyes were wide open.

"No, Sis," Sheillene said. "I even met with Temistar herself to confirm that I don't have to even be in the Guild to claim myself as her follower. But I do like the money for the bounties that don't involve killing. There is not a requirement to take any type of bounty. I just have to pay dues when I claim any bounty, but those dues are the same as the Guild premium."

Aemelia looked confused. "Did you say you spoke with a goddess?"

"We all talk to the gods," her mother said. "But, I get the distinct impression from Sheillene that the goddess spoke back to her."

"I found her for the same reason I came home. I wanted to know which direction to follow," Sheillene said. "A part of me was hoping she'd forsake me and force me out of the life of a Hunter and into the life of a bard. She just told me I could do whatever I chose."

"Why do you have to choose?" Aemelia asked. "You mentioned travel in both professions as something positive. So, travel. Let your Hunting choose your directions and let your music choose where you stay at night. It doesn't seem like the two professions are opposed in any way. Why can't you do both?"

Sheillene stared at her sister, stunned. She'd never considered both as an option. She'd just seen her life as a choice, but not only did the two lifestyles not interfere with each other, there were potential ways they could complement each other.

She grabbed her bow and lute and hopped up from the table and over to her sister. "Aemelia, I love you."

Sheillene was headed for the door, eager to start her new life without excluding a life she loved, when her mother yelled, "Stop!"

Sheillene turned and looked back. Her mother stood from the table and pointed at the door. "You don't even think of leaving until you've had at least one home cooked dinner."

Sheepishly, Sheillene walked back and put her lute and bow back on the table. "I suppose I could stay for a night, or maybe a week, or two." Her new life would be there for her.

# CHAPTER SEVEN: ULTIMATE CLOSURE

Almost two decades had passed since Sheillene found her way to enjoy both of her professions. She played her lute on a large stage in an auditorium in Fork. Everyone in the audience had paid to see her.

Usually her stage was in the corner of a taproom where people went primarily to drink. That night, the beer was sparse, and all the glazed eyes in the audience were in response to her ballads instead of whiskey. One pair of glazed eyes stood out from the rest. A pair she recognized and had hoped to never see again.

Taren Mason swayed, caught in the same rapture as the rest of the audience. Sheillene struggled to maintain the calm of the soothing ballad, though the rapid beating of her heart threatened to drown out the rhythm of her chords. She stopped singing and just played, knowing her voice would betray her.

It had been Taren who had blackened her impression of her guild when he killed her friend's parents and her unborn sibling. He'd tried to hide his involvement, but Sheillene knew who had collected the bounty. Seeing Taren alive cast a shadow on her soul. The darkness that his ilk brought to her other profession as a Hunter made her nauseous.

She reminded herself that she'd invited him. Not directly, of course. She created a single posting offering a bounty on her own head and she'd posted it at a hall that she'd heard he'd been seen frequenting. Her revulsion was slowly replaced by relief as she realized that she wouldn't have to deal with any other Hunter's taking bait that wasn't meant for them. Taren, as all Hunters do, would have torn the posting from the wall, both to serve as a reminder and to prevent other Hunters from trying to jump his claim.

With a flourish that brought a collective sigh from the audience, Sheillene finished her show. She took a few slow bows then departed the stage. She didn't want to rush, but Taren would be after her and she didn't want him to catch up to her, yet.

She packed her lute carefully into its hardened leather case, grabbed her sword, and slipped out the back door. She didn't pause to strap the sword to her belt, but she did make sure it was loose in the scabbard as she ran down the alley. She heard footsteps behind her. After so many years, Taren still had a faster left gait than right. She didn't have to look back.

"Sheillene," Taren called to her. "I'm not here to hunt you."

She didn't believe him. She wanted to. Part of her yearned for the simple life of hunting with her partner and mentor, but the man she had known as her mentor had been an illusion—perhaps a delusion. He'd taught her to kill for money. He'd given her the justification to make it seem acceptable. But it had been a lie. Sometimes innocent people did cross paths with the kind of people who would kill on a whim.

Dodging down a side alley, she sprinted just a little faster. She didn't look back, but Taren usually had a crossbow with him. She didn't want to give him an easy shot. Images of her as a child flashed into her mind. Taren stood at her side, like a father, teaching her how to hold her bow. The man in her memories was a good man, a friend and teacher. The man behind her was a cold-blooded killer. She couldn't reconcile that they were the same man.

If he wasn't there to collect the bounty, how did he know about it? Taren wouldn't pass up the chance; Sheillene had put the price too high to pass over. For half that amount, Taren had killed a pregnant woman. It was more than enough to convince him to kill a friend – if he knew what a friend was.

Fifty more paces and Sheillene jogged to the right. The alley came to a dead end just four paces deep. Sheillene noticed her bow still hidden in the shadows, already strung. Three arrows leaned against the wall beside it. She hadn't heard Taren's bowstring. She hadn't given him any good shots, but he would have taken a bad shot from behind if he thought he'd get another chance. Sheillene guessed he didn't have his crossbow with him, so she left her bow where it lay. She set her lute on the ground beside it.

Pulling a knife from her boot, she tucked it into her belt behind her back. Taren's footsteps grew closer. She stepped away from the corner and held her sheathed sword, ready to draw, but she didn't draw it.

Taren popped around the corner, his crossbow leading. Sheillene grabbed by the end of the bow and yanked. The bolt flew wide of her as the crossbow came free of Taren's grip. She tossed it onto a pile of refuse by a nearby door.

"Nice move," Taren said as he stepped back out of Sheillene's sword's reach. "You know I only came to warn you that there was a bounty out for you." He slowly reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a rolled piece if parchment. "Look at this if you don't believe me." He tossed the parchment on the ground near Sheillene's feet.

Expecting the attempt at distraction, Sheillene didn't follow the posting as it bounced across her boots. "Do you always come with a fully loaded crossbow to chat with old friends?"

With a shrug and a glance to the sky, Taren said, "I guess you know me better than I'd hoped. This isn't going to be an easy job." He reached for his sword.

Sheillene stepped back and drew her own. "With either a bow or blade, I'm better than you."

"True, if you had the heart for this kind of work," Taren stepped forward. "I figure you'll remember who gave you that blade and lose the will to kill your old partner." He swung playfully at Sheillene. He was still too far to reach her.

She let the tip of his sword pass by in front of her. "I'll be happy to give this back to you." She lunged, though she knew her sword would not bite deep enough to kill unless he stepped forward.

He stepped back and batted her blade to the side. "It seems we are both being sloppy. Perhaps we should chat less. I have a bounty to collect. It's really nothing personal."

"I'm glad you see it that way," Sheillene said. "I, too, am collecting a bounty. But this is definitely personal." She closed with him and their blades both rang in a frenzy of slashes and parries. She'd been wrong in her assessment of Taren. He was better than her. She realized it would be just a matter of time before he'd take full control of the fight. Then he'd drag it out to humiliate her. She'd seen him do it before to people he was about to kill.

Rather than let it go on until she was too exhausted, she let her sword fly from her hand on a parry. She leapt back.

As she expected, he didn't jump after her. He walked over to stand between her and her sword then slowly walked closer. "You and I both know that neither of us are innocents," he said. "We've both taken our share of gold for the lives of people that may or may not have deserved it."

Sheillene nodded, stepping back to a wall. She knew the wall would hinder her defense, but she needed him to feel more confident, more foolish. "I've killed for gold since our paths have parted," She said. It was actually a lie. She hadn't collected a single kill bounty in two decades, but she didn't want to appear as an adversary any longer. She wanted him to see her as a helpless victim. She slowly reached down towards her boot.

"Don't think about that knife in your boot, girl." Taren smacked his sword against the alley wall. "I'll make this painless once you tell me something."

Sheillene hadn't expected him to want anything from her beyond some begging and possibly a scream of pain or two. "What do you need to know?" she asked.

"In your whole life, was any man more of a father to you than I?"

"No," She answered. She'd had another mentor, in another profession. But despite everything Thomas taught her about entertaining crowds and playing her lute, he'd never been a father figure. Taren had been there when she was a child and taught her to be strong and how to take care of herself. If he'd just step closer, she could pull the knife from behind her back and show him what he'd taught her.

Taren nodded, "I loved you like I'd love a daughter if I had one. I love you still." He lowered his sword and stepped over to Sheillene's bow. He set his sword down and picked up the bow and a single arrow. "If you think like I do, you have a knife tucked behind your belt or up a sleeve. You won't need it. I do have a daughter, you know: Your sister."

"You know about her?" Sheillene said before she could think to deny the claim.

"I've watched her grow up," he said. "I've seen her work her magic with the land and the plants and the beasts. She gets that from my mother, you know. Earth magic runs in my family."

"Are you going to shoot me with my own bow?" Sheillene asked.

Taren laughed and stepped back closer to her, just far enough away that she couldn't draw the knife and plunge it into his heart. "No, you're going to shoot me. You're good with a sword, but so much better with this." He held out the bow and arrow toward her.

She reached out and took them, surprised he let go as she did so.

He said, "I trust you to make it quicker with that." He stepped to the end of the alley and turned to the side. He held up a finger to just below his ear. "Just like I taught you: right here. Sever my spine."

Carefully nocking the arrow, Sheillene asked him, "Why?"

"I'm done," he said. "I'm not the man I want to be anymore. I had three chances to put a crossbow bolt in your back as I chased you and I couldn't do it. Tell your sister the truth about me, if she asks. I have a house in the city of Fork. It's on the north corner of Brewery Road and Estelle Street. The key is in the rain barrel, under a false bottom."

Sheillene pulled back her bow and aimed behind the artery for the spine. "Are you sure?"

Taren nodded.

Sheillene dropped her aim and shot the arrow into the ground behind Taren's feet. "There," she said. "Taren Mason is dead. You were right. I don't know who you are, but Taren would have killed me." She walked over and picked up her weapons.

"Thank you, stranger," Taren said. He walked out of the alley, leaving Taren Mason dead in the dirt.

In later years the man did not remain a stranger to Sheillene, but Taren Mason was never seen or heard from again.

# OTHER STORIES FROM THE WORLD OF MEALTH

# FORTUNE FAVORS THE FOOL

Tali followed Kohr into the tiny tavern. Kohr immediately bellowed, "Who's got the dice?"

It'd been the same in every village. Tali had never met anyone as boisterous as Kohr, nor anyone as gregarious. Kohr found some men willing to dice against him for small amounts of coin. Kohr won but spent half the money buying drinks for anyone who would listen to his tales. The tales were Tali's interest. Tali sat close by and wrote down every word that came out of Kohr's inebriated mouth.

The man had endless tales of how he outwitted, outmaneuvered, out gambled or out drank every monster of legend and every villain in history. Never did he tell a tale twice and never did he fight. According to Kohr, he won through audacity and ignorance and every tale ended with Kohr smiling and announcing, "Fortune favors the fool."

Tali had been accompanying the fool for two seasons and had never seen him encounter a foe more daunting than flat beer. After Kohr bought the third round of drinks for the dozen other people in the small tavern and finished a tale where he convinced minotaur to tie its own hooves together with its tail, an older man approached him.

"I am Jenks. I am the elder of the village. We need a hero like you."

Kohr blinked and jerked his head. "Oh?"

"As you walked through our village, did you notice anything odd?"

Kohr seemed confused but Tali, thinking back, noticed that there were no women. He voiced his guess.

"Your follower noticed our dilemma," Jenks said.

Kohr's face began to show concern. Tali wasn't sure if the big guy was worried about the village's lack of women or his own.

"Why? Do you hide your women?" Kohr asked.

"We tried," Jenks said sadly. "When they started to disappear last season we tried to keep them safely indoors and guarded, but still they disappeared. None of us knew where. Thirty women gone without even a footprint in the dirt. Finally, three weeks ago, we found a note nailed to our well. It said to send our champion to the Eyes of Fire and, if the champion faced the challenge, the women would be returned to us."

