"An Ivory Tale, Chapter Nine: Home is Where the Heart Bleeds" by Toni J Kaukinen

You may have observed that snow is cold, and depending on how the weather has decided to be, it can be soft or hard, or then soft with a hard shell or hard with a soft layer on it. Luckily, I found myself in the latter kind of snow, though my poor arm ached more. When I came to my senses, I realised exactly how lucky I had been to land in such an excellent spot: a trampled, hard path lay a few feet away from me. This observation I made after I had dug my way out of the snow and rolled onto the packed, hard snow.
        Grimacing at the snow that had slipped down my collar (and my aching arm, which I had once again landed on), I pushed myself up to my knees and covered my eyes. I was not very sparing with my curses: the blinding brightness of a noon sun at winter after that cesspool of doom and dismay I had dubbed Nowhere, though welcome, was already treating me to a first class headache.
        But it hardly bothered me. What did bother me was something bleating at me - directly behind me. Fidgeting, I turned around, eyes squinted, and found myself face to face with a sheep.
        We stared at each other attentively, myself and the black sheep. While the sheep was most probably only confused, I was thinking, observing and wondering when Ormungadr made his presence known again by climbing up my arm to where there was more warmth. At the same time I realised my pipe still dangled from the corner of my mouth. Being rather worried, to be honest, I lifted my hand to it, took it and examined it. My fears were for naught - it was still in a good condition, although full of snow.
        But my sudden movements frightened the sheep, which led to her bolting a few feet away.
        "Oh, rest easy," I muttered to her while emptying my pipe of snow, all the while enjoying the bewildered look on the fluffy devil's face. Animals have a way of being just as flabberghasted as humans when someone they did not expect to be able to communicate with them speaks up.
        With my pipe clean and safely in a pocket, I turned to regard the shivering sheep again. There was a lost look on her little woolly face and a little wound marring her side - both hinting that the shepherd she belonged to had run into trouble somewhere along the way.
        Only then did it occur to me that I still had not even the merest inkling as to my whereabouts. I was fairly certain I was back in my home realm, at least, and soon I was positive of it: Clearspring was a long way to the south, yet I was not quite at the level of Northguard, either.
        I stared at the sheep as I triangulated my approximate location, drawing the conclusion that I was near where the Northern Movement hunted - the bloody Nearrage mountainside, the eastern border between the Hundred Kingdoms and Shallould, and ways northeast from Clearspring. I was most definitely on the northern side of the mountains, though.
        Pacing to get the already growing chill out of my old bones, I digested this information - something else as well. Where the bleeding hell were Ramshead and Sheiko? He most certainly was not in the shape of a sheep, considering this one lacked the aggressive nature of a decent ram. (And men like Ramshead would not consider disguising as women, unlike tose of us who are not afraid to do almost anything to outwit an idiot or two.) I harrumphed and realised the easiest way to know was with some effort. And with a little of it, I Found them both - Ramshead from far northeast, and my friend the Voice from the other side of the mountains. Comparing Clearspring's direction to Sheiko's told me the magicker was somewhere in the city.
        Terrific! Stuck with a sheep and a snake in the foothills, far from the north side of the mountains. "Terrific," I muttered aloud and glared at the columns of smoke rising beyond the hills north, northeast and west of my position. I had to get to Clearspring. But, that was all right with me. I made a mental note to cook dinner to Taliat by way of thanks, even though all she did was uphold traditions.
        Yet. First I had a sheep to deal with, and directions to find. I would not have disagreed with a little rest and a bath, either, but for now clean clothes would do well enough. Nodding to myself as I set my plans into set, I smiled at the sheep in a predatory manner, which caused her to bleat with a wide-eyed look.
        "Indeed," I replied and looked far over the hills at the smoke rising from the snowless west. The path led both there and toward the northeast, and I chose the direction that seemed to include a shorter distance to civilization. There I would find directions, I hoped.
        So, smoking as I led the confused sheep down the path toward the smoke in the distance, I considered all my options and what could happen. It was obvious that time had passed erratically, which meant that I would be having an entertaining evening with Nyanvara trying to explain where I had disappeared. And not Nyanvara alone, but also Taliat and Erkhan. Yet I worried more about the situation between Teragon and Turneau - and where we stood in the conflict. In the audience, I hoped. And that I would have tomatoes.
        Can you tell I have always loved theatre?

        By afternoon, Lake Felpit was where I found myself, much as I had expected. I had actually visited these areas earlier, but the town I was walking toward had not been there before this. Honestly, it was a pitiful, pitiful sight. While some of the buildings were the type of well-crafted houses that last for generations, and which even I would call enjoyable to live in, a good number of the houses were mere shacks. Travellers were pouring in like autumn rain in the Coasthigh peninsula, and even from afar one could hear there was chaos in abundance.
