"An Ivory Tale, Chapter Seven: Fallings, Failings" by Toni J Kaukinen

You may be wondering why I have politely not unveiled the secrets of the everyday life of King Ottaviano the Magicker, King of Dondrea and royal thorn in the noble backside of a dashing old warhorse. Simply put, naught much has come to pass. Amanda wanted to visit her home, and Ottaviano left me alone in here to contemplate every possible outcome of what I would be coming face to face with should I stop writing during their absence.
        However, there was one experience that is worth noting. I had an interesting discussion with a scholarly friend of yours, Ottaviano - I was peacefully writing and emptying your wine cellar in a remote location (to wit, the greenhouse room), when your acquaintance showed up.
        Now, I do not suppose he knew you were gone, but I tend to get slightly nervous when a surprise drops next to me. Not literally, really. Nearly. Suffice to say, also, that he did not fancy being threatened by a cross ancient Caedaren with a dagger and a foul mouth. Since when have you collaborated with the Viklandish mages? They tend to ogle when they see someone they think is part of their religious culture.
        I must say, though, that he was a fine chap, especially once I persuaded him to believe that I was not trying to swindle him of his coins or children. (Oh, so that was a jest. Yes, yes, I know, too perceptive to fall victim to my devilish illusions...) But it certainly always is a pleasure to meet someone who knows the values of life - and a decent witty retort.
        This may also be a good time to underline a few select notes of what has happened in my remembrances after my latest off-topic rambling. You will note that I have still not touched the actual subject, that is, the war and the fateful slap. At the same time, you will notice that I have paid close attention to a few details that might have appeared unnecessary. I have painted rough sketches of a few personalities and taken a few detours, but this I credit solely on the fact that not even my memory is impervious to the ravages of time and side effects of blunt instruments.
        I do this because there is a large amount of information midnight children, humans, lack. For one, you have never probably heard of the creature behind what happened, whereas I have with the assistance of personages I have introduced to you earlier met and defeated the creature. I say creature, because I do not wish to spoil a good story overly much - Mother knows I have slain the suspense on a number of occasions now.
        Apart from the existence of this creature, there is another creature involved in this web of fate, and other factors that are much easier for a human to comprehend. Most of the time I think back at what happened and wonder if this was how things turned out, but then... I only have to see the face of a comrade-in-arms to remember how miraculous those days were.
        You see, my path to slapping Eliandra was serpentine.

        I must confess that this very night remains in my memories as hazy, constantly growing and shrinking. Much of the details are lost; much of the dialogue I recall, fortified by the presence of not two, but three important figures. Though I suppose that were you to make a few conclusions, you may well see four persons in three...
        To begin, however, I shall tell you that I knocked on a door twice, then once. An elderly human answered the door and regarded me as a surprised man would.
        "Master Varus? What business here?"
        "Every damn business he wants, I wager," said the one accompanying me.
        I sighed. "Sevroa, I beg of you. Show some respect."
        "Master Varus?"
        "'Tis all well, Samuel."
        "Samuel? Wait, do I know you?"
        Samuel, the elderly human, stared at Sevroa for a moment, a sudden fear flashing on his face. "No, young master Sevroa," he said, and moved to let us in.
        Puzzled, Sevroa stared at him intently as he walked on, hand clutching his sword's hilt.
        I smiled and patted Samuel on the shoulder apologetically as I walked past. The man scurried off with whatever book he was holding. Quickly. It was the intelligent thing to do, and thus I applauded mentally.
        "That was cruel," I chided, my teeth clamped so that my pipe would not fall. "You will not do that again."
        "Sure." Sevroa fixed a blue-green stare on me. "Would that make you happy?"
        "You will do contrary to what I want despite whatever I say, yes?"
        "Yes. Now show me the way to the Vovet-Man. You're not wasting time, so."
        I sighed and continued on down the corridor of the house. "Have you ever met Erkhan, perchance?"
        "No," Sevroa said and stared at his muddy boots. "But I have this feeling you'll tell me something about him soon."
        I winced. Not only was he terribly dull when it came to being teased with knowledge, he also raped our language rather effectively. He spoke Daren like the rare human that knew it. Samuel, who was something of an oddity, did it, and he had been at it for years and years.