"What are the Eyes of Fire?" Tali asked.

"They are two indentions on the cliff face down the river at a waterfall. At midnight every night they glow brightly for an hour." Jenks said.

"Did your champion go?"

"He did." Jenks pointed to a dark table in the corner. A lone man with shoulders broader than Tali had ever seen sat slumped over a pitcher of beer. "He won't talk about it anymore. He mentioned a demon and an unholy game of chance."

"I'll go." Kohr said. "If he came back, so will I, but I will win. Fortune favors the fool."

"It's down the river on the north bank." Jenks led Kohr to the door and Tali followed. Tali and Kohr went out and followed the river to a cliff face. A man dressed in red silk robes stood by two dark indentions in the cliff face.

"Do you come to face the challenge? Do you come to rescue the thirty women of the village?" the red-robed man asked.

"Maybe," Kohr replied. "What do I need to do?"

"There are two eyes. Stand in one of them. At midnight they will flare up, one will burn hot, the other will burn cool."

"The women get set free either way." Kohr stated. "Your requirement was that I face the challenge, not defeat it."

"If you both face the challenge, the women will be set free," the robed man said.

"But one of us will die," Tali said. "Why do you do this? What kind of evil are you."

The red robed man looked away from Tali. "I am evil, but not by choice. I require sacrifice as sustenance, but I can only take life when it is given."

"Thirty lives make it worth it." Kohr said, as he climbed the cliffs to stand in one of the Eyes, Tali heard him whisper, "Fortune favors the fool."

"Thirty lives for one," Tali pondered. "I'm not a hero. What if I do not choose to participate?"

"The challenge has been accepted," the red robed figure said. He waved his hand towards Tali and a force threw Tali up into the other Eye.

Tali tried, but could not move his arms or legs. "I can't move."

"Me either," Kohr said. "I am sorry, Tali. I liked having you along to write down my stories."

Tali sighed and intoned, "Fortune favors the fool." He hoped death would be swift and painless. He panicked as he realized that his book of Kohr's stories was in the pack slung across his back; two seasons of following that fool around and the world had nothing gained from it. Then the flames appeared all around him dancing in red and orange light. Tali did not feel any pain or even heat. He heard a deep brief scream from Kohr. A moment later Tali could move. He leaned out of the eye in time to see Kohr's body burn away to ashes.

The red-robed man clapped his hands once. "The women are back in the village."

"But..."

"What you said was true," The robed figure said, "Fortune favors the fool."

"But, Kohr was the fool."

"Who is the greater fool--the fool or the fool that follows him?" The red robed man laughed.

"That can't be why." Tali wondered if he'd been a fool all along for following Kohr around, hoping for stories he could add to his own repertoire.

The red robed man shrugged. "No, not really, but it makes for a better story than realizing that I can only consume that which is willingly given and of the two of you, you were not standing in the fire by choice." He then clapped his hands and was gone.

Tali took out his book and started to write the one story of Kohr that he hadn't heard from the boastful fool's mouth.

About this story:

Tali in this story is Taliesion, who appears in "Of Maia's Mist" and "Piper...".

This story was inspired by a writing contest for April Fool's Day, where the theme was "Fortune Favors the Fool". It won unanimously.

# PLAYING THE HERO

The solitude of the canyon always bothered Taliesion. As an entertainer, he preferred places where people gathered; more precisely he preferred places where people gathered to watch him. Traveling from inn to inn, Tali learned to pick the out-of-the-way places that would be less likely to have another bard competing for stage time. Having been a journeyman, he'd be forced to cede the stage to any master bard. Most of those out-of-the-way inns would have to deal with less of Taliesion. His mentor had graduated him, making him a master of his craft. The Inn at Dragon's Tear would be the only backwater hovel Tali would ever play again.

Though he enjoyed the inn's broiled black trout, he wouldn't spend two days on the road from the next nearest village for that. He visited Dragon's Tear twice a season to spend time with Lori, the most beautiful woman in the world.

He rounded the last bend in the canyon and brightened to see Lori waiting for him at the gates to the village. He stopped in his tracks when he noticed the spear in her hands and her defensive stance. She relaxed her stance and shouted to him, "Tali!" Dropping the spear, she ran over and jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist. She kissed him quickly then pulled him into a tight hug.

"Hi, Lori," Tali gasped. "Who were you expecting?"

"Orrick." Lori said.

"Orrick?" Tali had not heard the name before.

"He's a cowardly leader of a small group of bandits who are trying to extort money from us. We refused and he attacked. Rob and Darryl both got cut pretty bad and Gus is dead. But we killed two of the bastards. Orrick saw them die and ordered a retreat."

"You got lucky, it seems," said Tali.

"I know." Lori hopped down to stand before Tali. "I expect him to come back. He knows we are defenseless now. The gate is broken and without Gus we have no smith to fix the hinges."

Peering past Lori, he saw the gate leaning against the fence; the iron hinges had been bent and torn from the wood. "Why couldn't the bandits have shown up over the summer when the Inn is packed with nobles and their guards?"

"I said he was a coward," Lori jested dryly. "I didn't say he was an idiot. He wants the brandy among other things."

"Brandy can't be worth your lives."

"The other things he wanted include me."

"Bloody hell," Tali screamed, suddenly feeling a need to defy the bandits. "Get Rob and Darryl down here. Together we will stop Orrick."

"Rob has a broken leg and Darryl lost his right arm." She pointed to her bicep, showing Tali where.

"How many bandits are there?" Tali asked, setting Lori down.

"There were a dozen," Lori said. "Now there's two less."

"But three men held them off, and killed two of them in the process?" Tali wondered how disorganized the bandits had to be to lose a fight despite having such numbers. Of the villagers, only Gus had had any formal training with weapons.

"Yes, but we don't have three men who can fight anymore," Lori said. "We're a small village and most men head to the city when they come of age and come back here when all they have left to do in life is drink brandy. Of the women, I'm the only one strong enough to hold a weapon that doesn't have children to care for."

Tali walked over and picked up the spear. It was a boar hunting spear, not designed for combat. "What makes you think the bandits are coming back today?"

"We can watch their camp from the ridge," Lori pointed to a trail of smoke up the mountain. "We have a couple boys up there keeping watch. The smoke means the bandits are coming."

His hand falling on the rapier at his hip, Tali knew what he had to do. The rapier was pretty but had been made to be functional. That day he would see how well it functioned. "Take the villagers up the western slope, hide in the trees."

"I can fight by your side," Lori said.

"I have a plan. Don't worry, I'll be fine." It was a lie. Tali's plan wouldn't end well for him. "Stay up there, stay quiet, whatever becomes of me." Tali kissed her goodbye.

"Stay with us." Lori begged him.

"I'll be fine." Tali walked to where the canyon opened to the valley around the lake. He watched Lori gather a couple dozen villagers and herd them up the slopes.

His knuckles whitened as Taliesion continued to try to tighten his grip on his rapier. "I'm not meant for this!" Tali whispered to the sky. He wanted to scream but knew his voice would echo on the canyon walls. "I'm a minstrel, not a hero."

He remembered the stories he told and how one person frequently held off hoards of evil in the name of justice and protecting the innocent. Those heroes had been extremely well trained warriors. Tali, on the other hand, had never trained beyond the pointers of occasional traveling companions. He could remember each of the three battles he had been in. He'd only survived by staying close to some of the people he told stories about. His blade had never drawn blood.

Katriene, the Battle-Queen of Norda, Prince Reginald or even the boastful lug Kuhr, or any of the other heroes in his stories would not have a problem defeating the dozen marauders coming up the canyon. Those heroes, at least the ones that were still alive, were days away and not aware that Tali stood alone. Even heroes had their last stands. Feeling pretty sure his first and last would be the same, Tali steeled his jaw and his fencing guard stance. He then remembered Katriene's advice to him, "Keep your knees loose. Footwork is everything." He stepped out of his guard and walked around, flexing his knees.

He tried to come up with a better plan; one that didn't leave him dead at the end. Kuhr, if the late fools stories were to be believed, was once in a similar situation. He'd convinced half of an ambushing group of highwaymen to fight on his side, to be fair and even out the fight. He'd then convinced the remaining highwaymen to strip off their armor, so they could tell the sides apart. Tali liked the story, but didn't think it would work in any reality outside of Kuhr's mind.

The plan Tali had was the only one that he could think of that wouldn't require divine intervention. He hoped that before he died that he could wound one or two of the marauders seriously enough that they would not be able to stay in the valley long enough to find the villagers.

Footsteps echoed off the canyon walls. They were not marching but they were stepping in unison as people did when walking together. He listened for laughter but heard none. Odd, he thought. Whenever he had been with men heading into battle, someone would be joking or they would be singing; anything to distract them from the doom of battle. But, these marauders were silent. Tali pondered that until the marauders rounded the last bend in the canyon and came into sight.

They closed their sloppy formation when they saw him. Most of the men carried woodsmen axes but a couple had swords or spears. None of the marauders wore more than animal skins for armor. As they got closer, they slowed down.

Tali wondered if he would rather be wearing chain armor than his bright blue and yellow traveling leathers. It would only make his death more lingering, he decided. At least he would die quickly. With a deep breath, he held his sword out, pointing at the marauder leading the pack.

The leader stopped twenty feet from Taliesion, his followers clumping behind him, bumping into each other. Tali counted only a couple more than a handful, not the ten he'd been expecting.

"Who are you?" The marauder asked.

"I am Taliesion Willowgrove." Tali said, keeping his voice low to mask the tremble of fear. "I'm here to stop you."

The marauder turned to a larger man behind him, "The name sounds familiar. Who is he?"

The larger man nodded, "I've heard of him too, but I don't know from where."

Talision couldn't help but smile. He knew they had probably heard of him because as a bard, he was not the most famous, but he was known in most cities where he traveled. He didn't want to give the marauders time to figure it out. He wanted to use what intimidation he could to his advantage. It would assure he did some damage before he died.

"Are you going to move closer so I can kill you or are you going to leave?" Tali asked. He kept his voice slow and even, not to be intimidating but to maintain control over his tone. He could feel tremors of terror in his throat and in every joint and muscle of his body. He strained to keep them from showing.

The leader, whom Tali assumed to be Orrick, stepped forward two steps then stopped. "Is this some kind of trap?" He looked up at the trees on the valley wall. "Are there archers?"

"I am alone," Tali said. He dropped his left hand low and quickly gestured holding up two fingers then one then three. He wanted it to appear that he was hiding his hand but failing.

"Tam," the leader said to the large man behind him. "Kill that." He pointed at Tali and stepped aside for the larger man to pass. Tam approached slowly carrying a plain looking sword heavier but shorter than Tali's rapier.

Tali tried to think of what moves Reginald would use to ensure that he won quickly. Reginald would charge forward and slam his shield into his opponent and hack their leg as they stumbled. Tali didn't have a shield or much body mass to put behind one. So far, the meeting with the thugs had been all bluff on his part. The large man approaching him seemed well muscled and fit. He was probably fast too. Knowing he'd only get one swing, Tali decided to maintain the strategy of ruses. He waited until the man was two steps away then leapt into a lunge. He held back his blade, however, and when Tam parried where Tali's blade should have been, Tali thrust past the large man's sword, cutting deep into the side of Tam's throat. Tali hopped back as the big man fell.

"Who's next?" Tali said, he was forced to growl between his teeth to keep from squeaking. The marauders were beginning to build some space between them. The rear ranks seemed a little farther away.

"Rog, get him." The leader said, not looking back at his men.

"Can't we just all charge him?" One of the marauders wielding a woodsman's axe asked.

"My orders are not open to debate." The marauder leader yelled; his voice cracked finishing in a little bit of a whine.

Tali held up a hand all five fingers out. He then pulled in his thumb, then, making sure the marauders were watching, pulled in his forefinger. It was the only way he could think to keep the pressure going without engaging in combat.