        Farmers watched as I passed homesteads, each time looking pleased when I did not stop to touch their fences. As my sheep and I approached the actual centre of the town, the guards, a ragtag bunch, immediately took on a nervous look. They knew what they saw; they understood that my narrow crimson and grey eyes and smooth skin (and a few other telltale marks) meant the blood in my veins was not like theirs.
        But I smiled despite this and continued to walk. Finally as I was about to pass them, one of them found the courage to say something. "Hey, you! Stop for a minute."
        I blinked and threw a lazy glance at the young lad. He seemed barely old enough to grow a beard, but was still taller than I. "Certainly," I replied, not being in a particular hurry.
        The red-haired lad squinted and approached, leaving his shorter friend to chat with another guard. Wondering if there was some sort of prize on Caedaren heads, I simply kept smiling. It does so make people nervous, smiling. Try smiling at your councillors when you are upset with them again. Simply make sure you do not look like a village idiot on a drinking binge, first.
        "Is that your sheep?" Red asked, pointing at the black sheep peeking at them from behind my legs.
        "She would say no, but let us just say that she is mine for now," I replied, noting the confused looks on his face. "Perhaps I am here to sell her, perhaps not. 'Tis a mere sheep we are talking of."
        Red grunted. "Well, keep a close eye on her, anarde. What's your business in Dayson, if you're not selling your sheep?"
        Not quite as surprised by the way he identified me as an anarde as he clearly hoped I would be, I patted my stomach. "A traveler needs food, like a guardsman. And clothes, as you can tell. I had the misfortune of running into some bandits earlier."
        Looking at me as if I was one of those mad nobles who leave on travels merely to experience what it was to be a wanderer (or the romanticised idea of a wanderer, if you will), Red scritched his neck. "You'll want directions, then. Tailor's down the main street until you come to a great white house - turn left from there. You'll find the alehouse right next to it."
        "Ah. Thank you," I said, digging my pockets for some sort of prize, but there was nothing - until my fingers found a little bone left over from a previous meal.
        "A little warning, though," Red continued, "the town is full of diggers that aren't too impressed with your kind."
        "Interesting," I said as I slowly took my dagger and carefully carved a few Viklandish runes on the bone. "What brings them here?"
        "Silver in the mountains."
        "Ah. And no sorcerors have appeared to make their own forays into the mountains?"
        "A few. The diggers mostly stick close to each other - when they're not bothering the townspeople," Red muttered, watching, no doubt ready to cut me in half with his poleaxe. Of course, he should not have let me bare my dagger in the first place.
        "Curious."
        "Not really. Greed is what drives them. Nothing curious about that."
        Delighted by his pessimism, I chuckled at the young cynic and put the dagger away. Looking at his questioning face, I then gave him the piece of bone I had carved my name and debt on. "I have no way to repay you right now. So this is my gift; 'tis not sorcery, but a promise."
        The bone stayed in his hand, even though the lad clearly considered tossing it back at me with haste. "What are you promising? Slavery?"
        "Believer in fairytales, are you? No, I promise favour, lad. Now keep your chin up and your feet warm."
        "There are no faeries," he said, nodding to me while putting the bone away. "We're all just the same."
        "And by that you mean bad apples? How true," I lamented with a laugh and walked away, my trustworthy sheep next to me.
        I surveyed Dayson as I paced, hands behind my back and smiling at the commoners that stared as I passed them. The town was filthier than normal - looking at the diggers it was no task at all to ascertain why. They had brought with them dogs, of breeds that were more use as companions or retrievers (and useless in pulling sleds in the most extreme conditions) and the kind that was bred for this very purpose.
        "Easy," I said to the sheep, "they will only bark." Whether or not the sheep believed me, I could not say. The dogs did bark, but none of them could approach. The same could be said of the diggers. Only two houses down the main street, three houses before I was to turn left to the tailor's, I was already gathering attention. Others shied away, wisely, others spat on the ground and clasped their hands together like the worshippers of the sun do. But I only had to bear a few curses, most of which muttered into unwashed beards. There have been worse days.
        In the end I found my way safely to the tailor's. I let the sheep in first, at which the tailor cursed. The two diggers inside found it amusing. They laughed, until they had a look at who had come in. The tailor was clearly trying to decide whether to protest about the sheep or my presence in the room. I took away the time he needed for that decision by producing my money purse. I had no local currency, but I had heavy silver coins - the silver's weight meant more than the ugly face on the coin right now.
        I shook my purse as I spoke. "I do not intend to be rude," I informed the tailor, also ignoring the look on the two diggers' faces, "but I doubt you would want me to get upset over having my sheep stolen."