        However it was possible, Sevroa was even worse. Granted, he had drifted among the humans and been mistaken for a Yiadaren, and occasionally even a human, as outlandish as that sounded. He did nothing to correct this image. He even coloured his hair, the rare straight kind among our kin, to make sure they did mistake him for a member of a different tribe. All in all, Sevroa had years upon years of experience of living an outcast's life.
        Everyone wondered how he managed.
        "Well?" he snapped, whereas I snapped out of my thoughts. There was a way to make his curiosity get the best of him, no matter what he said.
        "How long have we been walking down this corridor, Sevroa? How long does it appear to your eyes?"
        He cocked his head and squinted, the tip of the scars he had under his chin coming into view from the other side. The young and bitter soul took the time to look back to the front door and then at the end of the corridor. "Good point. If you were being rhetorical."
        "You met Samuel back there. Can you feel his presence?"
        Again, a moment. "I can't feel a damn. Or wait. I can feel a damn - it's just bouncing around like a rabbit in heat."
        "Yes."
        I walked on.
        "What does this mean?" Sevroa asked, staring at the walls as they went past. "How do you Find your way in something like this?"
        "One does not," I replied. "But soon you will feel something."
        "Oh, you mean--"
        Silence. I fought a short term nausea and swallowed my lunch back before it could reach my mouth. Or worse.
        "--this?" Sevroa said, and halted his step.
        My pipe brought firelight into the blue half darkness in which we now saw a large arched door made of oak, further strengthened with steel bolts and bars. The complex runes carved on the arch glowed as blue as Sevroa's eyes but with more warmth. They were, I know now, carved by a Soul, though I must confess that I have never seen any quite like these.
        "Is this in Clearspring?" Sevroa asked and turned his infamous eyes to regard me.
        "No," I said quietly. "'Tis the realm closest to it. I do not expect you would understand the metaphysics - Erkhan never bothered to tell me, so I cannot say I understand, either."
        "Interesting. He's become a conqueror of a world of..." he turned again, eyes staring into the distance where the darkness became too thick for our eyes to see through. Our eyes, that were accustomed to nocturnal activities. (What your mind implies of this statement, Ottaviano, I do not care.)
        "This is a genuine inkwell of darkness." The tone he used was, as the place, dark and slightly nervous. The place made everyone I knew nervous - myself included.
        "This? This is a tame housecat compared to what could be," I muttered and walked to the doors and grabbing the metal stars that were embedded into both of the doors. I turned them, the left one clockwise and the right one counter-clockwise, and then stepped back. Sevroa waited quietly and obediently as the doors swung open outwards with a terrible racket. He followed just as quietly as I walked into the courtyard that again seemed to be an eternity away.
        Again, I tried to not do with my lunch what cows do, and swallowed it back.
        We stopped in the courtyard, staring at a sky full of northern lights and the snow-covered battlements.
        Sevroa finally spoke. "Pompous bastard. He could have used this money on something else."
        "You think he would spend money on this?" I asked, smirking. "Feel which way is Clearspring, and you will be surprised."
        I watched him knit his eyebrows together... and look down. "What in the two-thousand hells?"
        "A simple game with the mind. You would think he is somewhere off in another realm, when in truth..."
        "Bah."
        I grinned at him and led him to the courtyard's halls, then onward to the grand hall.
        The merry chattering of people greeted us, and once again Sevroa seemed confused. He followed, inevitable curiosity fastening his pace. "I can hear laughter and conversation."
        "Well, 'twould seem so."
        "There's nobody here," Sevroa said in a dark, annoyed tone.
        True, there was nobody to be seen... but this worried me none and had me even less curious. It was simple magickering from start to finish. "I think we will never know," I replied, finally, as I sailed through the abandoned, desolate hall with the young shark in my wake. "He might well be experimenting on something."
        "This Nivlande is a show-off, then."
        "Are you not?"
        "I don't see how I have anything to do with sorcery."
        "That would be my point, Sevroa."
        "Which is not valid."
        "Ah."