"Forget this," the leader said to his men. "Let's get out of here, now!"

The rear marauders were already walking away when the rest started retreating. Swishing his rapier with a flick of his wrist, Tali stepped towards the leader.

With what Tali could only describe as a girlish whimper, Orrick dropped his sword and ran so fast that he passed every one of his men. They also dropped their weapons and matched their leader's pace.

Tali stopped, watching the men flee. As the last of them disappeared around the bend of the canyon, Tali fell to his knees and threw up.

About this story:

This one is just a little too world specific with too many Mealth references to stand on its own. Notice the Kuhr reference to the prior story, "Fortune Favors the Fool."

People who haven't read "The Nightstone" or "Of Maia's Mist" should re-read this after reading those. It will it just a tad more fun.

# STEALING FOR MORE

For an Abvi, Lord Gehethrin had spoken in exceptionally ineloquent terms. Pantros laughed as the idiot stormed out of the Haughty Hedgehog. James, the lame Matderi who worked as the doorman, even had a smile on his face. Pantros couldn't remember the last time he could perceive a smile through those whiskers. James had probably heard the whole conversation since Pantros had chosen the booth closest to the door to meet with the Abvi. The innkeeper came out from behind the bar and strolled over to sit across from Pantros.

"What's up, sis?" Pantros asked, rolling his blue eyes.

"What did the Abvi want?" Tara, the innkeep, asked. She had raised Pantros for the last nine years since their parents had disappeared on a ship rounding the southern peninsula. She didn't look much like her brother except for their noses. Tara had dark brown hair and deep brown eyes while Pantros' hair was much lighter, nearly blonde and he had blue eyes. He had looked like their mother while Tara inherited most of her looks from their father.

"To hire me," Pantros shrugged like it had been the most insane idea he had ever heard.

"You were offered a job?" Tara laughed. "I can't even get you to help around our family's inn. Why would you work for a stranger? What kind of work was it, anyway?" Tara asked.

"The kind I'm good at." Pantros replied defensively. "And he offered me four hundred gold coins to do it."

"You don't steal things for other people." Tara said tentatively then asked, "Do you?"

"Would he have left screaming obscenities at me if I did?" Pantros explained, shaking his head. "Why would I risk my ass to steal something so that I can hand it over to someone else for a fraction of its value?"

"I don't get why you steal at all." Tara declared. "I never have approved and I never will. You should take up an honest profession. I know Allen the net mender would apprentice you anytime you asked. He and dad were close friends. Your nimble fingers would probably excel at sewing nets."

"I haven't stolen anything since Bryan left town last month." Pantros claimed.

"You can't lie to me, Pan," announced Tara. "I know that if anything you have been even busier. Funny, I always blamed Bryan for the trouble the two of you always got in. Now it seems that big oaf actually might have been a good influence."

"I'm almost an adult." Pantros said. "I can take care of myself."

"I do everything I can to raise you to respect hard work and you go off and become a pick pocket and burglar." Tara sighed.

James hobbled over and thumped the war hammer, which doubled as a crutch, on the floor. "Miss Tara, you done everything right." The Matderi declared gruffly, nearly coughing up his words. "Your brother is a fine man. He just discovered that his talents seemed to lie just a little outside the normal career choices. He don't steal from people that can't afford to lose it or at least don't deserve to lose it. The boy is good, too. I only know one man who could catch him and he'll be guarding the door with me after dinner."

Tara nodded and chuckled. "Are you admitting that Bouncer is a better bouncer than you?"

"Of course he is." James said incredulously, like it should have been obvious. "The guy is named Bouncer; he's gonna be the best at it. But, I don't see Pantros when he is stealing the stuff back from the common thieves in the taproom. Bouncer will see it though. He'll tap me on the shoulder and nod toward the boy. 'Did you see that?' Bouncer will ask and I'll nod but I don't see nothing but the boy standing there like he's leering at the barmaids. Then Pan walks away and Bouncer laughs and I laugh 'cause I know the boy just robbed a robber blind but though I watched the whole thing, I never saw squat. I tell ya, If anyone else ever actually catches Pantros, I'll eat my hammer."

"Thanks, James." Tara said. "You wouldn't have said a word of Bouncer being better than you if there were even one customer in the tap room with us, would you?"

"The conversation never happened," James coughed. "I know you know what I mean."

"Right," Tara said. "I never heard any of it from you."

"Would they kick you out of the Matderi club for showing an ounce of modesty?" Pantros asked.

James scoffed and walked back to his stool by the door.

"You are gonna steal what he wanted you to steal and keep it for yourself, aren't you?" Tara asked her brother.

"There is this sword that the Abvi said used to belong to the first King of Valencia." Pantros explained. "The Abvi said he located this ancient Abvi heirloom in the collection of the Lord of the Tarred Decks clan and he wants me to get it back."

"You don't know how to use a sword." Tara said, "Why would you steal one?"

"Just because I don't own a sword, doesn't mean I don't know how to use one." Pantros defended. "I just don't want to own one. Carrying a weapon invites opportunities to use it. I am not as fond of fighting as, say, Bryan was."

§

Clinging to the black stone wall with one hand and both feet, Pantros pulled a small oil soaked cloth from a belt pouch. He liberally scrubbed oil into the hinges of the window next to him. Replacing the cloth, he pulled out a fishing hook on two yards of line. He slowly forced the hook between the top of the window and the wall with a tiny iron rod then forced more and more of the line through until the hook hung just below the latch. He waited for the spin on the line to bring the hook to face the right way then tugged gently. The hook wrapped around the latch. With a slow pull, Pantros lifted the latch and pulled the window open. He sighed silently in relief as no sound came from the hinges.

Pantros had to climb down around the opened pane, and he barely managed to fit into the opening, but a moment later he stood on the floor of a very dusty room.

He had chosen the window because during the last three nights, the window had not shown any signs of illumination after dark. The flickering candlelight had faded from the other windows three hours earlier so Pantros felt sure that everyone would be sleeping except the guards posted at the front door.

Though the dust covering everything in the room meant that his entrance would not be noticed; Pantros did not like it. It meant he would leave a trail. That would not do at all. Already his soft boots had left four footprints on the floorboards and his gloves had left distinct hand shapes on the windowsill. He pulled the black scarf from his head and began brushing the dust up wildly. Carefully he backed towards the door, slapping the dust up behind him, obliterating the footprints, but leaving a less distinctive trail in the dust.

After oiling the hinges he opened the door into a long hallway that was dimly lit by a few candle sconces along the wall. He crept carefully through the hall. The lord kept his collection in a windowless room on the floor below. Pantros had a few ideas on how he would get there. Looking down a flight of stairs, he knew that his primary plan would have to be scrapped. Two guardsmen sat in the room at the bottom of the stairs and Pantros didn't come prepared to fight his way in or out. Fighting wasn't his style. He preferred the anonymity and the safety of the shadows. Creeping back down the hall, he estimated where the room would be on the first floor and sought a room above it. Carefully he entered the room, quickly noticing the figure sleeping in the bed several feet away. Just as quickly he noticed the laundry chute door. Slowly he crawled to the panel door on the wall. Peering inside he realized the fir would be tight, but he was slim enough. Slipping into the chute feet first, he used his knees and back to slowly descend. A dim light from the basement gave him enough light to see, but only barely. Unfortunately the chute did not have an opening into the collection room. Pantros would have to make one. Drawing a flat throwing knife, he slowly pried a board from the side of the chute. He took enough time and care to not make a sound. After wedging the board across the chute above him, he realized he still had the room wall to deal with. Luckily the room was wood paneled and not plastered. Once he had two more boards off, he could fit into the room.

Pantros realized one problem he hadn't planned on. The room, having no windows, also had no light. Having trained his eyes, he could see by dim moonlight, but complete darkness intimidated him. He considered abandoning the job, but remembered spending the last hour prying boards and felt the effort should result in some reward.

He closed his eyes, deciding that anything they did see would be nothing more than hallucination. On his hands and knees he began exploring the room. Twenty minutes later, he knew that there were five pedestals and two display tables. Ten more minutes and he had identified seven wall displays, none of which would be the Abvi sword. Sure he had found four swords on the wall, but those had been matched pairs displayed crossed and the sword he sought would not have a match.

He ran through the image of the room that he had in his mind and quickly eliminated most of the pedestals and both tables. He walked carefully to where he remembered the largest pedestal to be and slowly began to feel for whatever the Trader Lord had displayed atop it. He found a sword in a vertical display, but not the rapier he had expected of an Abvi blade. The sword was a single edged broadsword with a heavily gem inlaid hilt and cross guard. Hoping he had chosen the correct weapon he slipped the blade from the display and moved back towards the opening in the wall.

Back inside the wall he hesitated. Braced with his knees and his back he held the sword in front of him with the point dangling between his legs. He didn't like the position but he couldn't think of a better one. He couldn't decide whether to ascend or descend. Above had a familiarity to it but the boards still blocked the chute. Thinking that there might be a servants' access or at least a coal chute in the basement, he opted for downward. Listening carefully, he didn't hear any signs of people so he dropped the last ten feet, careful to hold the blade away from him and high so it didn't clang against the floor. A small pile of laundry gave him an uneven landing and he nearly fell but he caught himself with his free hand, his other hand held the brilliant sword over his head.

In the light of a lantern hanging at the bottom of a stairwell, he could see that he had chosen the correct weapon. The blade seemed over a yard in length beyond the cross guard and was so heavily decorated with golden runes he might not have noticed the silvery steel that gave the weapon its strength. Sea blue gems covered almost half of the golden cross guard and hilt. He had never even heard of a sword so beautiful.

Realizing that the weapon had dazzled him, he looked away, looking for the coal chute. Not seeing any furnaces or ovens, he realized the coal must be up with the kitchen if at all. He did notice the servants' door. Cautiously opening it, he saw the back of one of the house guards standing by the door. Holding his breath, he closed the door, when he heard the squeak of the doorknob; he knew the guard had too. He dove into a large pile of laundry.

He heard the door open and close and footsteps approach the laundry pile. He had only one chance. Pantros thrashed about wildly, pulling a white smock over his clothes, tearing the thong that held his ponytail in place away as he did. As expected, a hand grabbed him by the smock and yanked him from the laundry.

"Help!" Pantros screamed, flopping as much of his hair as he could in his face then looked at the guard and sighed, relieved, "Oh, it's you. Thank the gods!"

"What?" asked the guard.

"A dark haired man in black leather came down while I was gathering the linens and hit me, then threw me in the laundry pile. I saw him open and close the back door before swearing and running upstairs. I think he had on of the Lord's swords from his collection with him: a big shiny one with lots of gold."

"Damn!" the guard swore and ran up the stairs. "I'll send someone to look at your head after we catch that thief."

Pantros quickly looked through the laundry and dug out the Abvi blade. A second later he was running as fast as he could across the lord's grounds. He heard a bell begin to ring near the front door and just ran faster, clearing the seven-foot wall with a vault, he felt lucky not to twist an ankle on the landing. Moments later he found safety in the shadows of the back alleys by the docks.

§

"What time is it?" Pantros screamed from his bed to the person knocking at his door. It felt far too early to open his eyes.

"Two hours before noon." His sister called back. "Get up, there is someone to see you at the bar."

Far too early, he thought but struggled to his feet anyway. He tied his hair up without brushing it and headed downstairs wearing just the flannel pants that he slept in. He grabbed the Abvi blade from where it leaned by his door as he left. Somehow, he suspected that he knew who awaited him.

When he saw the uppity Abvi sitting at the bar, he smiled. He had guessed right. "Good morning," he greeted Lord Gehethrin groggily and set the sword on the bar between them.

"I thought you didn't take the job." The Abvi said.

"I didn't," informed Pantros. "I found this sword during my social calls last night and thought I might keep it. I suppose I might be persuaded to sell it for the right price."