        A while later, we were out of there with a scarf and a warmer cloak the tailor had made for someone else roughly my size, but coin is known to temporarily hamper a greedy man's judgment. The coin had also bought me directions, although I had no specifically asked to know where the place I wanted to go to was. Not that it mattered.
        With the issue of clothes taken care of, my only problem was my hunger, so I took a brief detour and stopped by at a homestead that was along my way.
        As on many of the farms at this time of the year, little was happening apart from the daily chores that centred around the animals and possibly keeping the yard clean, fixing a fence, or maybe running off after the dog because the neighbouring numbskull could not keep their bitch on a leash even when she was in heat. There were a few rocks in the yard - a big one, on which a smaller, that had an even smaller rock standing on it. I make note of this, because it was exactly the reason I chose this homestead.
        Humming to myself, I stopped at the gate and leaned against it. I could hear speech from the barn to my left. And that said enough - I nodded once, to myself, and began to examine my pipe as I waited for someone to notice me. The sheep was staring into the yard through the simplistic shod-iron gate's bars that were supposed to keep creatures her size inside or outside the yard. I glanced down.
        "You," I said to the sheep, "will stay here. Unless you want to meet the dog."
        She gave me a dirty look, then began to nibble on the grass.
        "Good girl," I told her, and looked up. To my surprise, there was a man standing by the edge of the barn. A brown-haired girl was running toward the homestead in a hurry.
        I tilted my head, eyes wide.
        "Yes?" the farmer asked, walking closer with his hands behind his back. I was rather certain he had a sickle or a hammer, which was bad policy for diplomacy.
        "Hallo. I was hoping I could purchase some supplies. For the road." My words did not wipe the bewildered, stern look off his face - instead, he seemed a little apprehensive about the idea.
        "Buy it elsewhere - we've nothing to sell."
        "I will make you a charm that will ward off fae-sickness," I said, pointing my pipe at the rocks piled on each other to underline my point. "And silver, if that is to your fancy."
        "Fancy," the man snorted. But he was considering my words, I could see. I displayed no signs of unfriendliness, and most assurredly I was not about to leave without even the smallest morsel of food. "Why don't you eat your sheep? Or hunt for it - that's what you people know best."
        Surprised as I was that he actually had a bit of hearth wisdom, I was unperturbed. "Because she belongs to someone else, and there is little to eat, hm? Always the same problem with mutton. And I happen to be in a hurry - I am very, very late."
        You may think it is a mistake to admit you are in a hurry when you have scarcely begun bargaining, but in this case it was the drop that caused the chalice to overflow. "Fine," the man said, opening the gate. "How many dukes do you have?"
        "None, but some silver, as I said." I glanced at his other hand as I walked into the yard, making note of the little blade there. It was unlikely to be put aside until I was far, far away from the farm.
        The farmer grunted as if my promised payment would do. Before too long, I was sitting inside the homestead, carving the family of six a wooden apple with all their names inscribed in Daren alphabets. It was sign enough for any wandering Hand, Bleeder or whatnot to either leave them alone or do as they best could to be of some use. We may not forget slights, but we do not forget helpful people, either.
        Of course I cut myself on the thumb while I did it, but I just pretended it was part of the complex ritual of infusing magick into a completely normal carved wooden apple. It made the humans happy enough.
        They made sure to get a fairly exorbitant price for the food they made me, but at least I could be sure it had no poison in it. Spit I could tolerate.
        I was free to leave after a cold goodbye from Matys and his family. ("If I see you skulking around during the night, I'll set Mutt on you."
        "Mutt?" I asked, scarcely believing he was serious at first, and at the worst referring to a small lapdog.
        Then a soft, snorting sound - the kind large dogs make when attacking a deer or a bear in their sleep - came from under the table. I made a point of reminding them to show the apple to any visitors like me before they introduced them to Mutt.)
        An unhurried departure later, I walked off with the sheep, eating a bit of a roll as I happily made my way to my next destination.
        I was going to go have a tea party with some other ancient, dusty rakes.

        Dayson was too small, too far away from the cruel north to have a Viklandish graveyard as some midcontinent cities, yet somehow, there it was. But it was certainly not big enough to have one of the large stones that some Viklandish nobles and warriors carved their memories into. Not even one message in the vein of 'Gunar and Olavur carved this in the memory of Hårdrid, who was killed in a barfight by a large maiden with a good aim and a heavy chair' carved in a little, unremarkable, ugly rock.
        They did have something completely different, though.
