Session Sixty-Eight - August 15, 2009

[Matt]

Savor 12, 731

The weather at Whyce manor is cold and overcast as the group arises just before dawn. The evening before, Sir Houla had instructed them to gather at the well located at the crossroads near the front of the inn, so the party congregates there after snatching a brief early-morning meal, leaving Cekiya and Kaelyn behind to sleep in. Cloaked in morning mist, they rendezvous with four mounted knights, one yeoman, some anomalous peasants, and several non-knightly members of the Order of the Lady of Paladins known as “Mekens.” One of these Mekens is an enormous man, well over seven feet tall.

Sir Houla, bluff and hearty even at this early hour, booms jovially. “Hail! Good morning! A fine day!” Sir Ewen, Sir Baris and Imarë recognize Sir Brun and Sir Fearth from the day before, and they briefly exchange words of greeting, their breaths clouding in the chilly morning air. Sir Houla then introduces Sir Teslin Doraster, who is an Erana of the Order, a knight errant unattached to a particular house. The two visiting knights clasp hands with Sir Teslin, and then mount up as introductions of the lesser folk are made by Sir Houla. The yeoman is identified as the manor woodward, Moyle of Huber, who functions as the Reblena’s huntsman. He carries a short sword and short bow as well as an air of quiet competence. The other peasants, who they later learn are Moyle’s sundry sons and nephews, serve as his assistants and carry knives and staves. A flagon is passed around, and Sir Houla announces a toast to the hunt. Sir Houla offers Sirs Ewen and Baris the honor of selecting the quarry, and after a brief consultation they settle upon boar.

The hunting party heads initially away from the village bearing northeast, passing Moyle’s own cottage on their way out of town. Moyle remarks that he knows an area of the forest where boar can typically be found, and for the benefit of the guests explains the geography of the local terrain. Kista Wood is comprised of about five thousand acres, one thousand of which belong to Whyce. The remaining four thousand acres are a royal hunting preserve.

After traveling along the trail about a league, they come upon a small stone building which Sir Houla points out as the royal hunting lodge. It is three stories in height with a thatched roof. On the left side of the building an external staircase rises to the second floor, while the double door on the ground floor is surmounted by the head and rack of a seventeen point buck. Sir Ruak, the royal forester and lone denizen of the lodge, is evidently still asleep, and Sir Houla announces they will refrain from awakening him at this early hour. Boar spears are purloined from the hunting lodge, however, the horses are stabled securely, and the group makes its way southward on foot into the woods.

They trample through the forest for a time, dense overgrown thicket alternating with the occasional open glade. Imarë periodically drifts away from the group to acquaint herself with various examples of the local flora of interest only to herself. After a time, Moyle, intimately familiar with the terrain, succeeds in spotting a boar at about two hundred feet off. Moyle patiently leads the peasants in the party around to the rear of the boar, with hopes of beating it in the direction of the hunters. The boar, oblivious to the beaters fanning out around it, snuffles about in the undergrowth in search of fungal delicacies. Meanwhile, the hunting party arrays itself per Sir Houla’s gesturing. Two Meken are stationed on either wing, Sir Houla, Sir Ewen and Sir Baris in the center, and the various knights of the order to either side of them.

After a period of waiting while everyone gets into position, the beaters abruptly start violently whacking and beating at the underbrush. Startled and indignant, the boar snorts and bolts, veering off to the hunting group’s left. Imarë takes the lead and the party begins pursuit. In their effort to catch the boar, two doves are flushed but ignored. The boar is still somewhere ahead, but is soon located again and the group fans out as before. Signaling all to remain still, Moyle squints as he hefts a sizable stone in his hand, gauging the distance and the location of the hunters shrewdly. He flings the rock at the boar and it wheels, grunting with indignation. It lowers its head and charges the line, crashing through the undergrowth as it picks up speed with shocking rapidity.