"We agreed on four hundred gold." The Abvi argued.

"No," Pantros noted, "we didn't agree. And now that I see this sword I realize that I could have purchased a lesser blade for twelve hundred just a month ago."

"Fine, twelve hundred," The Abvi conceded.

"I said a lesser sword," Pantros clarified, "That makes me think this one is worth more; perhaps twice that."

"Two thousand," The Abvi countered, gritting his teeth.

"Sold to the red faced Abvi," announced Pantros as he slid the blade across the bar, setting it against the Abvi's hand.

The Abvi made a gesture and two other Abvi that Pantros hadn't noticed walked over, lugging a small oak and brass chest. With a thud, they set it on a stool next to the Abvi Pantros was dealing with. He opened the chest and pulled out five leather bags. Each of the bags seemed the size of a five-pound flour sack, but they chinked and clunked much heavier as the Abvi placed them in front of Pantros. By the effort the two servant Abvi made when they left with chest, Pantros realized he could have easily held out for twice as much. It didn't bother him. Two thousand gold for one night's work made last night more profitable than the entirety of the last year. He set the bags on the floor behind the bar.

"Let me know if you need anything else," Pantros offered his hand to Lord Gehethrin.

The Abvi took it and smiled, clearly feeling he had made a good deal. "I will."

About this story:

Pantros and Bouncer exist or are mentioned in all of my published books. This is the only step-by-step example of Pantros at work that I have written. The one thing I don't want to write is the "How to be a burglar" book. I want my readers to think I did, however.

# FALL OF THE HEDGEHOG

Everyone called him Bouncer. He didn't look like a doorman. A doorman would dress finer than a black leather vest that didn't even have buttons. If it had, they wouldn't be enough to hold the vest closed when Bouncer inhaled. His well toned muscles helped him intimidate people and intimidated people didn't start trouble in The Inn of the Haughty Hedgehog. The other doorman, a lame Matderi named James, stood across the doorway using a scarred warhammer as a crutch. They both watched the throngs of people in the streets with wary eyes.

Dale, the cook, stepped up beside bouncer. He poked his head out the door then said, "It seems to get worse every day. Just a month ago we'd be starting to gather a crowd for lunch about now."

"No one wants to leave their houses for fear of running into one of the mobs. Wear red and the Goldenwind supporters will beat you down, Wear yellow and the Redsail supporters will string you up. Wear neither and both will harass you. I haven't seen any of the Green Tabards in a few days."

Bouncer hadn't either. He'd been doing his best to stay current on the rumors, though. He filled Dale in. "The docks are Goldenwind territory now that they tore down The Bear Pit for flying a Redsail Banner. House Seadust still controls the warehouse district. That whole area is green. The Reds own the markets, but I think their days are numbered."

"We gonna join the Goldenwinds?" James asked. "Or are we still waiting for Tara's response."

"It's not my Inn," Dale said. "I don't really want to take sides anyway. We'll support whoever wins, but I can't declare for the Inn, that has to be Tara's call."

"I don't like Goldenwind," James said. "They are nothing but a bunch of thugs. Lots of muscle but no brains. Not that Seadust or Redsail are better. I'm not really supporting the pansy yellow-bellied tactic of not taking sides, but given the sides to take, I can only declare for the Inn.

"House Hedgehog?" Bouncer asked. "I don't think we'd get the support we need to compete at this point. I think the war is already over and the city won't figure it out until a few thousand more people are killed."

"Really?" Dale asked. "Who do you think is winning."

"Looking out on the street here, all I see are yellow tabards and yellow banners." Bouncer nodded towards a large mob of men all wearing the colors of Goldenwind. "This area, the docks district, is the heart of a port city. Goldenwind can cut off the goods to the warehouses and then its just a matter of time before the people start coming to the docks and buying their goods seaside. It's not the most efficient way to handle trade, but it will starve out Redsail and Seadust."

"So we should side with Goldenwind?" Dale asked.

"I don't like them, either." Bouncer folded his arms across his chest. "I think the city as we know it is headed into a bad time. No matter who wins, the known supporters of the other factions will be punished. I think you're right, Dale. We need to wait it out."

James thumped the floor with the haft of his hammer. "I'm all with you on that, Bouncer, I ain't wearing no yellow or any other tabard. No Matderi serves a human."

"Don't you work for Tara?" Bouncer asked. "She's human."

"I don't work for no one." The Matderi held the head of his hammer under Bouncer's nose. "I come here for the free whiskey and because the company is good."

"Thanks," Bouncer said.

"But you only fill that flagon of yours with water," Dale said. "I've been out of whiskey for a month."

James glared at Dale. "You said you'd never give out my secrets."

"Bouncer didn't know?" Dale said. He glanced at Bouncer.

Bouncer shrugged. Of course he knew. The flagon had never smelled of alcohol and neither had James. But, James had never said anything and had always called it whiskey or rum.

"Did you hear something in the Kitchen?" Dale said with panic in his voice. "Maybe I need to go check on that."

As they watched Dale retreat into the back of the Inn, James said. "No one ever knows. Got it?"

Bouncer said, "I haven't told anyone yet." He looked out on the street to see that the mob with the yellow tabards were heading towards the Inn. He nudged James and nodded toward the Goldenwinds.

One of them that Bouncer recognized as Gerrik, a boatswain from one of Goldenwind's escort galleys, stepped forward.

"I don't see your Goldenwind banner," Gerrik said, standing just outside the always open doorway. "Did the wind take yours? Do you need a new one?"

Bouncer responded as politely as he could, "As much as I personally support Goldenwind and Dale, the manager, supports Goldenwind, we need word from the proprietor before we can officially hang a banner."

"How long will that take?"

"We sent word by ship four weeks ago," Bouncer explained, "if all goes well and the seas are in our favor both ways, we should hear back this time next season."

"The war's gonna be over by then."

Bouncer suspected that was Dale's plan all along. "It may be. I do hope we win."

"You ain't one of us unless you are wearing our colors. If you cannot put up a banner, would you at least wear tabards?"

James hopped out of the doorway and said, "No Matderi has ever served a human and I ain't gonna be the first. We are just running our business here. Take your war to someone who is looking for a fight." For a Matderi, James was on the taller side, nearly as tall as the boson but well over a foot shorter than Bouncer.

"Sounds to me like you're the one looking for a fight, Matderi." Gerrik dropped a hand to the hilt of his sheathed cutlass.

The Matderi scoffed. "I'm four centuries old and I've fought in nine campaigns during the Abvi wars. A rabble of scurvy humans ain't a fight to me." James had shifted his weight and the shod of the warhammer he usually used as a crutch dangled half an inch above the ground. Bouncer moved so that he no longer leaned against the doorframe.

Gerrik drew his cutlass then turned back and shouted at the half dozen men with him, "Boys, show this Ma..."

Bouncer ducked as Gerrik's lower jaw nearly missed his head. Two of Goldenwind's thugs charged, swords in hand, at Bouncer. He waited until they pulled their arms back to swing, then stepped between their swings and backhanded each into the doorframe. Both fell, unconscious, to the street.

James fought like a spent top. His one good leg supported all of his weight as he swung the spike of his warhammer into each of his four remaining opponents. Each swing seemed to be followed by a brief loss of balance which James corrected with a peculiar way of twisting his weapon free. In a heartbeat he had completed a bouncy spin but left none of his attackers standing.

"What're you staring at?" James asked as he stuck his bloodied weapon back under his arm and hobbled back into the inn. "Never seen a lame Matderi fight?"

"No," Bouncer admitted. Fighting had always been his job. James had usually just looked angry and intimidating.

"Well," James said, "You'd better go get Dale, Laura and the rest of the workers. You're going to have to get out of town."

"Are you coming?"

"Them yellow shirts are already gathering across the street. I'll stand at the door and make sure you get a couple minutes to get out the back door safely."

Noticing the crowd of Goldenwind supporters moving across the street, Bouncer turned toward the kitchen. "Meet us at the Backflow Docks."

"I've got one good leg, it's gonna take me a bit. If I'm not there by night fall..."

Bouncer didn't wait for James to finish, he understood. He ran into the kitchen and, grabbing Laura the bartender, crashed through the kitchen doors.

"Goldenwind's against us," Bouncer announced.

Dale dropped a tray of unbaked bread and grabbed his son who sat reading at the prep table. He ran over to the ovens and pulled out a leather sack and tossed it to Bouncer. The weight surprised him, but he managed to keep hold of the bag. By the jingle, he guessed the sack was full of coins. Dale opened the back door and stuck his head out. "I had hoped the fighting I heard a moment ago wasn't us. Where's James."

"Giving us some time," Bouncer replied. "Let's not waste it." As the sounds of battle came from out front, Bouncer glanced towards the door back to the taproom. He wanted to go help James. Surely the Matderi could only handle so many and there were an awful lot of yellow tabards in the street. When he noticed everyone else staring towards the front of the inn, he managed to focus on what he needed to do. He pushed Dale and Laura towards the back door and kept pushing until the three of them were running down the alley. Dale carried his son and Bouncer carried the money.

Four hours later, Bouncer sat on the docks by the Backflow River. No one had spoken a word in hours but everyone, even Dale's son, kept looking at the road back to Ignea. Maybe James survived.

"We're really gonna walk to Fork?" Dale asked.

"Tara and her brother made it," Bouncer said. "We get letters from them all the time. It won't be easy but we can't get back to the docks to hire a ship."

"Didn't Tara mention trolls and didn't she bump into those knights to help her along the way?"

"You've got me and probably James. Neither of us is shabby in a fight," Bouncer said. He looked back down the road. "If James made it. There were almost two dozen Goldenwinds last I saw. Tonight we'll stay across the river in Stonewall Village. Tomorrow we'll head west."

"What are you watching the road for?"

Bouncer looked down the bank of the river and saw the Matderi hobbling a couple yards away.

"There were only nineteen," The Matderi said, plopping down on the docks by Dale's son. He hugged the boy. "One or two more and I might have broken a sweat. They've got hundreds out looking for you and for me now; so, I didn't take the main roads. I'm lame, I ain't stupid."

About this story:

This covers a gap between "The Nightstone" and "Piper..." and explains why some of the characters from Ignea ended up in Fork. I like the characters but don't have any more stories set in Ignea planned.

# THE COURTING MONGOOSE

The sounds of a poorly played lute outside the window of Lorraine's bedroom soured her mood. Her sister, Shauna, who shared the room with her, had another suitor. Lorraine didn't even bother to look at this one first before heading down to the feast hall to fetch her sister.

"Lady Lorraine!" The seneschal ambushed her at the entrance to the great hall.

"Yes, Edward?" Lorraine glared at the book in the seneschals arms.

Edward opened the book and pressed his finger on a conspicuous blanks spot on a page full of numbers. "The dairy farmer, Luke, has declined to pay his taxes this month. He says he does not have the money."

Lorraine snorted. She'd seen Luke buying fifteen new cows at the market a fortnight ago. "Send four men; have them take a cow if he doesn't come up with five silver. Make sure one of the men is Harry; he'll make sure we get a good, healthy cow. I think Luke will find the money. If not, with almost forty cows, he has more than enough to live off of bartering milk and cheese."

"Yes, milady." Edward bowed as Lorraine walked past him into the feast hall.

Since her father died of pneumonia over the winter, her mother had been reclusive. Shauna, though elder, couldn't be bothered with running the County, so Lorraine made all the decisions. Their father's death directly contributed to the increase in suitors. Whoever won Shauna's hand would become the next Count of Northwind. Lorraine wished that just once someone would see her as a woman worth courting.

She found her sister trying on a new tiara and admiring herself in the polished silver mirrors of the feast hall.

"There's another minstrel singing outside the balcony," Lorraine announced

"If this one is cute, could you, maybe, let him win?" Shauna asked.