        I do not know if you have ever seen these rock boats, but I do know you have at least read of them. Illustrations cannot compete with reality, though, and most of the tales and descriptions are fanciful and flighty. I have come across a few detailed accounts, of course. Armitaigne the Conceited (also "the Franck") put it best, to be honest. I suspect this tome may sit in your library for generations, and surely not everyone is acquainted with a Franckan accountant who wrote a few excellent books about his travels while being on them with a mercenary company. So: this is directly from my memory, and so I may well be misquoting: Who knows where these men have sailed and are sailing on these rocky graves, or if they ever will sail again. Their destinies are likewise blurred, even though the runes carved to the stone that is the bow of the ship list where a man called Halvar meaned to travel and who of these proud, arrogant northmen have built it for their fallen comrade. Whatever use these heathens expect the boats to have, they are well crafted, as tall and wide as their longboats are in nature. But they are ghost ships here in the midst of the righteous' graves.
        This was the case for me too, now. Without the religious posturing, naturally. I could see them from the little hill I was in - a small (well, puny) armada of graves was wharfed on the plains that turned into forests farther in the distance, nearby which a shepherd was keeping a watchful eye on his flock of hedge trimmers. This spoiled my immediate plans, as my ever so curious companion decided to suddenly skip into the direction of the shepherd. But of course, I was in no hurry yet. So I walked toward the shepherd, a young man who was staring at my little sheep in a confused manner.
        "E'en!" he yelled, assuming a slightly worried look as he realised he was not dealing with someone typical. The lad even took off his hat very politely.
        "Afternoon," I said after a quick glance at the sky. "I see we have snow on the highlands already."
        This man, I noticed, became talkative when nervous. "Damn slippery there, what with everyone bringing their flocks to the lowlands for a bit of munching. It's all the sorceror's fault, I tell you."
        "I would have thought them all to be interested in the actual mountains," I said and stopped a safe distance away to adjust my left boot.
        "Oh, no, this one has a mansion there. Keeps doing all sorts of experiments. Sometimes there's snow on the foothills in the damn summer, too, and sometimes none in the winter. Not good for the plants."
        He seemed fairly upset by this, and this I could understand to an extent. "And the people from Dayson let them graze here?"
        "At a little cost. We're selling the wool a little cheaper now."
        I could see where this situation was going in the long run, but it meant absolutely nothing to me or the Nation. Even so, the Chumsare would have prohibited me to acting in a selfless manner and having a talk with the sorceror. It did not stop my curiosity, but I stopped it for the Chumsare. Bizarre magickal experiments had never truly fascinated me, in any case. I prefer practical solutions. It certainly was not the first time a sorceror or three forced a duchy or village to make an exception over taxes and property ownership.
        I attempted to get back to the real issue at hand. "A sad state of things, then. I assume this little wandering mutton belongs to you."
        "Damn curious thing," the lad said, glancing at the sheep nibbling at his pant leg. "Smart, but curious."
        "So does she belong to you?" I demanded, slightly agitated that I could not get even a clear answer from a human. I could tolerate it in Caedaren - but humans, no, not when I had a sanity-devouring mystery in my hands. You do know how nettlesome I become after several sleepless or near-sleepless nights!
        "Um. No, sirrah," the lad replied, both to my annoyance and satisfaction. The truth annoyed me, but at least he was being truthful. Infamy does have some perks, you do know?
        "Perfect. Well. It matters not. I shall leave you to it," I told him after staring at the poor man for a while. His sheep or not, the little thing was slowing me down. I turned to head toward the graves, followed by a few "sirrahs".
        I made it all the way down to the first of the graves when she bleated directly from behind me and tugged at my cloak. With a sigh, I turned around to stare back at my little companion. "You do not want to go and live a peaceful life of grazing? And you are too small to be used as a mount," I remarked, earning another glare from her. "I shall have to call you Lamb, then. But come, if you will not stay put, walk into the wolves' den."
        So it happened that I walked about the graveyard, examining all the headstones - or bowstones, if you will. And as per usual, only when I came to the last of the graves, I found what I had set out for.
        They were extremely vague directions to the eastern meeting point of the hide I was looking for written in Viklandish letters, but in our dialect of Daren.
        Crafty, yes?
        
        The world being as large as it is, it was not (and is not) enough to know what signs to search for - I had to know where I was going, and to my surprise, my destination was only two days and one night away from the graveyard (by foot, with a sheep). Nowadays the place is gone, forgotten in history and most certainly forgotten by the fields in place of which there was once a forest.
        Of course, and I have to admit this, I may be wrong. There is so much change and so much to remember, you see.
        But, on with it - those two days and nights later, at sundown, I had managed to bring myself to where I was to wait for the midnight rendezvous. And then some more. There was not much do to, so I simply settled down on the ground in the driest spot I could find, while Lamb continued to graze and stare about apprehensively. Occasionally I would offer a word or two to calm her, and occasionally the little pest would sneak close to sniff or nibble at either my cloak, hair, or sleeve. Such a small bother, though.
