by Daniel Heck
This sinks in as you travel. By the time you reach Sungaze, a solemnity weighs you down. You can hardly remember the last time Titania uttered anything resembling those words.
A new day dawns…
Taking care to maintain external calm, but with your mind racing, you fold the message into fourths and place it in your vestment pocket.
“This shall wait,” you assert.
“That’s the Bartleby I know,” Mudd says. “Now, we need to go see if the king can calm our elf friend down a few notches.”
You ponder for a moment. “Is he truly the only person that can represent the steppe? What if we went to speak to the citizens themselves?”
Mudd pumps his fist and nods heartily. “Give them a voice! Gather opinions and perspectives. After all, what’s the worst that can happen? A revolt? I’m surprised I didn’t think of it myself.”
Your reputation, you think with a frown, explains that much.
“Accompany me for a while,” he continues, “and I’ll let you go deal with that other matter within, oh, a fortnight or so. Does that sound fair?”
You grimace, but quickly paste on a smile and agree.
Over that time, getting to ride in the duke’s carriage and seeing otherwise unfamiliar countryside become the ordeal’s only saving graces. The duke orders you around on a constant basis, to fetch things, fix things, watch out for things, and in general do anything and everything except what a professional mediator would normally do. Indeed, the word ‘accompany’ would have been better replaced with ‘serve,’ and yet others in Mudd’s entourage could probably perform the same drudgery just as effectively. By the fourth day, you are utterly sick of the fakery, the political self-masking and the pompous air that Mudd carries with him wherever he goes.
Yet, you reassure yourself, A man must make a living. What good would I do for those I care about without it?
Mercifully, Mudd notices your plight after a week. After a bit of negotiation, he tosses you a bag of silver and dismisses you with a curt wave. He refuses to even temporarily provide you a horse, and from the expanses of the steppe, Whitetail is another three days’ journey away on foot.
Your provisions last you the entire trip, but by the time you get there, your feet and back make their regrets clear by aching beyond description. And on top of it all, a female screech pierces your ears the moment you cross through the capital gates.
“Did I not say in the message that this was important?” Titania shouts as she waves her hands about.
“It is good to see you too, my love,” you grumble. You show Titania the silver as a half-hearted explanation.
“Don’t give me that! Can’t your superiors give you one moment of slack when you need it?”
“Truly, no,” you counter.
“Fedwick was having visions. Hallucinations, Bartleby! Fearsome ones that kept him in a half-conscious stupor. He said something about…. a gate… through which Thomerion himself could reach this land.”
Your eyes grow wide. “Thomerion? The god of destruction…”
“And there are additional complications.”
“Such as?”
“I checked in with Fedwick’s caretakers to find him… missing.”
Your breath shortens. “Missing? How could he just disappear?”
She pauses. “Come with me.”
The two of you hustle through the streets toward the eastern quarter, where the medical ward stands, and enter. Some ill or wounded townsfolk glance up at you, while others focus on their healing, groaning of discomfort. You sidestep around a pile of supplies as you survey the area. Men and women of various ages frantically cross the precious few square meters of the ward, from a shelf to the beds and back again, trying to keep up.
Seeing that no one is paying attention to you, you shout, “Pardon me, but what was the last anyone has seen of one Fedwick, of the Canterbury clan?”
A nurse in a white apron and cap approaches you and chides, “Keep your voice down. The patients appreciate a calm atmosphere.”
You nod in apology.
“Fedwick was here, in his normal bed, as of last night. This morning I had assumed he had merely stepped out for air, and admittedly, I dawdled in checking with the attendants as to his status.” Her voice remains firm even as her eyes avoid your gaze.
“So you have no idea where he went?”
She shakes her head. “When I looked outside, however, I saw footprints that might have been his.”
“I can think of two options,” you assert.
Whom do you consult?
I risk using magic to divine Fedwick’s whereabouts.
We hire a tracker to physically find Fedwick.
You stand by your conviction in fighting for what appears to be the greater good. “What is that imp going to do,” you ask, “if I do break my word? I doubt it could even find us on its own.”
Titania nods with force. “Let’s continue, then. No distractions.”
And no moral compunctions either…
You dismount and offer, “I’ll watch first.”
Titania, already off her horse, rubs your arm and consoles, “It sure would be nice if no one had to do it.”
You sit within the mossy outskirts of an oaken stump and listen as the others settle in. Their breathing slows as the moon climbs higher, and the orcblood snores mightily, occasionally writhing about as his breath catches.
You examine your sun talisman, which hangs as it always has, from your neck via a simple silver chain. The points of its sun, equidistant and radiating in all eight compass directions, seem to speak to you. Over time, a sobering realization also hits you: you have not prayed since you began this journey.
Somehow, it all has seemed too easy, you think. Perhaps we should prepare, in whatever divine way might help, for the inevitable obstacles ahead.
You bow your head. Instead of invoking your usual sun god, you take a new angle. You mumble to a deity you learned about directly from Cristof, your temple’s monsignor:
Animata di Lamnish, er Dey Ranglit Yah Notzin….