Sir Ewen plants his feet and lowers his spear as the boar thunders in directly toward him. Somewhere over his shoulder a loud voice rings out, “Yours, Sir Ewen!” Glancing over his shoulder in irritation, Sir Ewen beholds Sir Baris bracing himself some two yards to his rear, spear brandished aggressively, one leg extended in a dramatic posture of manly athleticism, determination chiseled upon his features. Frowning, Sir Ewen returns his attention to the boar just as the charging beast is almost upon him, murderous tusks lowered, barreling in. Sir Ewen deftly sidesteps and drives his spear into the beast’s heavy flank, a solid skewer eliciting a furious grunt and enraged squeal. Pivoting to prevent the tremendous weight of the animal from unbalancing him, Sir Ewen rams the spear home until it stops upon its flanges. Sir Ewen staggers as the beast topples heavily, gripping the spear fast as the boar thrashes wildly, and then steps back as the animal finally subsides, unconscious and bleeding heavily. Planting his foot upon the boar’s haunch, Sir Ewen wrenches the spear from its flank and drives it through the head near the neck, loosing a gory spurt of blood.

“Well done, Sir Ewen, well done,” Sir Houla pronounces blandly, coming up from behind to examine the kill. Meanwhile, the other hunters have all gathered around Sir Baris, clapping him upon the shoulders and complimenting him on his sporting panache in backing up Sir Ewen. Sir Baris takes the praise in good cheer, laughing broadly and clasping hands with his various admirers. Sir Houla, business-like and efficient, severs the boar’s head to feed to the hounds, while the Meken go to work cutting down saplings upon which to lash the prize.

Later, walking on ahead, making their way back to the hunting lodge, Sir Ewen turns to Sir Baris in evident irritation. “And what was all that supposed to be about?”

Sir Baris shrugs his shoulders, grinning amiably. “When you’re on the hunt, Sir Ewen, you have to play by a whole new set of rules.” Sir Ewen scowls and shakes his head in aggravation.

A repast featuring toothsome bits of fresh boar follows at the hunting lodge. Sated, the party returns to the woods . During the afternoon a great deer is spotted by Moyle. Imarë succeeds brilliantly at closing on the great deer, then shoots the deer in the rump. It drops with this single shot. The hunt returns to Whyce at this point, leaving the Meken behind to clean and gut the venison and cut down nearby saplings to tie the carcass upon. Imarë, parsimonious as ever, retrieves her arrow before departing. They all meet Sir Ruak Hosath at the hunting lodge as they go about the business of retrieving their horses. Sir Ruak examines the deer, puzzled by the lack of an obvious puncture wound, and some levity is enjoyed regarding Imarë’s “hind” shot. Introductions are made all around, and Sir Ruak Hosath, it turns out, is a cousin by marriage to Lady Cheselyne. Sir Ruak invites the party to join him at the lodge, but Sir Houla demurs, leaving the group with the impression that Sir Houla and Sir Ruak are not quite on cordial terms with each other. The knights ride on ahead and those on foot toil behind. Upon arriving back at Whyce, Sir Houla invites the party to come and share the bounty of the hunt at his table in a few hours.
Back at the Galloping Stallion, the inn is crowded as the twilight gloom gathers over the village. Kaelyn is underwhelmed to spy Sir Baris, the day not having lasted long enough for her to fully prosper in his un-noisy absence. Sir Baris orders a large ale and brags about his purported deeds of the day. One older peasant listens with rapt attention, and eventually makes so bold as to ask whether Sir Baris has ever come across a young man named Arton Wyant, Sir Baris having clearly traveled from so far afield in his day. Arton, it develops, is the man’s son, missing these past three years. The father has no concept where young Arton was bound, labels him a headstrong boy, and says that he had left previously but used to come back to Whyce quite regularly until his final departure three years ago. The father does not know where Arton traveled to in his journeys, but supposes that he must have gone as far as Tashal. Sir Baris, patient and kindly toward the despondent old man, is eventually forced to admit he has not encountered the boy, upon which the old man slumps back down on his bench and loses interest in the knight.

At some point a harper begins strumming a passable tune, singing fairly well to those assembled in the common room. Imarë notices a group of people who were not here yesterday, one fellow in particular catching her eye because he is wearing a mail byrnie. Imarë wrinkles her sensitive nose as she catches a whiff of him. She nudges the others at her table, indicating the interesting group. Three men, and a woman in green who is small and slight in stature. One of the men is clean-shaven and looks like he could handle himself, armed with an axe. The fellow with the byrnie is bearded and scruffy-looking, with an axe and short sword. The fourth man is small and bewildered of mien, with a large leather pouch slung over one shoulder. Cekiya thinks the woman is a Peonian.