        Come midnight, then, I was surprised in a manner that displeased me.
        I saw her move in the trees to my right, but made no effort to move until the sign that was supposed to come.
        It never came.
        Instead, she circled around (I could hear her) and appeared ten feet on my left side, her spear pointed at me. She was a young Caedaren with innocent yellow and orange eyes, curly hair in two braids and a very skinny build that worried me to no end. I rather thought she had a cute, perky nose. But fair nose or not, she was breaking rules. I would have none of that, not even in Taliat's troops. I unsheathed my dagger and pointed it at her. "You would be dead if 'twas anyone but a lone Caedaren, girl."
        She stopped, looking both angry and troubled. "I know, Carenda."
        "You know who I am?"
        The answer was an affirmative one, complete with the same automatic "Carenda" in the end. She certainly had no real spirit in her, if she was so afraid of authority. While inciting competitiveness among our lads and lasses is normal and even favourable, I was in no mood to continue with that game.
        Finally after a glare, I stood up and poked Lamb, waking her. "All right. Take me to your superior."
        Another affirmative answer later we were on our way through the dark forest, passing springs and fallen trees. On the way, we struck a conversation, which mostly consisted of the spritely little answering my questions. I first wanted to know her name and how long she had been a Bleeder. I have long since forgotten her name, but I do recall she - let us call her Skadai, which is a proper old-fashioned name - was a mere cadet on a rite of passage.
        To be sure, Skadai was a sweet little creature, but a pity about the militaristic attitude. It is beyond my ken how the young ones always become so embittered when even the older ones know calm patience can be bring them and the Nation far. Sevroa is, perhaps, the best example of this militaristic spirit, but on the other hand he is also the worst possible example of Caedaren teamwork.
        So I was not entirely surprised when I finally asked her: "Why did you break the rules?"
        "I was told it was you, Carenda," she said, with a look that suggested she was glad of my surprised expression. "The scout-in-charge told me to expect you just some hourglasses ago."
        I had hoped to have a little chat with her superior concerning Skadai in any case. This made me even more curious. "The Arenda...?"
        "Died yesterday. Snakebite."
        "Oh." I reconsider my strategy of winning the pups to my side with snake charming tricks.
        One thing that I find good about the militaristic youths is that they are not that easy to frighten. That is, of course, unless one threatens them with a private audience! "He had experience, and he was doing pretty well, so he assumed the post himself."
        I had somehow come to expect this, and thus chuckled to myself. We taught the young ones well, and they teach their youngers even better.
        But to put a short story - well, even shorter:
        She guided us to the highest hill in the area, south of which lay our destination - a little camp hidden partially by illusions crafted into the tents' fabric. Sentries skulked about and the tents were kept warm with stoves. Although this sort of care with stealth was perhaps a little overshot, one could not - and still cannot - be certain when enemies might appear. Granted, this outpost was a good distance east from the lines where it was possible to actually get into a clash with Sheadaren, but we Carendas once learned to never overrule the possibility of your enemy attempting to flank you.
        Lamb at least noticed something peculiar about the environments, I was certain. Unlike Ormungadr, who had been dozing and sulking inside my sleeve ever since my abrupt landing.
        After we had sauntered into the camp, I told Lamb to wait with Skadai, who was observing my rather one-sided conversation with the sheep with fascination and a faint smirk. I was certain talks of my ability would circulate among the camp in hushed tones - and that did not bother me at all.
        "Which way?" I asked Skadai in a whisper; she simply pointed at the tent with a white dagger in front of its door.
        I thanked her and sauntered to the tent, coughing at the door as I pushed the flap aside.
        "Come in," the scout-in-charge said very quietly, sounding less uncertain that I had been expecting him to. "We were expecting you."
        At first, I found it impossible to keep the look of surprise off my face, and so I simply stared at his face from there. Then, when reason returned to me, I smiled a little smile you may know more than well, Ottaviano.
        "I heard as much," I replied and entered the tent, where the scout-in-charge was playing hnevatahl with another sentinel, who did not as much as greet me. I took that as a sign that I was to keep my words to myself.
        The scout-in-charge smiled ever so faintly, looking up from his game. I could detect a little worry from his handsome, dirty face. But just as I thought it might last only for a moment, it became apparent that the creases on his forehead were more of the permanent type.
        I sat down, staring at him with great, unfeigned interest. He knew why, and I could see it hurt him.
        Which was good. He was meant to be in pain.
        "Your punishment was a fitting one," Ybarian finally said and moved a piece.
