It had occurred to Jerrad that snow-skin might flake off because the flesh around it was numb. He hoped that a highly diluted roast-weed tincture might stimulate the skin and bring it back to health. Because he had the sprite mud, he knew he could counteract the burning effects if he made the solution too strong.
Try as he might, he couldn't put the Broken Men out of his mind, nor could he feel anything but sympathy for them. Silverlake's woodsmen reported that crusaders had pilfered some wood from their lots—more as a report of a nuisance than any threat. They took to piling trimmings and short boards in a stack for the men to take. Fishermen had noticed Broken Men trying their luck with string and hook, or trying to net fish at some of the stream outlets. They didn't report any overwhelming success, and were willing to leave the crusaders all the small cutthroat that came up.
Something in the way others saw the Broken Men struck Jerrad as wrong. Silverlakers seemed to feel pity for the men. Not a huge surprise, since the ones he'd seen looked pretty pitiful, but that sentiment came tinged with disapproval. Whoever the men were now, they had once been strong warriors who had neither defeated the enemy nor died trying to kill them. The silent judgment seemed to be that these men must have been cowards on one level or another—were they not, they'd not be in such a bad state now.
That's a nasty little piece of circular logic.
Jerrad saw it differently. The warriors he'd met, both in his grandfather's court and in Baron Creelisk's contingent, weren't as much at home in the wood as he was. Even when the sprites had been bedeviling him, Jerrad could identify good mushrooms from bad, could have found his way home, and could have found enough food to last him until he made it home. If the warriors of Silverlake couldn't do that much, why would anyone expect crusaders to be able to do more? They were trained to make war, not to forage in a foreign land.
A branch snapped off to the west, beyond the far lip of the bog hollow. Jerrad came up a bit. What's he doing out here?
Baron Creelisk, apparently unarmed, walked through the wood with his head down and hands clasped at the small of his back. He seemed many miles away, lost in thought.
And truly lost. I've never seen him out this far. Jerrad climbed to the top of the hollow, then walked around the south end. "Is everything alright, my lord?"
Creelisk's head snapped up immediately. He turned slowly toward Jerrad, a smile struggling to curve his lips upward. "Master Vishov. It's good to see you. I was taking a walk so I could remember Silverlake well. Have you been successful doing whatever it is you're doing?"
"I'm gathering mushrooms and anything else I can find. It's all for the harvest feast."
"Of course." The man's eyes narrowed. "I'm grieved I shall not be able to join you. I should very much like to see how the custom plays out in so rustic a setting."
Jerrad shrugged. "Nelsa says the Murdoons have a family feast. Usually do it at the solstice just to break up the winter. Reminds them that spring's coming, and they're looking forward to ours as a way to welcome the winter. Why do you laugh, my lord?"
The man held his empty hands up. "Forgive me, but as you were speaking, you sounded more like a Murdoon than you did a Vishov. I found myself wondering if Ranall's speech would take on more of a pragmatic structure."
"I guess that's a good question."
"And I shall have an answer come next spring."
Jerrad arched an eyebrow. "You'll be returning to Silverlake, then?"
Creelisk nodded, gathering his hands at the small of his back. "Had I had time to make the proper preparations, I should have arranged to stay through the winter. I plan on wintering here next year. With any good fortune, I may convince Ranall's mother to join us. Even if she doesn't come, I'll see to it that a great deal of supplies are delivered in her name. I also have it in mind to bring a printing press and vineyard cuttings, so we can plant for a wine crop. Do you think those are good ideas?"
"I'm sure if you think they're good, they are, my lord."
The man half-grinned. "I asked your opinion, Master Vishov, because I truly seek it. You must understand that when you've reached my years, you view things through an ever-narrowing window. I can only contrast what is with what I have seen in the past. You, your sister, my son—even your mother, remarkably enough—have the vision to see this place as it can be. Might I ask you to indulge me?"
"As you wish, my lord."