On his deathbed, Count Daniel Northwind had requested that anyone seeking to court Shauna must first defeat Lorraine in a duel of swords. Once they heard of the requirement, all but three of the young men seeking Shauna's hand had rescinded their offers. Those three hadn't lasted ten seconds, combined, against Lorraine.

"It's not my fault they didn't prove worthy." Lorraine patted the bell of the sword hanging from her belt. The sword had been her father's, it comprised the entirety of Lorraine's inheritance. Shauna got the Duchy. Lorraine was pretty sure she'd gotten the better heirloom.

With a stomp, Shauna said, "You're the best sword fighter in the northern counties. It was cruel of father to require that."

Lorraine rolled her eyes at her sister's tantrum. Did stomping ever help a point of debate, she wondered. "Shall we see the new suitor? So far, all I know is that he cannot even tune his lute, let alone play it."

She followed her sister back up to their bedchamber balcony. She gasped when she saw the suitor. He wore black leather with shiny golden studs and a sword at each hip. He smiled when they glanced down on him, but kept his off-key ditty going.

"Look at that scar on his face?" Shauna whispered, her voice showing her disgust.

"That's Desaythian the Mongoose." Lorraine whispered back, guessing his identity from the stories of the legendary bandit hunter. Hunting bandits seemed like a far more exciting life than managing a county. She longed for the chance to really test her skills in a life or death fight, not a controlled duel to first touch.

"The guy who attacks bandits in their lairs?" Shauna asked with a hint of awe in her voice.

Lorraine nodded. "I think we just found someone who can beat me in that duel."

"First, I have to approve and I just can't get past his scarred face." Shauna pulled Lorraine back, away from the balcony. "Let's go down and send him on his way."

When they emerged into the courtyard, the minstrel was leaning under an apple tree. As they approached, he stepped from the tree and bowed.

"I am Desaythian, Lord of Silverfalls and I come to ask permission to court you, Lady Lorraine of Northwind," he said.

Shauna fainted and fell forward. Desaythian leapt forward and caught her, setting her gently on her back in the shade of the tree.

"Wow," Lorraine managed to say. The man's quickness lived up to his reputation.

"My apologies, I did not mean to distress your sister." There was nothing apologetic about his wry smile.

Lorraine didn't return the grin, keeping her demeanor proper and collected. She couldn't help but like everything about the bandit hunter before her, but until she knew his motivations, she'd keep her feelings to herself. "She's never had a man come courting and find herself not the object of affection. I'm confused as well. My hand does not come with the County. Why would you want to court me?"

"There are tales of a young woman of strong mind, wisdom beyond her years and a sword of unparalleled grace. I had to meet her for myself," Desaythian said.

Lorraine had to turn away to hide her sudden blush. "That's an exaggeration and still does not really say why you asked to court me."

Desaythian circled around to stand before her. "Not as much of an exaggeration as your modesty would believe. But, in truth, I have recently acquired a few more scars and it occurred to me that I must either look to giving up my life as a bandit hunter, which I am not so eager to do, or I must find a partner. The rumors of you make you the perfect candidate. As I traveled here and heard more and more tales of your wisdom, of your strength and of your skill, I must admit, I fell in love."

"But those are just tales. How do you know I am really as they say?" Lorraine asked.

Desaythian shrugged. "I don't, but it is enough to begin a courtship. So, will you allow me to woo you?" He knelt before her and offered her his hand.

"Get up, Desaythian," Lorraine said, stepping away. She wanted to take his hand and pull him close, but was having more fun making him work a little for her affection. "I'll come with you, and be your partner." She felt dizzy at the idea of leaving her home for the life of high adventure, but Edward was capable of getting the decisions made properly. Desaythian certainly met her requirements for what she sought in a mate.

Desaythian stood, brushing his hand on his doublet as if there must have been some taint that kept her from grasping it. "But, will you allow me to woo your heart?"

Lorraine took a moment to pretend to admire the apples high on the branches before she held out her hand and smiled. As he took it gently and kissed it, she said, "Only if you promise never to sing to me again."

About this story:

This one is less obviously from the world of Mealth. It is, but there are not any references to places or people from other stories.

# THE SMITH

Morris Smithslayer, the master blacksmith for the village of Oregalt, walked slowly along the workbench. He examined, but did not touch, the three knives displayed on the bench. The forge was quiet that day. For the past week the ring of hammers slamming into anvils had filled the air from dawn to long after nightfall. He glanced over his shoulder at his three apprentices and stared at them just long enough to see how they squirmed.

Today, he would pick two to renew their contracts. The third would never work metal at his forge again. He didn't want to send one away, but he knew he'd have to. The three were his first apprentices, they only knew he was sending one away. He hadn't told them it was not a punishment, but a reward.

Joanna seemed the most worried. She faced downward as if she were watching her own hands fumble with each other, but her eyes watched him. Randal bounced back and forth rapidly from one foot to the other. Every few bounces, he stumbled slightly. He met Morris's gaze and smiled weakly. Kenneth did not seem worried at all. He stood there with a confident grin on his face and stared straight ahead.

Morris stepped to the side, but Kenneth's eyes did not follow him. Morris smiled, realizing that the confidence was a facade that would be easily shattered if Kenneth actually had to focus on anything.

Apprentices should not be overconfident and none of his were. "I noticed that none of you marked your work," Morris said. "Did you all lose your stamps or did you conspire to hide your work from me?"

"Yes, sir," Randal stammered. "We just want to make sure you are judging the work and not the craftsman."

"Or craftswoman." Joanna added.

Morris couldn't help but chuckle. "It won't work. I know all of your work too well."

"Oh?" Joanna asked. "Which is mine?"

"This one." Morris picked a knife from the table. "All three of you made ebony handled butcher knives. I'd blame Kenneth for the practical choice rather than trying to make fancy daggers. The steel is the same, all cut from the same bar, I'd bet. Not the hardest steel, but more flexible than tool stock. You all used my signature thumb ridge on the back of the blade, but your thumb ridge is closer to the handle. Your hands are the smallest of the three of you."

"Yes, sir."

"Did you temper this well?"

"Of course, sir."

"Which method?"

"You tell me." Joanna said. He'd been waiting for her to loosen up and let her usual cutely defiant attitude out.

"Fine." Morris took the knife and set it on the floor leaning against the leg of the workbench. With a single practiced kick with his heal; he snapped the blade an inch from the hilt. He picked up the pieces and examined the cross-section. "With the large crystal structures in the middle and the tight ones on the outside, I can see that you just heated it up and did a rapid cool. Judging by the only sleight color difference between the inner steel and outer layer, I'd say you used water."

"We are running low on oil and I knew you'd break the blade. I know oil is preferred to avoid a brittle edge."

"I'll accept that, very practical of you." Morris set the two parts of the knife on the table. Though the handle shape carried slightly, both were within the styles he used frequently. He picked up the next knife and ran the edge across a wooden block. The blade made a deep cut. Morris looked closely at the shape of the cut. "Kenneth, this is yours."

"Yessir."

"You still make the blade too sharp for the purpose. A wider wedge will last longer. You have a very steady hand when it comes time to whet the blade; it is a very smooth, very sharp edge."

"Thank you, sir." Kenneth's voice belied that he knew there was a 'but' coming.

Morris did not disappoint him. "But, a bump against a good bone and the blade will chip. Now let's see how strong the blade is." Again he set the knife against the workbench leg and snapped it. He noted that it took a little less kick to snap, but not horribly so. Examining the pieces he nodded approvingly. "Good temper, this may have lasted a year or two before getting a nick from a bone. It just might have lasted forever if you'd used oil instead of water."

"We all used water," Kenneth said, "We agreed to do everything as much the same as we could."

"You are conniving bastards." Morris mocked affront. "Ok, let's see how Randal's did." Morris set the last blade against the bench leg.

"Wait." Randal said.

"What?" Morris asked, stepping away from the table.

"I can't watch you destroy that." Randal said. "I put my best work into that, I know the temper is almost but not quite as perfect as Kenneth's. But I can't watch you destroy my work. If you insist, I will leave and ask you to hide the pieces so that I may never see my creation in other than its perfect condition."

"If you leave, I cannot let you back."

"So, I'm the one who fails," Randal said, stepping up and picking his knife off of the floor.

"Put the knife down if you are going to throw a fit," Morris said, his voice steady. Angry people with weapons in their hands made people nervous. Nervous people made stupid decisions. He knew Randal wouldn't become aggressive, but wasn't sure how Joanna would react.

"I'm leaving and taking this," Randal said, "I know I failed."

"I am not failing anyone." Morris said. "But you will never be a master if you cannot submit your creations for destruction. You are a skilled blacksmith but I have to say that you will never work in my shop again."

Randal's voice had calmed when he said, "I accept that. I don't know what I will do, but I accept that I cannot stay here."

Morris placed his hands on Randal's shoulders. "You cannot stay because I am promoting you to journeyman. You are not ready in as many ways as I would prefer, but you will not progress to master. As a journeyman you will take over the Southern Route and rotate your time between three very small villages. When someone brings you work you cannot handle, you send it up here to me."

"I fail but I am becoming an independent smith?"

"Right," Morris said.

"If I had let you break my blade?" Randal asked.

"I'd have sent Kenneth. It's going to take me years to get him to stop making his blades too thin. This time he got a little lucky with the temper."

"I'll miss you all." Randal said.

"We are blacksmiths, not dress makers. Don't make this mushy." Morris walked towards the door, opening it for the new journeyman. As Randal left, Morris felt very proud of his former apprentice. A smith who cared about their work did better work.

About this story:

Emily, the main character from "Of Maia's Mist", had brothers. Morris was one of them. One of the things about this story that makes it unlikely to see individual publication is the technical details of smithing. It's frowned upon when writers show off their knowledge as I did here.

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# THE HONOR OF A KNIGHT

Gazing to the huge cave at the far end of the valley, Reginald breathed deep, letting the smell of wet fallen leaves calm him. Behind him, his last eight loyal knights waited for the command to charge.

Two years earlier, Reginald had been King. Even after his brother took his throne he'd had hundreds of knights at his command. Most had just lost their faith in his quest to regain his kingdom. A few dozen had died on fool's errands such as they were about to attempt. With the help of his knights, he'd killed sixty trolls, a dozen ogres and three dragons. That day he had no doubt that he would kill a fourth but, the price would be high. Each of the dragons he'd slain had taken some of his knights with it.

Such was the price of chivalry. Knights died in the name of honor and duty. He wondered which of his most loyal followers he would lose that day. He wanted to leave the dragon and continue his journey to take back what was taken from him. The dragon might kill another cow, depriving another farmer of his milk, of his livelihood. A knight or two's lives were not really worth the price of a cow, were they?

But he wasn't fighting for a cow; he was fighting for the support of the people. He would have to lead his knights to probable death for one thing: honor. Was honor worth it?

"Sir Jessup," Reginald called to his eldest knight, the only person he took advice from.

Jessup trotted his horse to stand alongside Reginald's. "Yes, my liege?"

"Is risking the lives of my knights worth the honor?"

"We are your knights because we believe your honor is something worth risking our lives for," Jessup said. "That's part of what it means to be a knight."

"It's just a few cows, maybe a dozen, over the course of a year," Reginald said. "I could repay any farmer that lost a cow."

"We're not fighting for cows. We're not even fighting for the dozen farmers who might lose a cow,' Jessup said. "We're fighting for the whole nation. We're giving them the hero they need. We're showing them that you should be their king."

"It's a dragon's life," Reginald said. "I know they are just animals, very big fire-breathing animals, but killing one needlessly doesn't seem very honorable to me. Worse is that I'm sure one of us will die. I haven't fought a dragon yet without losing one of my best knights."

"Dragons are wild," Jessup said. "You and I both know it's unlikely that the dragon will ever kill anything more than a few cattle. But the people don't. Dragons scare them. We need to save them from that fear. We need to show them that you are the man who will fight their fears and keep them safe."