Animata di Lamnish, der Tonguin par Lengin…
(Move our wings, and hold our hearts close to you…)
(Move our wings, and help our words support life…)
The wispy tones of Cirran, the language of legendary cloud-creatures and sky-dwellers, strike you as particularly appropriate, even as you are gravity-bound.
You smile, and breathe deep.
Animata di Lamnish, er Den Fash nem Crethma…
(Move our wings, and guide our feet toward home…)
Nothing else of note happens during the night. You switch watch duty with Galumnuk just as the moon reaches its apex.
Sweet dreams!
Other options aside, the mention of the footprints must be some sort of clue. Even if they’re not Fedwick’s, they might lead to something, or someone, important.
You examine the ground outside the medical ward, where you can see the beginnings of many trails, since the terrain is damp from recent rain. But within yards of the entrance, they all become muddled with each other; it’s almost impossible to tell whose is whose without additional clues.
“Let’s find a tracker,” you suggest.
Titania nods. Since there isn’t a designated place where such people regularly convene, the two of you decide to see who you can find at the Pig’s Foot Inn and Tavern, the largest and most popular pub in Ambrosinia. It takes only a few moments to get there, as its centered location makes it easily findable from just about anywhere in Whitetail.
A cacophony of voices and commotion meets your ears as you push past the tavern’s wooden doors. A wizened human standing on a crate rambles through an impassioned speech about ‘invasive plant life,’ while a trio of halflings plays some sort of dice game at a nearby table, casting their gaze about the room and giggling uncontrollably after each roll. While perusing an aisle, Titania nearly trips over a drunkard sprawled across the floor.
Not a single tab
le available, you note, but, we’re not here to drink.
It takes another full minute to find someone that looks like they might have the proper know-how: in a shadowed nook, with a green hood cinched over her head by a stringed clasp, sits a demure female elf, chatting with an orcblood. Her appearance reminds you of a band of rangers that patrols the prairie to the east, but in a departure from their usual arms, she carries a sheathed shortsword at her waist. As you approach, you hear foreign words, guttural and rough, escape her mouth. She turns a leaf over and over in her hands.
She notices you, looks up, smiles and says in the common language, “May I help you?” Her dimples crinkle her mouth into a quite beautiful shape, and her eyes shine even more brightly than those you’re used to gazing into.
“Why, yes…” you say with a grin, injecting your voice with an excitable energy, “I am Bartleby, servant of the church of the sun. May I?” You reach for her hand.
She giggles and replies, “Of course. Quite pleased to make your acquaintance, Bartleby.” You kiss her fingers, once.
Titania clears her throat from over your shoulder. The orcblood across from the lady shifts nervously.
“Apologies. I… we… couldn’t help but wonder… although perhaps appearances deceive me, might you have tracking skills we could employ?”
She smiles even wider. “Why, indeed I do,” she replies, “For a fair price, no less.”
An awkward pause ensues. Titania nudges your elbow.
“And, good madam, what might your price be?” you ask.
“Normally, twenty silver, unless extensive travel is required. For you, half of that.”
You look toward Titania for approval. She rolls her eyes but shrugs in acquiescence.
To her friend the tracker mumbles a pardon, and she stands. You reach into your coin pouch, blindly count out the requisite coins, and slip them into her palm.
“My name is Darlayne,” she says in a husky alto, “and I am at your service.”
Titania takes charge and says, “I am Titania Vermouth, of Sungaze. Darlayne, a dwarf by the name of Fedwick, of the Canterbury clan and Bartleby’s godfather, has disappeared. We’re hiring you to find him.”
“Lead the way.”
The three of you head back toward the medical ward. When you are still many yards away, Darlayne darts ahead of the group and crouches over the ground near the ward’s entrance. Her gaze locks intently upon the grass.
“These!” she starts, sounding excited, “You said Fedwick is a dwarf, yes? I can tell which set is his by the distance between these prints… Yet, oh, my…”
You and Titania exchange glances. Darlayne wanders about the area, and then away from the entrance, in the direction of the northwest city gate. The two of you follow.
“This is not the gait of a healthy man. He stumbled quite frequently, as some of the prints either repeated themselves over one another or are oriented at odd angles to the usual path. And here is further evidence…”
She gingerly picks something up and examines it in the midday sun. Due to glare, you can barely tell whether anything is actually between her fingers.
“A hair…” she whispers, “with a streak of gray, of coarse texture and tightly curved.”
“That certainly sounds like Fedwick’s beard,” you concur.
Completely absorbed by her work, Darlayne moves further ahead, allowing you an opportunity. You pull Titania aside.
“So, what does the jealousy accomplish?” you whisper.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replies, folding her arms.
“I daresay you do.”
She waits a moment to reply, “Just because no one knows about us does not grant an excuse to flaunt yourself as if available to anyone…” She turns and closes the gap the tracker created.
You shake your head.