        "You wished for glory, lad," I told him, producing my pipe. "I merely thought I would give you the chance for it. 'Tis apparent that Taliat had different plans, though."
        He looked down at the game board. "I suppose I should be thankful for that morsel of mercy. No, Carenda Talianne brought me close enough to the hotspots. I was wounded shortly after. Then they made me a trainer." I listened quietly, looking slowly toward his hands. He had lost a thumb on his right hand, not too recently. He continued: "All but myself and an older Bleeder made love to the Mother on one sally."
        "Raid? 'Tis rather amazing you are still standing."
        "Yes. My companion saved my life, to be honest," Ybarian said with a shrug, frowning at the Fist - the most important piece of the game - thoughtfully.
        I smoked and contemplated the apparent change in the young warrior. I had later learned he was not a complete disappointment. His swollen ego was, after all, the reason I sent him to Taliat with his own demotion papers - if you recall. I took care to force him into a situation where he could not defend himself too well.
        And now it seemed the lesson I had given this grey-eyed man had broken him so that he could be moulded again. This was good, if slightly harsh.
        But had the lesson been taught completely? "I was told some time ago that you had made a vow," I teased. "Is it true?"
        He looked up, slightly worried - and embarrassed, maybe. "Vow? Oh, no. No. I made threats, which I - don't intend to follow up on, Carenda."
        "I am pleased." Yet, something still bothered me, or, rather, had me expecting the usual answer. I was much too tired to care at that moment. "But, tell me - how did you know I was about to arrive?"
        Ybarian blinked. I suppose partially it was because of my rather bored tone. "Skadai happened to be drilling some of the real juniors in that direction, and sighted you." He frowned. "Do you mind if I ask you..."
        "Go ahead," I grunted, wondering if I was becoming old.
        "A sheep?"
        "Trust me, I tried to get rid of her."
        Ybarian simply nodded, scratching his head with his thumbless hand before moving a maiden on the board. The game seemed to be progressing rather well for him, and considering talks of his capabilities earlier, this was rather surprising. His opponent was not as
        "So you do not have a Voice posted here with you?" I asked then, moving closer to the stove. Lamb bleated somewhere outside.
        "No. He went off to fetch someone as a replacement for the Arenda."
        "Snakebite, hm?"
        For the first time, he shot a glare at me. "Carenda, I may not be much in your eyes - but I have enough honour to not even consider such base tricks."
        Realising that my tone might have been slightly saturnine, I offered a smile as an apology. "Oh, peace, Ybarian - 'twas not my intention to suggest you had something to do with his death. I have my own reasons to be skeptical of snakebites."
        "Thank you," he said in a slightly sharp tone and moved another maiden. "That's jolly good of you."
        I said nothing; Ybarian and his quiet opponent did the same.
        "I rather liked the man," Ybarian added after a while of hesitation.
        "Who was he?" I asked.
        "Nobody very important, he would say." Scarcely having closed his mouth, Ybarian gave the hnevatahl board a one last glance. "His name was Kilne Daffal. A grassroot commoner."
        I smirked at the name, then grunted and gave his opponent a stare. "Are you expecting the Voice to return any time soon?"
        "As soon as Arenda Daffal is buried. Shouldn't be too long," he said, glancing at me. "I've been meaning to ask, Carenda. What are you doing here?"
        I raised my eyebrows. "Returning from a successful mission," I said, neatly avoiding any further questions and also causing the scout-in-charge to become curiouser. But I soon decided to have at least some pity on the fool. "This being, I have found and rescued Sheiko Nightwrought."
        "But I see you're alone, Carenda."
        "I never said I rescued myself. Which leads me to the following question: what time of the season is it?"
        "Nearing the end," Ybarian said soon, after moving another maiden. "As you might have noticed."
        I snorted. So there was a trend to how time moved in Nowhere. "Well. In this case. Where is the nearest hide? I will not stand still and await with idle hands when there are things to do."
        "Three days' journey."
        He looked at me expectingly - and accordingly, I stared back. "Three? Dear worth."
        "We will set up accommodations for you," Ybarian said, and I could only nod.
        I let them play in silence for a while.
        "Andayal?"
        "Yes, Carenda?"
        "You will be accompanying me to Clearspring."
        He took a deep breath of air and then waved his hand at the board as a sign that he had lost. "As you command."
        But of course, I had been expecting Kilne to beat him.
        
        Kilne and I had a talk that night, outside of the camp on top of the hill.