"Thanks Jessup," Reginald said. "I don't like unnecessary killing. But, protecting the people of the kingdom, even if only protecting them from fear, is the duty of every knight, even me."

"Who are you going send in at the point?" Jessup asked.

Two of the last three knights to take point against a dragon had died in its jaws. Looking back at his knights he knew any one of them would take the position at his order.

"Makketh, Jessup," Reginald barked, "You two take left. Everyone else take right. Remember the scales beneath the wing are the thinnest." Reginald moved his horse to the point. He flipped the visor down on his helm. No one would die for his honor that day.

Jessup lined up a few paces to his left. "My lord, don't confuse valor with honor."

"I know what I'm doing," Reginald said.

He tightened the strapping on his shield and lifted his lance high into the air. The banner trailing behind the point still bore the crown arms. He spurred his horse into a trot and his knights followed.

He hoped the thunder of hooves across the valley floor would rouse the dragon. The horses would not be useful in the cave and the lance would lose its effectiveness without the power of warhorse behind it.

The roar from within the cave caused Jessup's horse to falter. But they were too close to change the flanks now. He lowered the tip of his lance to charge position.

The beast that emerged from the cave was twice as large as any other dragon Reginald had seen. Rust brown scaled wings stretched to four heights of a man in each direction. The head of the dragon was as large as Reginald's horse. Two more of his knights' mounts lost their nerve and turned away from the charge.

Reginald's lance slammed into the dragon's chest and splintered without penetrating the thick white scales of the dragon's underbelly. The force of the impact threw Reginald off the back of his horse. He landed hard on his back. As planned the dragon seemed to ignore the other knights, but none of their lances had found a way through the beast's hide either. The dragon snapped at Reginald, but he rolled to the side onto his knees. Hearing the dreaded inhale, Reginald managed to spin around to bring his shield up. The flames spewed from the beast's mouth and flowed around Reginald's shield. He felt the heat building up on his greaves but could do nothing but hold until the flames stopped. When they finally did, Reginald didn't have a chance to move away. The dragon bit down on Reginald's shield, the softened metal bent onto his arm.

The dragon lifted Reginald into the air.

"Milord!" Reginald heard Jessup's voice and felt a sword grip in his free hand. He gripped tightly and swung. The blade bounced harmlessly off the dragon's snout. Reginald felt a bone in his forearm snap where the dragon bit into the shield, into his arm. He looked the dragon in the eye. He could only see one. In that one red eye, he saw fury. In that one eye he saw his reflection dangling from the dragon's jaw. In that eye, he saw his opportunity.

With all of his remaining strength, he pulled his body around and struck, thrusting his sword to the hilt into the dragon's eye.

Suddenly he was falling. The ground hit harder this time. Several pieces of his armor, having their straps weakened by the fire, fell off. He saw the head of the dragon rushing down towards him but he couldn't find the strength to roll away fast enough. At least a couple of his ribs cracked from the impact, but he saw that the dragon was dead. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. The pain from the cracked ribs and weight of the dragon kept the breath from being as relaxing as he'd hoped.

With his eyes still closed he exhaled shallowly and evenly. His knights would get him out eventually and then they'd take him to a healer, somewhere. The cows were safe, his knights were all still alive and his honor was assured.

I have a whole novel about this character, but it's not quite finished. Maybe I'll get that one done this year...I also have a novel started on the origins of Sir Jessup, which also may happen, but not this year. What I particularly like about this story is how they respect the dragon's life but go ahead and kill it for what they consider to be valid reasons. I'm not sure I'd arrive at the same decision, but I suspect I will never be put in the same situation.

# OTHER STORIES FROM ELSEWHERE

# AURORA'S SMILE

"I'm getting too old for this," I whisper to myself as I stop at the top of the fourth flight of stairs. I've been telling myself that for thirty years, ever since I left the academy. I could've taken the lift, but didn't want to ruin the element of surprise. It doesn't take me long to catch my breath.

I've got a good lead that a missing woman was being held in the building. The woman had a locator mote implant. I've got one in my thigh, too; regulations require all cops to, but most civilians get them as well. In this part of town, it's mostly worthless. The network here hasn't been on in centuries. Her code popped up in the logs of a survey drone marking the building for demo. The logs are four days old and I don't expect to find her alive. Still, I hope. I check the readout on my pad and its pointing right at the door in front of me. I draw my piece and make sure the safety is off.

I should wait for my partner, but he's six blocks away and he'd just get shot again anyway. The door is made of steel, just like the frame around it. I shrug; it shouldn't be a problem. I boost the charge to my cybernetic leg. One kick is all it takes and the door flies back, completely off the hinges.

"This is Detective Stansley, NYPD—drop everything and put your hands to the sky!" I shout as I step into the apartment. I restrain myself from firing, remembering that I'm here to rescue someone, not take someone down.

I'm a little shocked that no one shoots at me. I expected at least one or two more dents in my vest. I see people around me, but as my mind clears, I realize it's not people, it's bodies. I get a sinking feeling that I might be too late. I pull up a picture of the woman, Aurora, on my pad and head towards a table covered in parts. I hadn't been looking closely so it took me a moment to realize that only some of the parts were human. Many are robotic and then I realize that it's worse than I'd thought. Some of the robot parts are covered in human skin. Someone had been building androids in the apartment and from the looks of things, they hadn't yet been successful.

Human-looking androids had been outlawed after the Nelson Assassination. But once a decade or so, we find a lab like this one. Some lonely freak was most likely trying to build a love-bot.

I count at least half a dozen different bodies, but none of them would match the description of Aurora. I check my pad and it leads me to a covered body lying on top of an old freezer.

I'm afraid to pull the sheet away, not sure if it's going to be an android frame or a skinned body. I don't see blood on the cover so I pull the sheet back.

I've never seen anything so beautiful. Aurora is lying on the ice box and she is alive, barely breathing. Her ID on the pad doesn't do her justice. But, unlike me, she is still at the age where being naked makes her look better. As I drop the sheet to the floor, she opens her eyes and smiles at me. "You've come to save me?" she asks.

For a second, I'm lost in her gaze. When I gather my senses, I respond, "Yes, ma'am. Detective Stansley, NYPD. You can call me Dan," It's then that I notice her hands and feet are tied down. I cut her loose and start to lift her into my arms but she slips to her feet.

She stays close enough to smell. I breathe in the sweet scent of lavender and roses. She puts her hand on my shoulder, barely brushing my neck. It's the first time a woman has touched me in three years. Her voice trembling, she says, "I can run; please let us run before that madman comes back. He'll kill us both."

I see fear in her beautiful blue eyes. I pick up the sheet and hand it to her. Then I lead her out the door. We take the elevator down to the lobby and run out the back door.

"Hold on," I tell her as I pull up my pad. "I need to call in to get someone to come clean up that place. Then we'll get you somewhere safe. I start closing apps on my pad, first closing the inferior picture of Aurora. Then I see the blip on my screen that's showing Aurora's locator mote and it's not pointing to the woman next to me. I close it quick, hoping the woman—whatever she is—didn't see me notice the blip.

The fist to my face tells me I wasn't so lucky. The back of my head hits the wall and I can barely understand what is happening around me as I crumple to the ground.

The woman leans close to my ear and says, "I know what I am and I know you don't like what I am. I haven't killed anyone and I'm not going to kill you. You _did_ save me. I'm free only because of you. Thank you, Dan." She kisses me on the lips and then the lights go out.

When I wake, I'm alone in the alley. I run through my stuff and find everything: my piece, my wallet, my pad—all here with me. I've got three separate headaches but I manage to call the lab in. As I wait inside the climbing elevator, my mind is flashing images of hopeful blue eyes and I still feel her soft lips on mine. I stand outside the door and wait for back up. I know the mess inside and don't want to sift through evidence.

And I don't want to wonder if that android was the one who had killed those girls. I want her to be innocent, though she never can be. Something in there might prove her guilty. I glance into the room, looking not for something to prove her guilt, but for something to prove her otherwise. My eyes try not to focus on the ice box that I know holds what used to be Aurora. The cut ropes still lay on the floor. A tiny bit of joy makes me nod and smile. The android hadn't tied herself down.

Aurora's body is in there. But it's Aurora's skin that I'm thinking about.

"She's only a robot." I think it; I don't say it. And I don't believe it. I felt a connection to her. I try to tell myself that whatever freak built her probably programmed her to act seductive, but I'm not listening.

Two flatfoots show up with the captain.

"Any luck?" the captain asks me.

"She was already dead when I got here." I tell them to look for her in the fridge. I don't mention that she won't have her skin.

"Was there anyone here?" The captain asks. "No," I say. "This is how I found it." I could tell him that I know that the sicko that did this is still out there. That I know it's not the android in Aurora's skin because she couldn't have tied herself down. But then I'd have to mention her and her existence is a secret I want to keep for myself.

As I take the elevator back down, I'm thinking of nothing more than finding Aurora's skin. Her eyes, her lips, her smile.

About this story:

I wrote this story to be an example of bad writing. First Person is considered lazy writing among professional fiction writers and many people dislike it. Present tense is painful to read if done improperly. I used far too many clichés.

I failed at my goal of bad writing.

As with most of my stories, this one started as a contest winner. These are small contests, usually less than twenty entries, so it's not that big of a deal. It did let me know the story had potential.

Somehow when I put all these elements of bad writing together, I ended up with a fun little story.

The editor of Bards and Sages Quarterly detests first person stories and present tense stories so much that she's written essays about why people should not write in those styles. She liked this one enough to publish it.

# HEIR TO THE EIGHTH

As I walked into the courtyard of the Acies' Fortress, Two men drew swords and saluted me before returning the blades to their scabbards. I overheard their discussing me as I approached.

"He'll be a natural, His father was Gnur," Lord Valkos, Heir to the First, said as I walked into the courtyard of the Acies' Fortress. I looked at him and tried to smile. But my head still hurt from celebrating my sixteenth harvest the night before.

The man standing beside Lord Valkos held a second sword by the scabbard. I didn't know the man but the sword had haunted me my whole life. It had been my father's sword and that day it would become mine - if I survived the bonding. I had long since dreaded the day I would be sent to join the Acies.

My father had been the greatest blade-master the kingdom had ever known. He had single handedly defended it on more than one occasion. His only failure occurred the day I was born. I never met him.

But I was the son of Gnur, my facing the trials and joining the order had been determined at my conception.

"Turn, Son of Gnur, Heir to the Eighth, are you ready?" The man with my father's sword asked.

I wondered what would happen if I said, "No, this is not my life." But, I nodded and kept my silence.

"My name is Farros; I am the Heir to the Fifth." As he turned and walked towards the northern tower of the Fortress, he said, "Follow me." He led me into the tower and up the stairs. We passed several places on the walls where a sword would be displayed, three of them held swords.

"What are these?" I asked.

"Silly boy, can't you count?" Farros said. "These are the swords of the eight Acies."

"But some are not here," I said. "I only saw three."

"Then only three are waiting for their heirs to come of age," he said. I heard, "Three of them died before their time." In truth it was four who died, but my father's sword was not on the wall of the stairwell.

We arrived at the top of the staircase in a room with just a candle.

He laid the sword on the floor by the candle then said, "When you are ready, you may pick up the sword."

I nodded. I didn't know what he meant, but I didn't want to seem ignorant again. Farros looked at me with tight lips a moment then just nodded slightly as he walked away, down the stairs.

Alone in the tower chamber, I walked over to the sword on the floor. I nudged it with my boot, but I wanted to kick it away and follow Farros out of the tower. I didn't want to follow in the footsteps of a man who left a wife without a husband and a child without a father.

I sat across the candle from the sword. The scented wax lulled me as I wondered what I should do. The smoke from the candle seemed to thicken to the point where I could no longer see the walls of the room.