The baron stroked his chin with a hand. "In your mind, where do you see Silverlake in five years? I mean, it will physically be here, of course, but, well—take this glade. We're well south of Silverlake, but how will this place be? Will the trees have been taken for building and fire? Will people level the hills and plant crops? What is it you see for the future?"
Jerrad's brows arrowed together as he concentrated. "Well, there's an old quarry. That's where Thornkeep got most of its stones. If we get some more stonecutters, we can build real walls. And there's mud here, white mud, which I think is really good clay. With some potters, we could make and sell urns and bowls and all sorts of ceramics. The Murdoons say the earth is good, so we can grow crops, maybe send things back to pay for the ones you've brought in. Five years, I guess, we could be five times as big as we are now, maybe twice that."
"The size of Cesca, then."
"Yes, my lord."
The man slowly nodded. "I cannot say I disagree with your vision."
From his tone, Jerrad couldn't tell if that was a good or bad thing. "Is that how you see things, my lord?"
"Yes, son, I do believe so." Creelisk looked past him, focusing distantly. "In five years, Silverlake would rival Thornkeep—nay, it will have surpassed it. People will start flocking to the Whip Banner come spring, and others will trade with Silverlake preferentially over Thornkeep. Blackshield's domain will wither. In fact, the night he scourged Silverlake was probably the last chance he had to save his realm."
"I think my mother would rather find a peaceful solution than fight with Blackshield."
"I'm certain she would, were that opportunity given her." Creelisk shook his head. "I can see from your expression this talk is unsettling. You'll forgive me. As I said, I can only see things through the past. Politics colors everything. Surely Blackshield can be made to see reason and bloodshed can be avoided."
"Yes, my lord."
Creelisk smiled, but it didn't carry up into his eyes. "I thank you for your opinion, Jerrad. Back in Ustalav, when I speak to others who might wish to travel here, I will share your vision for the future. I'm certain you will inspire many to visit the wood."
Jerrad bowed his head. "Thank you, my lord."
Creelisk waved vaguely back toward Silverlake. "Please, don't let me detain you."
"You're most kind, my lord. Enjoy your walk." Jerrad retreated quickly, putting two hills between them before he slowed down. He shivered. Something about that conversation seemed wrong. He felt as if the baron intended two meanings for every word, and one of them wasn't good.
He almost doubled back to trail the baron. Had it been just curiosity, he would have done it. But because he felt something was wrong and didn't wholly trust the man, he'd be spying. That just wasn't an honorable thing to do to a friend. Were he discovered doing it, his mother would be disappointed, and his sister would see him as having interfered with her relationship with Ranall.
"Whatever he's doing, it doesn't matter. He's leaving soon." Even if he was lying about something, like returning in the spring, it wouldn't matter. Unless he categorically refused any request by Tyressa for supplies—thereby endangering his own son—there really wasn't anything he could do to affect Silverlake.
Confident in his analysis, Jerrad headed back to Silverlake. The town would take care of itself, of that he was certain. He didn't know if his vision was right or wrong, but he was willing to bet more on the former.
Silverlake is the future, my future. Jerrad smiled to himself. And there's nothing I won't do to make the vision come true.
paizo.com #3236236, Corry
Douglas
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Wheels Turn
Creelisk waited until he was certain the Vishov boy had departed. There was something odd about the boy—more than just his being a product of that bloodline. He considered the possibility that Jerrad might have somehow detected the true nature of his ring. Though the baron was by no means a scholar of the Vishov family, he couldn't recall ever having heard of the Vishovs being magically inclined. Nothing the boy had done since Creelisk's arrival even hinted at magic—but then, the baron was willing to admit to himself, he'd really not paid Jerrad that much attention.
It hardly matters. Even if the boy were able to work magic, he had no one in Silverlake to properly instruct him. Moreover, the child was guileless. Had he somehow detected the reanimation magic and traced it back to the baron, he'd have reported it immediately to his mother. That she had said nothing to him about it, nor reacted to him any differently than she had at the start, suggested she'd been told nothing of the kind.