        We walked on, past the doors of the hall to another courtyard. This one had nothing opposite to the door we came through. No gate, no wall but the ones one our side.
        Most importantly, no ground. It ended in a cliff, and we stopped there.
        Sevroa peeked over the edge, glancing to the right. "There's a staircase leading down there."
        "Oh? Must be a new addition. Well, that is not where our path leads," I said and watched the golden moon slowly appear from behind the clouds like an assassin hiding behind the drapery with too much fashion sense.
        "...and I can't see the ground." Sevroa scratched his chin and stared downward. "What is this place, Varus? I mean. Really."
        "I myself consider it a nightmare, but I suspect Erkhan would describe it in more glowing terms."
        "Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha."
        "Good Mother how awful that sounded."
        "Then stop waving the key in front of my face, coot."
        "Ah, quite the proverb. The host can explain it much better than yours truly," I said and took my pipe out of my mouth to glare at it.
        Then I turned, walking up the ghostly stairs that the moon brought into existence, higher and higher at the door in the wall of the first floor above the hall. I cannot say how startled Sevroa was, but his sulking increased as the straightforwardness of his mostly non-Caedaren upbringing locked horns with Erkhan's devilish love for pulling everyone's legs with cryptic behaviour and backward, multiple meanings.
        The stairs actually did not feel at all concrete, and I was almost afraid they would not hold Sevroa's dead weight. One reason why he hated a generous amount of Caedaren was how the young Hands (of whom I have made some remarks earlier) had announced that as incapable of even storing magick, he had no soul.
        The faction of Souls did not go as far, even though they too agree that it is the soul that shapes and weaves magick. Still, it seemed that magick did affect him, but only indirectly. The spirits certainly reacted to him...
        As I reached the landing, I turned to watch Sevroa glare at the stairs feverishly, his shoulders tense. He was not used to magick, even though he was used to most hostile magick simply disappearing the moment it made contact with him. On those rare occasions he had been affected, he had more or less retreated to a location as private as he could to brood.
        "What are you staring at?"
        "Have you perchance considered dyeing your hair a colour that complements your eyes better?"
        "Say what?"

        Summoning the memory of Erkhan, I remember he is a man of average height, and at that time still wore a dark robe very much like the one he had worn as a freewarrior when I first met him. In those days, he was a young man and I was... old. Even back then the current Carenda Vovet had a curious penchant for all things magickal: he had learned from human masters, found them lacking and wandered about. He could have become a Voice, but I will never forget the way he revealed to me why he chose to throw his weight for the Bleeders. I had long suspected there was some bad blood between him and the Voices, but when he informed me they disliked his sense of humour, I decided it was time to be wary of him.
        He also wins the prize for being damn hard to surprise, especially on his own turf. We barged in rather rudely, but the host scarcely noticed. He was much too preoccupied staring into a vial of something, surrounded by his alembics and mortars and plants. The room was, as could be predicted, dark.
        "That's him, then?" Sevroa asked. "He looks too young."
        "And what of young Taliat, then? She must be a crone. You must think the world of me."
        "I think you're a moonstruck old goat," he shrugged. "As far as I'm concerned."
        Erkhan quirked an eyebrow and graced yon soulless with a pale gray stare.
        Sevroa met the look boredly.
        "You forgot to add 'lecherous'," Erkhan said and set the vial down, picking up the book on the table.
        "Lecherous?"
        "The legerdemainer knows you better than I do," Sevroa said glumly.
        Erkhan laughed momentarily, never taking his eyes off the book. His was an eerie laugh, soft yet executed with a voice that carried. Most people had to ask him to speak up when he spoke, never realising that he always spoke in a whisper. "Who is he?"
        Sevroa glowered.
        "He prefers to be called Sevroa," I muttered and relit my pipe.
        "Oh, that one. Would you please not smoke in here?"
        "My apologies."
        "And you're Nivlande, the outrageous socialite."
        A pause.
        Erkhan laughed. "Gutsy. They usually aren't. You've... heard of me, then."