The feast is held at the chapterhouse after dark. The group approaches the gatehouse, which is rather grand for the fifteen foot manorial curtain wall. The gate is surmounted by a coat of arms of the Order of the Lady of Paladins set upon a stone tablet. Two Meken guards come to attention, the knights identify themselves, and they are passed through. They pass the chapel immediately to their right, note the kennel, stables, and smithy, and come to a large two-storey building midway down the courtyard on their right. They enter through the double doors, and find a hall dominated by two long tables with one head chair, chairs eight apiece on each side, tapestries with Laranian scenes, and various religious statuary. Sir Houla greets the guests, directs the knights to either side of him at the head of the table, and the other group members take their seats at the tables to the side. Servants are just bringing in the boar, which is placed at Sir Houla’s table. Sir Aubis is invited to carve by the Reblena, and this worthy makes deft work of the roast. Inclining his head, he offers Sir Baris the first choice of cut, and Sir Baris eagerly leans forward and selects the choicest piece. Sir Aubis swivels his head toward Sir Ewen, who waves his hand vaguely and smiles, resigned just to take Sir Baris’ leavings. Venison later comes out pre-carved. The conversation is a little stilted throughout the meal, one topic being whether to go on crusade to Melderyn or not. They glean from the conversation that a meeting of various Kaldoric chapter houses has been called here for early Nuzyael, and it is clear that Sir Houla is opposed to any adventures in the south, as are all the others present, save for two who speak up in the course of the discussion. One of the knights who favors the crusade, Sir Beregil the chaplain, is one of the two youngest knights present, the majority being an older crowd. Sir Beregil is also the only Laranian not a formal member of the order, being a priest of the Spear of Shattered Sorrow. The other knight in favor of the crusade to eradicate the Solori tribesmen is Sir Kurg. The discussion, while it continues for some time, is not particularly rancorous. Sir Houla, eventually bringing the after dinner conversation to a close, says the weather calls for rain on the morrow, but he invites the group to join him on the following day for one last hunt. After some singing and merriment, they stumble back to the inn.

13 Savor 731

Rainy and cold weather, hung like a pall over Kaldor’s countryside, bears out the previous evening’s prognostication made by the trick knee of the Reblena’s scullery maid. Nevertheless, while breaking their fast in the common room, the group perceives loud noises from without, and someone cries that a fistfight is underway outside the inn. Sir Ewen remains behind while the others rush to the door, led by Sir Baris, who eagerly seizes upon a respite from potential tedium. Two peasants can be perceived brawling in the downpour, one of the men pummeling the other with his fisticuffs. It becomes clear after a time that the one being pummeled is heavily inebriated. Sir Baris, considering the sodden pugilists with interest, asks a nearby peasant who it was started the disagreement. The peasant, leaning over, eyes glued all the while to the melee, assures Sir Baris that the brawl is only the most recent altercation between the two, the better looking of the two men having evidently fathered the drunken man’s child. Sir Baris nods, impressed by this intelligence. He notes with professional interest that blood is flowing rather freely from the nose and cheek of the drunk now, who is clearly getting the worse of the exchange.

“Caxton,” one of the peasants calls, “shouldn’t you break this one up?” The man addressed as Caxton shakes his head sourly: I’m tired of it, he snarls, let them finish it this time. Sir Baris, concurring heartily with this lusty judgment, purses his lips and shadow boxes while he watches, feinting and punching at the thin air while the peasants around him call out to the fighters in a growing frenzy, and the handsome fellow drives his opponent to his knees with a powerful flurry of blows. The drunk tries to raise up on one knee, gamely attempting to rally in one final burst of defiance, but his assailant, looming over him with fist cocked, delivers a punishing coup de grace, and the drunk keels over, collapsing face downward in the mud. Sir Baris, straightening up, glances about to see whether anyone took note of his vicarious sparring, and catches the elf rolling her eyes. Sir Baris shrugs, grinning. The handsome fellow, breathing heavily, rain streaming down his face, looks around at the spectators. He nods in satisfaction, peers into the inn, and announces, “I think I’ll have an ale.” A smattering of applause from the peasants signals guarded approbation. A Peonian emerges and begins to tend to the injuries of the vanquished cuckold. Sir Baris, eavesdropping on the chattering peasantry, gets the impression that the villagers, congratulating the victor now, do not necessarily approve his general behavior but are content to bask in the satisfaction of having backed the winner. The child, Baris does learn, is the vanquished’s only son.