Creelisk thought for a moment. If Jerrad was able to work magic, it made him a bit more valuable. Were he saved from the doom that would descend inside the week, he could be trained and become an engine for vengeance. A wizardly avenger would certainly attract attention and support for Creelisk's endeavor.
The problem was simply that magic made the boy unpredictable. Creelisk was fairly certain the ring's magic couldn't be traced back to him, but that was by no means an absolute truth. If, at some point in the future, Jerrad did learn the truth, he'd become a serious threat to the Creelisk bloodline.
No. Even if the boy could work magic, the danger of keeping him alive greatly outweighed the risk of leaving him to whatever fate had in store for him. And if by happenstance Jerrad managed to survive the slaughter—especially through the use of magic—Creelisk could always welcome him home, and provide him training so they could avenge their dead. I could arrange for him to be managed and, if needed, destroyed.
Dismissing that matter from his mind, Creelisk wandered deeper into the woods. He came to the edge of a ravine, near where he'd found a strip of the ogrekin's flesh hanging from a branch previously. The sun and air had dried it down into a curled piece of leather no longer than his little finger. He pulled it from a pouch on his belt and tucked it through the loop of his ruby ring. Then, seating himself between the roots of an old oak, he triggered the ring's magic.
This was the greatest of the ring's magic, the whole point of the gambit. He needed a way not only to control a single animated creature, but to allow that control to spread from there to the living. The necromancer had called it his life's work—ironic, given that Creelisk had the man killed shortly after the ring's delivery.
Though parts of him still ached from having been linked to the undead ogrekin as its fellows tore the creature apart and devoured him, the baron marked that as a sign that the linkage critical for the success of his plan had been established. The verbal argument he'd made for the ogres to attack had only been to align their thoughts. They were thinking what Creelisk wanted them to think as they consumed the ogrekin.
They had ingested carrion with which he had a magical link. As he invoked the ring's power, pushing it through the lock of hair, the bit of bone and scrap of skin, it connected with those other bits that yet existed inside the ogres. A sliver of bone worked down between tooth and gum. Some hair as yet undigested. A bit of meat or fragment of nail that had lodged in some intestinal pocket, escaping evacuation. All of these resonated with magic.
The magic flowed through them and into the ogres' blood. Where the undead flesh had gone to strengthen muscle or grow new brain tissue, there it was the magic moved. In the ogres' minds, the magic touched upon the dreams and fantasies of conquering Silverlake. It kindled fears of the humans who dwelt there. It triggered hunger for manflesh. It recalled the glorious tales of Mosswater's fall and assured the ogres that their conquest of Silverlake would be just as memorable.
And in one ogre, more intelligent than the rest, it suggested that their attacking and feasting on the night of the human feast would, in fact, be a joke of the highest order.
Each day, as he took his walks so he "could remember Silverlake," he made time to inject himself into the ogres' minds. They resisted at first, but it became simpler and simpler. As the magic brought their thoughts to him, he remembered and reinforced things. He let each ogre know that its particular thoughts were right. He let them believe that if they didn't destroy the men, the men would destroy them. And if the ogres did destroy the men, they would be counted as the greatest among ogres.
This time, as always, he finished by sending the feeling that the night of the full moon was the perfect time for them to do their work. He slipped the image of that bright, cold orb into their blood-spattered fantasies. He had no doubt they would do what he desired, on the night he desired.
Which means I only have a short time to finish my work.
∗ ∗ ∗
Creelisk returned from the wood and immediately sought Tyressa. He found her in the longhouse, seated at her desk amid an ocean of notes and diagrams. He smiled at her. "I would not disturb you were it not important, Lady Tyressa."
She looked up, her eyes red with fatigue, and managed to smile. "I welcome the distraction."
"Your devotion to Silverlake, your level of sacrifice, speaks to your character. I tell you truly that I can think of no other person from Ustalav who could have created and held together this community."