        "I assume he knows I would have found out about this, whether or not I would have recognised you," I told him as I lit my pipe and turned to compare my memories of his face to what I saw. Kilne was a one-eyed beast of a Caedaren. He had lost his eye in one of the early campaigns of Carenda Mivet's Northern Movement. Back in those days, it had been Taliat's father in command of the Mivet - a risky game during which the man had gone and died. And Kilne himself had been a young, daring man who attained genius for survival only after a near-death experience. Even a hundred and sixty nine seasons - or years to you - ago when he still lived he was an intimidating sight. The lid of his lost eye was tattooed (how it was done, I would rather not know) and there seemed to be a cheerful if grim look to him at all times. Add to that how large his remaining brown eye looked and a completely shaved head, and one has a rather good understanding of the recipe that makes up a Kilne Daffal.
        "I told him that," Kilne replied and offered a flask of spirits.
        I declined the flask. "What is this talk of your Voice, then?"
        "Someone did get bit by a snake," he shrugged, then grinned. "You always did tell me the best lies contained some truth."
        With a chuckle, I offered him my pipe, which he accepted. "I never meant you to use my advice against myself."
        "'Always have others underestimate you', right?"
        "That is quite enough, Kilne. Fine. But your Voice best be back by morn, as I will have no further delays."
        "Oh, come off it, relax!"
        "Great-nephew," I told to him, smiling, but with a weight to my tone.
        "My apologies, granduncle."
        "Thank you." I accepted my pipe back. "That trick of yours in the tent, let us continue with that. Why?"
        An discomfortingly familiar sort of cunning shone in my relative's countenance. It was not entirely disconcerting, though - perhaps somehow, one day, you will realise what it means to see similarities between yourself and the young ones. "If I would have asked you personally after you had first seen him, would you have taken him with you?" Kilne queried. "Especially if I recommended him?"
        "Possibly," I replied, not even lying. "Did you consider you might have upset me with this trick?"
        "Varus? You're as childish as old men come. And old men become children again." Well, I certainly could not disagree with that. "And please admit: you were curious to see the results of this play."
        "Your deductive skills are wasted in the Mivet," I told him sourly.
        "Not so. I am, after all, an Arenda." He grinned. "And besides, your Senet offers little excitement."
        I laughed. "Little excitement? We are spies, informants, assassins, investigators and guards. The Mivet is not that different, but you - and I am quoting your Carenda - rely on muscle."
        "And a little autonomous planning on the field."
        "Yes, that I will give you."
        We fell into a slightly uneasy silence and simply stared at the scenery, which consisted mostly of snowtopped trees, hills and mountains. Three days,
        Then a thought occurred to me.
        "How close is the hide, in reality?"
        "You passed it on the way here this morning. Why do you think we knew you were coming?"
        I fell silent again.
        "You dirty bastards," I told him, scarcely keeping a straight face. "When were you planning to tell me?"
        "Well, we didn't know if Ragunn would be returning soon or later. He had to go all the way to Alongshore."
        "So you were not planning to tell me."
        Kilne sighed. "I suppose you want to go to the hide now."
        "No," I said to him. "I am too tired."
        "You do look like a bath would do you good. We don't have a Finger with us, unfortunately, and I won't allow fires out in the open."
        I waved it away with a hand. "I will bathe when I return to Clearspring. There is time."
        Kilne turned back toward the camp, and I followed. "Yes, as to that..."
        I sighed. Had he left something else untold? "Yes, Kilne?"
        "Perhaps there is. I have heard there is a little tension between the buffer kingdoms and duchies between Turneau and the little Kingdom of Iron."
        "Little?"
        "Just a dash of iron-y, granduncle."
        This time I could not contain myself. "I ought to slap you for such a sorry attempt at humour. I taught you better, you daft man!"
        Something had changed during my little misadventure into Nowhere, however, and thus we spent most of the walk back to the camp in respectful silence. I felt tired, unable to keep up with my great-nephew's banter, which was not as sophisticated as Tikr's gentle oddities or the gentle understating manner of Taliat. Perhaps he reminded me of myself too much. Despite what I said.
        But in the camp, I was introduced to the likable young Voice called Ragunn. I did not notice him at all, to be honest - it was Kilne who nudged me and pointed toward where Lamb had been left to munch on the grass.
        "That is Ragunn?" I asked, eyeing the lad. He was bundled in cloth from head to toe, as Voices often do (you do remember Sheiko, yes?), but had an interesting enough set of patterns on his mask. As if that was not enough, he was a pleasantly tall and fit lad. Presently, Ragunn was discussing something with Skadai, and being most anxious to get a move on, I steered my great-nephew that way.
        "He is indeed. Do you want me to go fetch Ybarian?"
        "You sound much too eager to get rid of him," I noted.
        "I simply think you could use an assistant for everyday matters."
        Which, of course, I doubted. But it was a good idea, unless Ybarian turned out to be left-handed. He did the stupidest of things, though.