Sir Baris, energized by all of this spectating, walks about the village for a bit as the rain slackens. Most of the peasants are inside, but the few attending to duties out of doors tug forelocks in his direction as he passes them by. The village seems more prosperous than he had initially assumed, with more of a town feeling to it than other manors. The freeholds are well tended, livestock seem healthy, and there are more craftsmen in evidence: Sir Baris passes the establishments of a timberwright, a woodcrafter, a smith, a miller, and a chandler during his walk. He doesn’t see a single member of the Order as he peregrinates, however. Lake Kista is larger than his initial impression as well, stretching far to the north; he can barely discern one small fishing vessel, far beyond shore, in the grey drizzle.

Kaelyn scries for Aethel Atan, remaining in her room much of the day.

Sir Ewen calls at the Chapterhouse and asks if he can visit the chapel. This having been approved, the guards pass Sir Ewen, who finds the chapel entrance immediately to the right beyond the gate. The chapel doors are closed but not locked. The chapel itself is laid out in the round, with a five foot wide second floor balcony looking down upon the ground floor, with a dome arching farther above. To the left, in the northwest and northeast corners, two spiral staircases ascend, while at the center of the southern wall the altar stands against a straight, uncurved segment of the encircling wall. Sir Ewen kneels upon the wooden floor before a piece of Laranian statuary to feign meditation while trancing. Stealing a glimpse upward, he examines frescos lining the second floor gallery along the dome, each depicting scenes of Laranian theology: Dolithor, Tirithor, and such. Circular clerestory windows let in light, pillars supporting the dome each bear a checkered shield. Turning his attention inward, Sir Ewen struggles to find the best posture and focus to facilitate his trancing, and finally settles on staring at a small, slightly discolored patch on the wall before him, which seems somehow about right. Time passes, until a voice finally breaks his reverie, and Sir Ewen emerges from the trancing refreshed. He turns his head.

Sir Beregil apologizes for interrupting Sir Ewen’s devotions, stating he wishes that more would show such piety. Sir Beregil asks whether it is true that the Serekela himself showed favor unto Sir Ewen? Sir Ewen nods, acknowledging his role in assisting the order. Sir Beregil has heard rumors of strange doings at Abriel Abbey? Sir Ewen rises and smoothes his clothing, and moves in the general direction of the pillars. They say there were many deaths? Ewen nods, examining the pillar: Deaths, and the spawn of Morgathian witchery. Sir Beregil gasps. Within the precincts of the abbey, Sir Ewen adds gratuitously. And they say the Rekela was somehow involved? Sir Ewen rounds on him and studies Sir Beregil for a moment, nodding. Speaking in measured tones, he suggests that evil must be fought wherever it might be found. Sir Beregil nods earnestly, taking a step closer to Sir Ewen: This is why I believe we must support our brothers in Melderyn! I have tried – most of the order here in Kaldor would separate – He breaks off, as if stopping himself before going too far. Dropping his gaze, he again apologizes for disturbing Sir Ewen’s devotions, and takes his leave without further comment. Sir Ewen considers his departing figure with a narrowed gaze.

The bridge, clearly, has two sluices below it. Which seem designed to dam up the stream, which then increases the strength of the current, which in turn powers the mill more effectively. Sir Baris, growing satisfied with his analysis, scratches his head, peering into the churning water. One sluice, unless he is very much mistaken, is lacking a grate. While preoccupied with this examination, bent forward, hands upon knees, head cocked to one side, he fails to notice a young boy’s arrival on the northern bank until the child enquires in a high, piping voice whether Sir Baris might be a stranger. Straightening up to his full height, which makes the boy’s eyes grow wide, fists planted upon hips, Sir Baris considers the point for a moment and allows, with a agreeable shrug, that he probably is a stranger.

The boy nods shrewdly. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

“Oh?” Sir Baris asks.

“I mustn’t disobey father,” the boy explains.