Tyressa stood. "My lord, you will be leaving in less than a week. There is no need for flattery."
He shrugged. "Perhaps there is. I ask an indulgence of you."
"What would that be?"
"When I return to Ustalav, I shall head for Caliphas. I shall speak to the prince, about you and Silverlake. I will tell him that a great injustice has been done to you and your family. I'll ask that he transfer control of Vishov lands to someone else."
"Because, my lord?" Tyressa fingered some papers. "I hope you've not found my requests for materials and supplies to be onerous."
"On the contrary, I find you being more conservative than is prudent." He brought his chin up. "This creates a problem for me because people will judge me by what gets sent. They shall assume I wish to doom Silverlake so your family's holding will fall to me."
"I could inflate numbers."
"But you know that even were I to give you everything, I should still be judged this way. I cannot win." Creelisk glanced down at the wooden floor. "Neither can the prince.
"The fact is, my lady, that while many welcomed your exile, not everyone did. Your being here is seen as an injustice. As stories of your successes circulate, Silverlake will be seen as a point of pride for Ustalavs, and more proof of your virtue. Thus the injustice of your exile will be made more apparent. The prince, I believe, needs to look upon Silverlake as an Ustalavic colony. He needs to support it. The lords of the River Kingdoms might not be pleased, but Silverlake could add stability to the area and serve as a bulwark against the ogres of Mosswater raiding further east."
"Then the indulgence of which you speak is...?"
"Allow me to speak to the prince on your behalf. If you would be so kind, please write him a letter sharing with him your dreams for Silverlake. You know politics and the court at Caliphas well enough to know the letter will not remain secret. Let those who would learn its contents and dream of joining you discover through your words the wonder that is Silverlake. As more people support you and dream of your city, so must the prince support it."
Tyressa nodded slowly. "I don't deny your read of the politics or nature of secrets at court. I won't say I'd not considered writing such a letter. A report on our first year, perhaps."
"Events would warrant earlier reportage, my lady."
"I will accept your judgment in that regard." She hugged her arms around her stomach and met his gaze. "I must ask you something."
"Please."
"I
would not discount or denigrate what you have done here. Your counsel has been wise and I shall never forget you and Ranall taking lashes. For me to do that was expected since I was his mother, but for you to do it—that meant more to the people than I could ever have possibly imagined."
Creelisk pursed his lips for a moment. "It was the first time I felt I had been accepted by the people."
"You made yourself one of us. I don't doubt that you are." She raised an eyebrow. "I do have to ask, however, why you would invest so much of your personal prestige in Silverlake."
"You want to know what kind of return I expect to see from my investment."
"I wouldn't have put it in quite that pragmatic of a way."
"But that is how you meant it. No, please, take no offense." He smiled. "If you didn't ask that question, you would not be the person who could have created this place. So I'll answer you squarely. I have two main reasons for aiding you. The first is simply this: just east of Cesca, on the West Sellen River, I shall establish a ferry service and trading post. I'll pay well for furs and other goods, yet charge an absurd amount for drayage of same across the river. I'll ferry settlers over for modest fees, charge more for those returning to Ustalav, and make a considerable amount of money through arbitrage. My risk will be minimal, and the return will be incredible. I will also establish a trading post here to serve the needs of settlers and hunters, lumberjacks or returning crusaders."
"You could better assure your plan's success by maintaining control of Vishov assets."
"I could, but I'm sure whoever the prince places in stewardship can be bought and, if he proves greedy and tries to renege, things will have become lucrative enough that I can convince the prince that only he can properly protect your interests. He'll take over, or he'll pardon you and place the Vishovs back in charge, where you should be."
"Elegantly explained and well thought out."
"My walks have given me time for reflection." He held a hand up. "Lest, however, you think me someone whose only interest is in gold, I should mention the second reason: my son."
Pathfinder Tales: The Crusader Road Page 24