A breeze blew through and took the smoke away, but I still couldn't see the walls or the room. I sat on a rock overlooking a mountain pass. In the distance I saw hundreds of men with swords and spears raised in the air charging toward the pass. I tried to get up and hide, but I could not move. All I could do was watch the horde approach.

A single man stepped from behind a boulder and drew a sword. It was my father's sword. The man was my father. I knew him because he looked like my reflection with more of a beard. I was going to watch my father die. I tried to scream but nothing came out.

Spears flew through the air and I couldn't close my eyes. But my father dodged every shaft or cut them from the air with his blade. A dozen swordsmen broke from the pack and rushed my father. The narrow pass prevented them all from surrounding him. The sound as steel rang echoed to my ears. When it was quiet, one man stood in the pass, my father. I felt something I hadn't felt since I was a child: pride. As the rest of the horde approached my father he met them with his sword swinging. The whole battle lasted only minutes before the horde retreated in chaos. My father still stood, defending the pass.

I smelled the scented wax again and the smoke hid the pass and my father. When it cleared I sat in the rafters above a room inside a palace. I recognized King Alnak walking before a large tapestry hanging on the wall. On the tapestry was a map of the Kingdom. Two men, my father and Lord Valkos, followed the King as he pointed to various points on the map with a frail, gilded sword.

When the sword point landed on a spot outside the kingdom, my father said, "But, the Acies are Defenders of the Kingdom and the crown, we do not perform conquest."

At that moment four men wearing leather and carrying swords ran into the room. They charged directly towards the King. My father and Lord Valkos drew their weapons and stepped into the attacker's path. The fight didn't last three breaths. Lord Valkos suffered a cut to his forearm, but it was minor. The four attackers lay on the floor in growing pools of blood. My Father cleaned his blade and sheathed it.

The king approached the bodies and said, "These men are from Glacia!" He kicked one of the bodies. "We must not allow this to happen again. We must take the border villages."

"It seems sadly so. We will defend the kingdom." My father took Valkos from the room as I once again smelled the smoke of the candle.

When the smoke cleared, I sat at the well of a village. The people around me wore strange styles of clothing I had never before seen. My father walked into the village, ignoring the women at the fountain and yelled, "King Alnak claims this Village. Bow in submission or send your warriors to face me."

A man in a heavy wool drape stepped from the public house and drew a sword. Soon another, dressed in the same style of wool drape, joined him and then another. When a dozen men gathered outside of the public house, I saw the hard resolve on my father's face shatter.

My father fell to one knee and laid his sword on the ground. "I am Gnur, Heir to the Eighth," he said.

The man who had first emerged from the public house stepped over to my father's side. It was quick. My father hadn't even tried to stop it. The cut was clean and I watched my father's head roll to the ground.

The man who killed my father picked up my father's sword and said, "I must return this to the Acies' Fortress in the Kingdom of Alnak."

A woman rushed over to his side and pleaded, "They'll kill you. You cannot go."

"This man could have killed us all. I do not know why he didn't, but he chose to die rather than kill us. I will return his sword to his Order."

The man walked from the village and the smoke overcame me once again.

I understood my father. I understood why he did what he did. I reached forward into the smoke and wrapped my hands around my father's sword - my sword. I drew the blade from the scabbard and the smoke cleared again.

I sat alone in the tower. I stood and walked out to meet my fellow Acies.

Farros was the first to embrace me. "Welcome to the Order of the Acies," he said. Again I felt pride, but not only for my father, but for myself.

When Lord Valkos embraced me, I held him close a moment and whispered, "The men who attacked the King that last time in the map room, they were not from the border villages?"

Lord Valkos pushed me away and locked his eyes with mine as if he were looking for something inside me. His face softened and he broke eye contact with me and said, "No, we learned later that they were setup to frame Glacia. I still remember the man who brought back your father's sword. When I saw him, I began to suspect."

"So, you didn't kill him?"

"No."

I nodded. "You respected the honor of what he was doing in returning my father's sword."

Lord Valkos laughed, "I wish that were the case. I didn't confront him because I figured if the man could kill your father, he'd have no problems killing me. He talked with me after handing me the sword and I learned all the details of your father's death. And I learned that no warrior of Glacia would willingly wear the hide of another living thing. Then I realized the truth. I believe your father made the realization too."

I had one more question for the Heir to the First. "Why do we serve a man like King Alnak?"

Lord Valkos took hold of my shoulders and his face grew solemn. He took a deep breath and said, "Kings come and go. Some are good some are less good. But the Kingdom is a greater thing. It is the kingdom we serve. When word of the return of your father's sword spread, no one would support a war against Glacia. Your father saved the King from carrying through with a poor decision."

"By leaving me an orphan," I said. Then I realized aloud, "But he saved hundreds, if not thousands of boys like me from becoming orphans if it had become a war."

"Welcome to the Order of the Acies, Heir to the Eighth."

About this story:

I'm told this comes across as some kind of personal message. This is not meant to be a commentary on my life and really has nothing to do with my life since my parents are currently both alive.

There is the blatant message about why soldiers leave orphans. I have always had a high regard for the military, having served four years myself.

Oh and 'eighth' is not as easy to spell as it should be. It doesn't ever look right.

# KYTHIRA

Aaron carried a single red rose in his hand. The thorns bit lightly into his palm; he let them. He shared a part of himself with the flower. Red blood for a red bloom but, he didn't let the thorns pierce deep enough to draw blood, just deep enough to remind him that they could.

The sand on the sidewalk covered more of the concrete with every step he took towards the beach. He'd get to the water, say his prayer and toss the rose as far as he could. He laughed at the thought. How silly was he to offer sacrifice to an ancient myth?

Legends told of a goddess borne of the sea on this island. Aaron didn't really believe in the myths, but he'd spent a couple grand flying across the Atlantic just to offer the goddess of Kythira a rose in hopes she'd help him find the one thing he'd lost so many years earlier: love.

The beach was quiet, there were no children playing with balls or building sand castles. It was early; the sun was just rising up over the Mediterranean Sea. A few couples were sitting in the sand or walking along the water's edge, but the only sound came from the waves. Aaron stopped at the edge of the sand and found a rock to sit on while he pondered how to phrase his prayer. He'd decided on the perfect sentence while staring across the wing of a 767: Bring me the love I need. As he sat on the rock, he wondered if a prayer was limited to just one sentence.

"Are you staring at me?"

Aaron blinked, his thoughts forgotten. Before him stood a woman who wouldn't quite be old enough to drink in the States and she wore only a piece of string that almost passed for bikini bottoms. Her white-blonde hair hung in loose curls before her, obscuring what her bikini didn't bother to cover. Her eyes were blue, sparkling and angry.

"You do speak English?" she asked. "Your shoes are American."

"I'm sorry," he said. "No, I wasn't looking at anything."

"Well, you're quite the charmer, aren't you," She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and turned to face the ocean. Aaron mostly succeeded in keeping his eyes above her shoulders. "It's a beautiful sunrise today, just the right splash of clouds to bring out the shades of orange and purple."

Beautiful was exactly what Aaron thought, but his gaze was not on the sun.

She sat beside him, "If I'm going to have to do all the talking, this isn't going to be as interesting a conversation as I'd hoped."

Aaron shook his head briskly, trying to focus. Talk to the pretty girl, his brain urged him. But his lips wouldn't move, for fear any sounds that passed them would only be foolish stammers.

"I see a handsome man sitting on the rocks with a rose in his hand and looking at me and I get images from a classic romance novel in my mind. I get over here and I may as well be talking to the seagulls."

Aaron looked away, so that she only sat in the corner of his vision. It was the only way he could not think only about her. "I'm just a little stunned. You're beautiful."

"Everyone here is beautiful," she gestured to the tourists on the beach. "But you're the only one here alone and the only one carrying a rose. I figured it meant for an interesting tale. Are you waiting for your one true love?" She piled the sarcasm on those last words.

"Kind of," he said then chuckled. "It's silly."

She echoed his chuckle. "Well, then, share the joke. It doesn't even have to be a good joke; just enough to make up for my walking the twenty paces from my blanket to these rocks."

"I'm here to pray and offer this flower as a sacrifice by tossing it into the ocean."

"You've a broken heart?" she asked; her voice laughed. She knew of the legends of the beach, perhaps she was a local. She spoke with a clear accent, but Aaron didn't know accents to be able to tell where she came from.

Aaron turned to face her. "That's funny to you?" He turned away again when he noticed she was leaning back on the rocks, with all of her hair behind her.

"Everyone has a broken heart," she said. "Hearts don't survive to adulthood intact. What makes your heart so special that you had to come all the way here to try to mend it?"

"I feel like I've tried everything," he said. "I've been in one relationship after another since I left school. Two marriages, a dozen other shorter relationships. It's never love like I remember with Laura."

"Laura broke your heart?" She placed her hand on his knee. "Was Laura your one true love?"

"I broke her heart, and I wonder if she was." Aaron took a deep breath, and stared at the sun's reflection in the waves. "They say there is someone for everyone, and I left Laura when we got jobs after college. She went west, I went east. The breakup wasn't exactly harlequin. I wanted her to follow me, but she'd gotten a once in a lifetime fellowship at Stanford. I said some things I can't take back and she went off and found a new life, a husband, two point five kids. Two decades later, she's all I think about."

She patted his knee. It felt patronizing. He told himself it only felt patronizing. She said, "Those 'theys' that say there is someone for everyone, I don't believe it. I've been with a hundred men this year alone and any one of them might have been a one true love, if I were looking for one true love."

Aaron bit his tongue; when he was a young man, people just didn't have that many lovers in a whole lifetime. Times change and they were in Greece where they had different values than in the States. Still, there was something like a challenge in the way she lilted her voice. She was either testing his reaction or looking for another lover. "Are you hitting on me?" he asked.

"You?" She laughed and pulled her hand off his knee. "I may get around, but I'm not looking for that today, sorry. You're just a guy with a rose and a story. All I want from you is the story. I hope I didn't lead you on," she paused and licked her lips,"...too much."

Unsure how to react to that, he restated his intent, "Well, I just came here to pray to a goddess I don't really believe in for something I'm not sure is real."

"Now, that's funny. That's so worth my walking over here." She laughed "Did you come to pray for Laura to come back to you?"

"No," Aaron said. He'd thought about it, but Laura had found her life and it didn't need him. "I came to pray to find the love I need."

"You assume love is a basic need." She started drawing circles in the sand with her toes. Aaron watched as she drew a series of perfect concentric circles with her perfect toes.

"I'm not sure, I'm not even sure I believe in love at all," he said. "But on the off chances it's real and on the really off chance that there is a goddess out there with some power over it, I came here to offer this flower."

"It's cute that you say you don't believe, but you are so desperately searching for love that you came across an ocean to offer a forgotten goddess gifts in the hopes that she will give you love."

Her tone mocked him, but he wasn't sure what she was mocking about him. "Are you saying I believe and am in denial or that I'm a fool?

"I'm saying," She said, "you've seen too many movies where people are looking for love. I'm sure you've tried all the dating sites online and hit the bars around town, especially the music clubs..." Her voice was almost sing-song.

"Yeah." He nodded.

"Those places work for me, for what I'm after, but no one finds the love of their life that way. Well, almost no one." She bumped her shoulder into his. "Where did you meet Laura?"

"School."

"Specifics?" She asked.

"I don't know, Art History, I guess. The MBA program required a minor in a non-business field. I always liked the arts, particularly the classic arts."

"Nude statues of women?" She poked him in the ribs. "And, let me guess, Laura was actually studying Art as her major?"

"No, she was an MBA candidate too, but dropped out and switched to sociology. She'd always liked the arts too, but she was more a Monet, Van Gogh type."

"How often do you go to the art museum or hang out at art shows?" She asked.

He didn't. He didn't like most modern art. Too much of it looked like little more than a sneeze from a Technicolor sinus infection. "Modern art isn't to my tastes."