“Hmm,” Sir Baris agrees, willing to endorse the general principle that a young man should mind his father in such matters.

“Strangers have stories to tell,” the boy adds, his commitment to parental authority already withering. “Do you know any stories?”

Sir Baris, feeling somewhat put on the spot, his mind inexplicably devoid of any stories to tell, tries to impress the boy with the facts of his own knighthood, and his participation in a grand hunt the day before.

The boy, nonplussed, digests this for a few moments. He then identifies himself as Purg, and adds that while he might not be a knight, he might just become a Meken one day. Then, considering Sir Baris skeptically, arms akimbo, Purg makes so bold as to suggest that Sir Baris does not look very much like a knight of the order.

A bit taken aback, Sir Baris frowns censoriously in commiseration, saying, “Mmm. People should look like what they are.”

Purg frowns obdurately at this bit of evasive sophistry, and then decides upon a change of tack. “The miller,” he opines boastfully, “has the most important job in the whole village!” Purg then slaps a hand over his mouth, comically wide-eyed, and glances around, fearful of having been overheard. “I’m not supposed to say that!” he says in a small voice.

Sir Baris leans forward conspiratorially, and whispers kindly, “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

Appearing relieved, emboldened even, Purg then asserts that, without bread, nobody would eat, and all would starve. He pauses, frowning mightily, before delivering himself of an axiom. “Bread is … Life!”

Sir Baris pauses to mop his brow at this point, remembering his recent conversations with Aethel Atan, and wonders whether seven year old boys are now to practice philosophy upon him. Rather desperately changing the topic to the first thing his eye falls upon, he blurts out awkwardly, “Oh, I say, that metal grate must be missing under the bridge there!”

Purg shakes his head wearily, as if conversing with a very dull child. “No, they put the logs in that one. Alcuin,” he patiently explains to Baris, “sends all the logs downstream, even to Tashal. Have you been to Tashal?”

For a brief instant of panic, Sir Baris fears this Alcuin might be some savant Purg is invoking to confound him, the kind of fellow who might have invented, say, lower case letters, but the mention of Tashal signals a welcome return to familiar ground. Raising his eyebrows impressively, Sir Baris announces, “I live in Tashal.”

Purg’s eyes grow enormous again. He thinks for a moment. “Wycliffe says that he goes to Tashal all the time. He’s a teamster. He brings back food. We don’t grow enough here.”

Sir Baris looks around, baffled. “No? It seems quite prosperous here.”

Purg snorts derisively. “It’s boring. There’s nothing to do.”

Sir Baris attempts to ascertain from the boy what “Wycliffe” does while in Tashal, hoping it’s nothing too cerebral, but Purg’s information seems to extend only to tales of plays and mummers. When Purg’s eyes fasten upon Sir Baris’s sword, the knight dutifully draws it and proffers it to the awestruck lad, who examines it gingerly while keeping an ear half cocked to Baris’s rather overlong tale about his own boyhood in Melderyn and, later, Tharda. Purg’s rudimentary grasp of geography is confounded by the details of Baris’s story, however, and he offers frank skepticism when the knight refers to a King Arren. Purg is quite clear on the fact that his father told him the present king’s name is Haldan. Sir Baris patiently tries to explain that another kingdom lies far to the west, and that there are actually many other kingdoms, Melderyn being among them.

“How many?” Purg inquires, dubious.

“Dozens.”

The lad screws up his little face. “But, father said there is nothing higher than the king, but if there are lots of other kingdoms, wouldn’t they all be equal?”

Stumped for a moment, again unwilling to gainsay parental authority, Sir Baris screws up his own face, and then lights upon the ideal retort. “The gods,” he announces portentously, “are higher than kings.”

“Like Peoni? Ohhhhh,” Purg exclaims, with an expression of dawning comprehension –

“PUUURRRRRGGG!”

A very angry man is marching down from the mill, fists clenched and face contorted in rage. Purg shrinks before this ogre as the man storms down, cuffs him once and shakes him roughly by his tunic. Noticing Sir Baris, the man hastily bows and expresses hope that Purg has caused him no trouble.

“I was just talking to the lad,” Sir Baris offers equably, a bit alarmed, but the man becomes almost apoplectic at this information. He bellows some more at poor Purg, but then abruptly decides he had better bow again toward Sir Baris, perhaps recognizing that Sir Baris must be one of the recent guests of chapterhouse.