The two of you follow Darlayne all the way past the city gate and into the prairie surrounding the capital. She has fallen silent, so you ask, “Does it look to you like there was a struggle at any point? Was he accosted or kidnapped?”
The tracker turns toward you. “Not by anyone of humanoid inclination,” she says, “but look…”
A yard or two ahead, the footprints stop.
You see several sets of large, pointed indentations in the mud.
Darlayne plucks another object from the ground. This time you can see it better, for its sheen reflects the sunlight into a keen ray.
A black scale.
Your eyes narrow, and a bitterness pervades your tongue.
Xelbane.
The only black dragon remaining in the known world.
Titania’s eyes well, and she wrings her hands from the unspoken knowledge of what appears to have occurred. “What would that monster,” she whispers, “want with Fedwick?”
Darlayne lays a hand on her shoulder. “Peace be in your heart,” she soothes, “I theorize that he mounted the dragon willingly, as opposed to just being snatched from the air. That could be why we see claw tracks, as well as a scale, which doesn’t get knocked off dragon skin by itself.”
“But,” you counter, “That’s even more confusing…”
Titania warbles, “Dare we confront him? And how would we?”
The tracker smiles slyly. “I’ve been told he hides out in the end of a cavern system called the Divine Labyrinth.” You arch an eyebrow and feel your pulse race. She continues, “I’ve been curious about Xelbane for quite some time. If Fedwick cooperated for whatever reason, perhaps there’s less danger here than is immediately apparent. But, you never know. You might want me to tag along.”
The look in her doe eyes belies the confidence in her tone.
What do you do?
I invite Darlayne to accompany us.
I would rather we stay a twosome.
Even at the expense of waiting several days, you theorize, flying to the frozen isles should save an immense amount of time and trouble.
You ask the barkeep a few more questions, and in the process learn where the festival will be held (the town square and the surrounding handful of streets, including special space set aside for merchants and hawkers). After thanking Josephine and wishing her good day, you turn and push through the tavern doors, leaving the grizzled sailor with a confused frown on his face. Titania follows with fervor.
“I’ve heard of the illustrious Spring Festival,” she comments, “But I’ve never actually been able to make it there before. Politics in Sungaze had kept me occupied for so long…”
Her voice trails off as she seems to relive another time, perhaps neither better nor worse than now.
“It should indeed be exciting,” you reply, “even as we will not be there purely for recreation nor celebration.”
Titania grins and pushes on your chest as a dismissive ‘pshaw.’ “Mister dire and serious. All the time, every time, eh?”
You snicker and shrug. The two of you agree to reconvene at your home the evening before the event is to begin, and part for now.
Within hours, however, the time in between starts to crawl at a snail’s pace. Having effectively resigned from your position as political mediator, you have little to do but wander the streets and occasionally stare at the sky.
Here’s hoping I can develop a congregation of my own someday, you ponder, but I suppose that is why I wanted to break this habit of bowing to the monsignor’s desires…
Despite these feelings, near the end of the second day you drag yourself back to the temple of the sun, with no intention of speaking to your superiors. Worshippers are sparse, prompting thoughts of challenging the methods by which your church spreads word of its benefits.
You sit in the backmost row and scan the area. A blank, empty feeling washes over your spirit.
“Brother.”
The throaty voice triggers memories from long ago.
You turn. Behind you stands your gangly tomboy sister. She has lived a dozen fewer years but, judging from the lines in her forehead, life’s t
ravails weary her no less. The last time you saw her in person escapes your memory, but she casually chews on a toothpick as if nothing about her appearance should surprise you.
“Laurassa!”
You flinch, realizing your volume breaks the reverent environment.
“It has been ages,” you whisper as you stand and approach.
She embraces you gently, and does not smile.
“I’m only in town for a short while,” she says as she hitches a pack over her shoulder, “to confiscate some horses from a dishonest customer. I’d say it’s funny to run into you here, but a girl’s got her own confessions to make now and again.”
You nod as an awkward blush rises in your cheeks.
Laurassa continues, “I heard somethin’ ‘bout you questin’ with some old dwarf? Somethin’ ‘bout our godfather, a few years back?”
“Why did you leave?”
The question shocks you as it leaves your lips.
She recoils a bit, but quickly recomposes herself. With a subtle nod toward the temple doors, she indicates a better place to speak about such matters.
You follow and pounce again the moment you are outside. “I’ll ask a second time. Why did you leave? We needed you! Mother needed you.”
“Yes, she was extremely ill,” Laurassa admits, “and my timing was pretty awful. But Bartleby, we’ve got to be able to live our own lives. She ended up in pretty good hands until the end of her days, so it might be time to get off your high horse about it.”
Calm, she spits out her toothpick and crushes it into the mud with her foot.
You wait a moment, to quell the irritation rising within. “I,” you persist, “have devoted my life to the care of others, both physical and spiritual. And had hoped to set an example by it.”
She looks you straight in the eye. “You,” she counters, “Are not our father.”