"Not all modern art is Jackson Pollack. Instead of looking for love, look for art you enjoy. Invest your time in something you find fun for yourself."

"You know something of art, I see." He tried to sound casual as he asked, "Maybe I could buy you dinner and we could discuss it?"

"We are not looking for the same thing, sorry." She turned to face him squarely, pulling her knees up to her chest. "So in your studies of nude statues, you're familiar with ancient goddesses of love and chose this route to find love? Toss a flower in an ocean?"

He tried to turn to face her, and managed to keep his eyes locked on the bridge of her nose. He couldn't look in her eyes, and didn't want to look where he really wanted to look. "I said; it's a long shot."

She nodded. "I think you do believe in love and I'm not sure it matters if there really is a goddess or not. In the moment you bought the flower you believed. In the moment you throw the flower into the ocean, you'll believe." She grabbed both his shoulders and pulled him close, so close he could feel her breath on his lips. "I think it's a good thing to believe in love but, do I think throwing a flower in an ocean will bring you love? No." She pulled away before his will power reached its limits.

"You think it's silly?" he asked.

"Yes, but in the sweetest possible way." She reached over and stroked the petals of the rose. "You should do it. Toss your flower to the forgotten goddess. It will let you release your control over your search for love, so that you can focus on finding other ways to enjoy life." She lifted her hand from the flower and stroked his chin. "It's too bad you weren't just looking for lust. I might have hit on you."

He grasped her hand away from his chin and placed the flower in her palm, careful to avoid her skin with the thorns. "I think you've given me the seeds of thought I need. You've earned this."

"A rose," she whispered as she grasped it, "the classic symbol of love. Are you saying you love me?"

"I'm sure I would, if you gave me a chance. I got over Laura, more or less. I'd never recover from someone as beautiful as you." He turned back to stare out over the waves. The sun seemed much higher and had lost its red hues. She'd reminded him what a foolish game it was to look for love. He'd join the museum when he got home and reinvest his time in himself. Perhaps he'd find a friend, someday.

"Perhaps," she cooed. "You'll find a friend and only in a friend can you find the lover you are looking for."

"Did I say that out loud?" He asked, wondering if he was losing his mind. The whole trip just to toss a flower certainly had been a form of insanity.

"No," she said. "Time for me to go." As she stood, she sniffed the rose deeply and smiled at him. She walked slowly away until he called out, "Wait!"

Her feet stopped and she turned just her head back towards him. She brushed her hair aside with the rose so that he could see her face.

"I didn't catch your name," he said.

"I don't remember you asking for it." She smiled wryly then flipped her hair as she turned away and walked on. He wasn't going to know her name. He wondered if he already did.

About this story:

Kythira is another name for Aphrodite, being the island where she emerged from the sea.

Yes, at one time Art History was actually my major in college.

# THE WISHING JAR

Leanne handed a copy of the Metro Daily Journal and the change of a dollar to the man across the counter of her tiny newsstand.

The man took the paper with one hand and the change with the other. He reached out and dropped a single coin, a nickel, into an old glass water bottle on the counter. _I wish I had all the money in that jar._ Leanne nodded as she heard the man's thoughts. "Come back again," she said.

About half of the wishes she heard were for the money in the jar. Peace on earth and getting laid tied for second place.

A young man approached the counter with his hood up over his head.

"Yo," he said to her.

Leanne looked at how the boy pushed the pockets of his sweat shirt down. She tried to convince herself she wasn't checking for a gun. She didn't like that her first reaction was fear. If the kid would just plop a penny into the jar, she'd know what he wanted. But he just looked at her, glancing at the jar as she did. His shyness probably meant he wanted cigarettes but was too shy and too young to ask for them. "I don't sell smokes."

"I don't smoke." the kid said. His eyes were lingering on the jar a little more. Did he think he could swipe the jar? Even if he could break the glue holding it to the counter, she doubted he was ready for the reality of how much four gallons of coins weighed.

"Is there something you do want?" Leanne asked.

"What this?" The boy reached out and tapped the jar.

"Just like the sign says," she pointed to the hand drawn sign with stars and butterflies around the words, 'Make a wish'. She read the sign to him.

"Yeah, I can read, but does it work?"

"Wishes are strange things. Sometimes they work. Sometimes we gotta work to make em come true. Sometimes we just wish to dream. But, I do know good things rarely happen without us first wishing them so."

The boy looked at her, seeming to think through her words. "I can wish all on my own, but why would I put money in a jar to make a wish."

"There is a power to the jar," Leanne said. It was true, even beyond the way it projected the thoughts of the wisher to her. "Just having the catalyst to bring out our true wishes helps them come true."

"What's a cat got to do with it?"

"The act of dropping the penny in the jar is a catalyst." She spoke the last word slowly, hoping he caught it. "It is the moment that we formulate the wish at its strongest. It symbolizes our giving a little to the world in hopes to get a little back, or a lot back. Most people wish for a lot."

"Hmm," The boy stared at the jar. He shoved his hands even deeper into his pockets. It looked like he was about to tear the fabric of his sweatshirt. Leanne realized that she heard no sound of coins jingling as he stretched his pockets. She popped open the cash register and took out a penny. She slid it across the counter to the boy.

The boy looked at the penny suspiciously then looked at Leanne.

"Go ahead, it's on the house," she said.

He took the penny and held it over the jar a moment before dropping it in. She watched his eyes follow it as it bounced on the other coins with a light jingle.

I wish my little brother could have shoes.

"Thanks," the boy said and started to walk away.

"Wait," Leanne said. She didn't know what she wanted to say, but she wanted to do more for the boy. She already knew that when he left, she'd follow him home and later that night would leave a pair of shoes at their door, but it wouldn't be enough. "What's your name?"

"Jamal," the boy said.

"Jamal, do you have a job?"

"I'm eleven. I can't even bag groceries."

"Well, I can't give you a real job like that," Leanne said. "But I could use someone to run errands for me. Pick up newspapers; get boxes of candy bars from my storehouse. "I can't pay you more than twenty dollars a day."

By the way his eyes lit up she suspected she'd offered a little too much. She wanted him to feel like he'd be earning a wage, not winning the lottery.

"I could do that," Jamal said.

She held her hand out across the counter and when he shook it she said, "My name is Leanne. Come back at this time tomorrow." An assistant would be helpful. She didn't like having to close the stand every time she felt like making a wish come true.

"Okay, but I can't stay out too late. I have school."

"Sure thing, Jamal. See you after school tomorrow then."

Jamal smiled and ran off. He'd be hard to follow, but she'd manage. She'd just had to go and lift his spirits; she sighed wistfully as she pulled her newsstand's shutter down.

About this story:

This is my first published story. I like stories where it could be the world we live in and there might still be a bit of hard to find magic at work here.

# THE GOLDEN LIGHT

Sariel brought her blade of fire to bear on the darkness entering Walter's bedroom. She moved to stand between the gathering shadows and the man crouched in the corner. "Zylpha, leave now or I may destroy you," Sariel threatened the coalescing demoness, waving her sword briskly, arcing a trail of flames through the room.

"The Prince has an interest here, angel," hissed Zylpha once her body became solid. Turning away from Sariel, she stood facing a wall of black and white photos and medals. Without looking away from the war memories, she said to the angel, "When last we met, I recall that it was you who fled."

"You don't have any allies this time." Sariel gestured to the area around Zylpha.

Walter groaned and Sariel felt the pain in all of his bones. "God, let me end my pain. My children will not visit me any longer. They know the cancer will kill me, so I am already dead to them. Why do I have to live with this pain?" He'd muttered a similar prayer once or twice each hour since Sariel had arrived.

Zylpha laughed. "Why are you even here? When he suicides, he's mine. Your god won't accept him. For you to take him he has to die of other means and his cancer won't kill him for months yet"

The dark angel was right. Sariel swung her sword at Walter in frustration. The flaming blade passed harmlessly through the mortal as Sariel knew it would.

"Immortal weapons cannot harm mortals, stupid goodie," Zylpha said, leaning against the wall. "You do not have the power to cause death. You can only guide a deserving soul to Heaven. You are worthless."

Spreading her silver-feathered wings, Sariel stepped towards the demoness. "Draw your weapon or leave, I see no reason to parlay with your kind."

"Honorable seraph won't even attack a demon without provocation," taunted Zylpha, finally turning to face the angel. "What if I do not leave?" She spread her leathery wings, matching the angel's stance. "What if I do not conjure my blade?"

"Please, God," the man screamed, drawing Sariel's attention though she knew the man could not possibly perceive either immortal in his room. Lifting his tear streaked face to the ceiling he prayed, "Grant me the strength I need." Reaching under the bed, he pulled out a revolver. With trembling hands, he lifted the gun only to let it fall from his thin fingers. It landed on the aged wooden floor with a heavy thump.

Sariel felt the evil in the room grow as the demoness summoned her sword, probably hoping to take advantage of the distraction. Sariel didn't even look back at the demon as she batted the black bladed sword aside with her holy blade of flames.

"You are not as skilled as I, demon." Sariel felt sure that Zylpha could not truly threaten her. "I offer you a final chance to leave or I will be forced to fight and you will be destroyed."

"Why are you still talking?" Zylpha asked, swinging at the angel's neck. The flames of the angel's sword spat across the room as Sariel blocked.

"Help me!" The man sobbed audibly, choking on tears and coughing.

"Oof," the angel grunted. She hadn't seen the demon's clawed foot kick at her. Four trails of gold appeared on the angels white robes where the demonic toes had drawn blood.

"You do not intimidate me, Sariel." Zylpha laughed, her giggles seemed to multiply in echoes. "He will find the strength to pull that trigger and I will use your feathers for my pil..."

Sariel's flaming blade cut the demons words short at her throat. As the demon's head fell to the floor, it vanished into a haze of black smoke along with the rest of her body. Sariel felt sadness at having destroyed an immortal. She fell to her knees and lifted her head to the heavens. Knowing instantly that she would be forgiven; she felt joy. She allowed her sword to vanish and crawled over to where Walter sat. He held his gun with both hands, looking down the short dark barrel.

Kneeling before him she looked him in the eye. She saw the clouded grey eyes widen as the man realized that he was not alone in his apartment. Her golden aura reflected in his eyes and the man smiled and set the gun down.

"You come to ease my pain?" The man asked.

Picking the gun up, Sariel shook her head. "I come to bring you peace." She pulled the trigger three times although the man probably died instantly from the first bullet passing through his brainstem. "Your cancer is not a problem any longer. You will feel no more pain."

Feeling a sharp pain in her wings she winced as a silver feather fell from each wing: the price for her violation. Sariel would go on for the rest of eternity with two fewer feathers.

She stood in the center of the room and watched, waiting, as the body slumped to the floor. When the glow began, she knew she had chosen correctly. The golden light emanating from the globe rising above the corpse nearly equaled hers.

"Follow me, warrior." She said, setting the gun on a nearby chair. "We are always pleased to add another to our choir."

About this story:

This story apparently offends some of the folks who believe in angels and demons. Something about how the angels are not transcended human souls, but a race that god created before creating man.

This is a work of fiction. Period.

I put it in this compendium because I really can't think of a market for it. There just isn't a publication out there that this would fit in.

I have a whole fictional universe based on this flavor of religion. Someday there will be more stories from that universe.

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Wil Ogden was destined to be a wastrel but thwarted fate. During his second junior year in high school he discovered he had a muse and a talent for writing. Despite taking almost a decade to complete a bachelor's degree by changing majors eleven times, he managed to grow up. Along the way he worked as a blacksmith, a record store manager, a candy store manager, too many years in food service, a four year stint in the USAF, and finally settled down into Information Technology, which he uses to pay the bills and support his family of himself, his wife, two sons, a daughter, a dog, three cats, three chickens, a snake, a chinchilla and two parakeets.