Adelin of Lemra, the miller of Whyce, manages to introduce himself, still breathing hard from the labors of parental oversight. “My son does not know his place,” he spits sourly, and to make the point he glares downward in goggle-eyed fury at the boy.

“It was I who inquired of him,” Sir Baris insists, trying to mollify the man, and eventually Adelyn regains his temper enough to lead Sir Baris up from the stream toward the miller’s house, shoeing Purg on ahead of them.

He brings Sir Baris past the mill, three stories in height, and as they enter the building Baris can see to the right the great gears of the wheel, iron rod running from waterwheel to two enormous millstones, grooved like a fans, grinding counterclockwise, interlocked, about a ton in weight each. To the left are the ovens, and in front many wooden racks and trays for cooling.

Inside the residence, Sir Baris formally introduces himself and meets the miller’s wife and eldest daughter, who proffer seedcakes. He inwardly notes that the wife and the miller are both extremely well-dressed for guildsmen. The wife, he notices, wears a silver chain with an iron key hanging from it. As they chat, Sir Baris wonders about it, and can just make out what appears to be writing on the key, appearing to be in a script that he has seen in the temple of Sarajin. Sir Baris exclaims at this.

“You don’t like the seedcakes?” the wife asks.

“No, no, madam, I was admiring the symbol on your necklace.”

The wife’s hand closes protectively over the key. “My brother gave me this key, and when he returns I will give it to him.” Her voice catches with concern as she says this, and Sir Baris inquires gently about her brother. “My brother’s name is Arton.”

Surprised, Sir Baris recalls that a man in the village asked him about an Arton, and the wife confirms that the man in question is her father. “Your father told me Arton often went on journeys,” Baris offers. “What does your brother do?”

The wife seems puzzled by the question.

Sir Baris tries again. “Why did he leave Whyce?”

“I don’t know,” she admits simply.

“Is your brother a strong lad?”

“He is no weakling ...” The miller watches this exchange, confused and scowling, but holding his tongue.

“Did Arton have associates?” Sir Baris asks.

“None that I know of.”

“What of the key?”

She shakes her head. “He didn’t tell me.” She then waxes on for a time about her brother Arton, and how he is the very best brother one could ever have.

By the end of all this, Sir Baris, damp of eye and filled with tender sympathy for the poor matron, draws himself up to his full height. “Madam,” he pronounces, “you have piqued my interest in the sad tale of your poor, lost brother. I am from Tashal, and I plan to return there in two day’s time. I would as lief help a lady in need, and if you can provide a description of your brother, and any other clues that might be of help ...” He gestures significantly toward the necklace, trailing off.

Glancing to her husband, her cheeks coloring slightly, she steps toward Sir Baris and allows him to examine more closely the key where it rests upon her bosom. Sir Baris leans in close, attempting to descry the runic lettering. After a time, the wife exclaims, “Why, Sir, there is more script on the back of key!” Adelin grunts impatiently.

Glancing downward at the key nestled above her cleavage, the wife says, “It is the only thing I have left of my brother. But you are a knight ...”

“Hiloray …” the miller warns, but his wife rounds on him impatiently.

“Adelin, he’s a knight! He might be able to help!”

“I can only promise I’ll try,” Sir Baris intones, straightening.

Hiloray slowly unsnaps the key from her chain. “I have your word … as a knight of Larani?”

“You have my word … as a knight.” Sir Baris bows very low. She hands him the key. Sir Baris studies it, and then puts it away in his money pouch for safekeeping. After some more polite talk, he takes his leave of the miller and his wife, reiterating his promise to investigate the wife’s missing brother Arton.

“Purg is a good boy,” he asserts. “I hope to see him again. You should be proud of him.” The miller just scowls darkly at this. Sir Baris returns to the inn, where everyone else is already gathered.