        "Skadai," I called as we neared them, ignoring Kilne completely. "How did your Arenda talk you into such a stupid jest?"
        Ah, the pleasures of watching one's technical subordinates sputter.
        
        Ragunn was a nice lad, and I reminded myself after he left that I might have a use for a a man of his talents later. Not many Voices choose to work with Bleeders or other more straightforward factions, but the ones that do are often tolerably acquainted with the multiple ways of twisting magick to one's advantage in a battle.
        So we made it to Clearspring that very same evening, and where else than the Grand Illusive, the present proprietor of which welcomed me and offered me a free show of an old comedy. I decline, not because I disliked the Tragedy of Two Voices (in which two Voices, neither with an idea of which gender the other is and the other merely the twin of the Voice the other Voice falls in love with - come to think of it, perhaps I should close my mouth about this one), but because I stank rank and was in a suitably grumpy mood. After a few pleasantries, we two Bleeders left the estate.
        I told Ybarian to go drop a little letter (crafted by yours truly before we left the Mivet camp) to the Mivet Central Office (located nicely across the town from the Senet Central Office) and then return with the scroll they would give him to the Senet Central Office, take a bath and enjoy his new rank as my assistant.
        And while he did that, I detoured past Samuel's house, where I told Samuel to relay news to his master that I was all right and expecting to see him (and whoever he thought had been looking for me actively during my absence) at my house the next morning.
        After that I took another detour by a little store where I bought myself freshly baked bread (butter, some honeyed bugs). I was mentally preparing myself for a night of drinking. And this was how I expected my day to end, but how was I not expecting fate to deal me another unfair blow straight in the strategic spot under my belt?
        I first noticed my uninvited guest right then, after I finally left the little bakery and navigated through our glorious little city toward my lodge. And he shadowed me persistently - though I will say I did not even attempt to shake him off - all the way to my lodge, through my little garden that provided me with some rather excellent wine and cider (as I may have noted earlier).
        I entered, closed the door, tossed my recently acquired cloak in the corner and removed my sword as well.
        That done, I opened the door and stared at Master Eye Ganawade, who was still a good thirty feet away from me. He stopped, looking as if he was caught red-handed. "You could have bloody well yelled after me, you do realise?" I shouted at him, waving the bread.
        "I don't like too much attention, Varus," the young Master Eye said in a soft voice, looking too troubled for me to remain agitated. There was a certain look to him, one that I have more often seen on the faces of someone who has bad news to tell. I noted also that he was allowing his hair to grow longer in the back of his head.
        "Of course not," I replied dryly. "Of course not. But come in. I was not going to have any audiences until tomorrow in the morn."
        "I know," he confessed, covering the last of the distance. I walked inside, Ganawade following me a few steps behind.
        "But," he said, "I needed to talk to you before tomorrow. Contesq is dead."
        I damn nearly walked into the door frame.
        Ganawade walked a few more steps toward me. "She's been dead ever since she returned from the ruins in the first place, and she has simply become stranger ever since you took her under your wing," he said. It was a beginning of a rant, because I could hear that the tone he used often preceded angry accusations.
        He never finished; I punched him.
        To be honest, I have not even the slightest why I punched him. The recent times had been awfully heavy on me, and I suppose I was not about to listen to a jealous rival whine on and on about how everything was fine before I happened to ruin everything.
        Ganawade had not been expecting this, and staggered two steps backward with a shocked look on his face.
        "Hells' bells, what do you mean to say, you pompous fool?" I thundered.
        "That you have no idea who the real Contesq was," Ganawade sneered, gaining his wits. "Whoever that is, she is not Contesq. My Contesq was friendly only with those two Bleeders you met, only because they had known each other since their childhood. She - does - not like your rapscallions."
        "Oh, she does not? Ought that not be "did not", midget?"
        Ganawade glared at me for a moment, then sneered. "Mark my words. Even if she was the real Contesq, she would be a shy, quiet girl. Ask Nyanvara if you don't want to listen to the expert."
        I glowered at him for exactly five heartbeats. I remembered something Nyanvara had said earlier, and I was now so very, very frightened. "Out. Now."
        Likewise glaring at me, the young Master Eye turned slowly, unwilling to take his hating eyes off me. But neither of us did anything until he had left and closed the door.
        Whatever he did that night, I do not know. My last memories for that day include only a little trip to my wine cellar for a rather sombre meal consisting of wine and bread. I was not at all certain if his were the blatherings of a jealous challenger or the truth, but the seeds of fear had been planted.
        And yes, you will note how I have titled this chapter. It is only fitting to say this, then:
        Home is where the Heart bleeds, but a Bleeder does it in the wine cellar.