Kaelyn has been in her room much of the day. Kaelyn, having meditated well upon her scrying, is rewarded with a vision of Aethel Atan’s voluminous posterior descending a ladder. He turns and surveys an irregularly shaped room, a straight wall to the right, a diagonally oriented wall fanning away to the left. On the far side of the room is a round table with eight chairs surrounding it. The table is approximately eight to ten feet in diameter. There is a staircase to the immediate left going down. The room has shelves with many books, a statue, a skull, and other esoterica. Beyond the table is a fireplace. The right-hand wall is divided into thirds by two doors. The ladder Aethel Atan descended is immediately behind Kaelyn’s point of view. Coming up the stairs from the left is Molly, carrying a tray of food. Aethel says, Oh Molly, what do we have tonight? Molly replies, but Kaelyn can not hear what she says. Aethel exclaims, Again?! Molly curtsies: It is all there was at the market. Put it on the table, please, he sighs. Molly deposits the tray, bobs again, and departs. He takes down a volume from the shelves, thumbs through it, looks down upon the tray, picks up a flagon and pours into a goblet, gulps down wine, sits back, and waits. And waits some more. He gets up, goes to another shelf, pulls down some paper, ink, and pen. He spreads it out, pulls the book back in toward him, opens it, dips pen into ink, pauses, waits, waits, and then scribbles furiously. Kaelyn peers with her mind’s eye, and is able to make out the words, “Consider that his sister was the motive after all.” He puts down the pen, digs into the ham. He eats, and eats, until the image fades.

Later, Sir Baris tells of his afternoon in excruciating detail. He passes the key around, and Kaelyn is easily able to identify the runic letters. On one side is the letter “L”, on other side the letters “JM”. Sir Ewen object reads the key, but finds nothing magical about it. The key is about three inches long, with a fairly complex set of teeth along the shaft.

Evening, in the common room of the inn. Arton’s father is speaking with an aged man, and at one point gestures in the direction of the party; the older man turns arthritically toward the group and frankly stares at them for a moment. The fellow with the mail byrnie is back with his friends, tonight sans byrnie. Sir Baris asks Imarë to listen in on them, and she hears the word Gardiren uttered clearly. Sir Ewen tries to extend senses, appearing rather pensive for a long moment, so Sir Baris takes pains to not interrupt. They appear to be disputing over whether to return to Gardiren or report to Tashal, and the latter option appears to win, advocated by the bewildered looking fellow over the objections of the fellow formerly in the byrnie, who had championed returning to Gardiren.

14 Savor 731

On the morning of the fourteenth they hunt with Sir Houla, take some game, and declare life to be good. That evening they return to the inn, tired but content. Many ales are quaffed, comestibles are consumed, and there is no sign of the small party of four who mentioned Gardiren. The innkeeper, a former member of the Lady of Paladins, engages Sir Ewen in conversation at the bar, the principal topic being Sir Ewen’s enviable acquisition of Varayne. Sir Ewen cooperates for a moment, smiling slyly and offering a tantalizing mention of Morgathians at the abbey. Then his smile fades and he leans in toward the innkeeper, right hand closing hard upon the man’s wrist. Sir Ewen lowers his voice.

“Why don’t you keep your voice down, and tell me why you want to know.”

The innkeeper responds in a slight monotone. “So that I can tell the Reblena what you answer.”

Sir Ewen raises one eyebrow. “Abriel Abbey …” He holds the innkeeper’s gaze.

“The bishop there.”

He speaks slowly. “There is no bishop there.”

The innkeeper’s forehead creases. “Ilor Hadan.”

“Bad career move.” Sir Ewen’s mouth twists at the corner in cruelty. “Reluctant, you might say.”

“Loser.”

Sir Ewen shakes his head sadly. “Not the kind who likes crusades.”

“Loser,” he repeats.

“That’s right. The Reblena needs to understand that. Losers go away.”

A cloud passes over the innkeeper’s brow. “The Reblena … worries.”

Sir Ewen nods. “Good. Things will change.”

“The Reblena will fight change.”

“You must not trust the Reblena.”

“I owe the Reblena my life.”

“Then you must help him change.”

The innkeeper shakes his head. “Whah – “ He pulls his arm away from Sir Ewen, glancing briefly at his wrist. He shakes his head again, as if it were full of cobwebs.

“ – and that is how these things happen, I suppose,” Sir Ewen chuckles casually, as if completing some benign anecdote.

The innkeeper smiles slowly, nods. “Hey. Another drink?”

“Sure,” Sir Ewen says. He laughs. “Sure. I’ll have another one.”