        Sevroa was quiet and instead opted to glare at us both, not really giving a damn about pleasantries as was usual. It was not as if he was rude. No! Nothing of the kind! Sevroa simply found it rude when people were spewing formal pleasantry, especially when it was directed at him. "You mountain peak nobles usually are the talk of the town," the man muttered in retaliation. "Are you busy?"
        "Peculiar question. Yes, this has to be done now... Varus, if you would please show young master... Sevroa the way to the waiting room? I believe Twinkle is still lying by the tree."
        "Oh. I had nearly forgotten. Thank you again."
        "He ate one of my pigeons."
        "Well, that is what you profit when you encourage them. And now that I yet again find my memory to be working in a timely manner, you have a third guest showing up soon. Would you please inform Samuel? 'Tis uncertain if Contesq will find her way here by herself."
        "Certainly," Erkhan said without taking his eyes off his alembic.
        I looked around. Erkhan loved changing the locations of his doorways and sometimes even worse things. If you recall my recounting of what happened with the Eyes and their symbol language, it too was part of this obsession. Furniture was not enough - the whole damn floorplan had to change at times.
        "Left, Varus."
        "Thank you," I said and lit my pipe as I left the room, Sevroa not far behind. We entered a hallway as dark and long as aforementioned ones. We walked for a while, and I knew before Sevroa even said it that it was coming.
        "Twinkle?" he asked nosily, one eyebrow raised in a manner that only Sevroa was capable. "That's... uncharacteristic... no. No it isn't."
        "Hah! 'Tis just an affectionate name, not the true one," I grinned at him, though it turned into a wince as I was caught off guard by yet more subtle shifting in the layers.
        "How many worlds has this man conquered?" Sevroa asked incredulously, his expression strengthening the power of his tone.
        I managed, "This one is just beyond the..." before I almost choked.
        The freewarrior frowned as I doubled over. The vertigo became stronger with every slip through the layers, as I should have expected. Though I had developed a resistance of sorts, it was still a chore to refrain from demonstrating to Sevroa what my stomach contained.
        My pipe fell on the floor as I leaned against the wall.
        Before I could recover, Sevroa bent and, with surprising grace, took my hand to place the pipe in it. "You're panting and sweating," he said neutrally, without emotion. "Are you ill, old man?"
        To this day, I do not perceive why I felt my cheeks turn ivory from exasperation. I quipped at Sevroa in the manner he does to anyone showing any form of worry for him, angrily and defensively. "I am, for your information, not about to die. 'Tis just a... momentary predicament."
        He looked at me guardedly for a while, analysing every move of mine before sneering and turning to glare at the dark corridor that once again led somewhere.
        This time it was a large room with exits in two directions, lanterns hanging from the ceiling and a tree in the middle of the mosaic floor. It was a Pact Tree, though still young, and though it looked to be a cherry tree, it sported golden apples like some of them do. They seemed ripe. I had once wondered why Erkhan had planted one here, but in time, we found out. (That is a completely different story...)
        Another question I asked him often during the early years of the tree was where he had acquired the seed, as not every Pact Tree was capable of bearing fruit. Every one of them was evergreen, however, in their own way...
        The room was decorated quite like one of the lounges you rambled about, Ottaviano - comfortable leather chairs, an atmosphere one can only dream to recreate... and a fireplace with a stock of wood at its side, though I'm quite sure that I had never seen anyone feed the fire. Not Samuel, not Erkhan. I have seen plenty of its kind, but never one so eclectic. Paintings changed themselves when Erkhan was bored with them, but it was always obvious they were cheap illusions that were not entirely complete. As an artist of sorts, I always found these mistakes glaring whereas most found the accidental omissions barely noticeable.
        Sevroa, as could be expected, paid little attention to any of this. After removing the scabbard and the belt, he slumped on one of the chairs without even as much as a second though and lay the sword on the one next to it.
        Though slightly put off by this show of barbarism (damn it, people ought to ogle at something majestic when their eyes first happen to glance at it!), I continued to the tree, stepped over the bricks and on the grass that encircled it. Then I stopped.
        "I heard you were indulging in culinary experiments again," I said.
        There was an embarrassed response from the animal that lay at the foot of the tree. I could see from the corner of my eye that Sevroa turned to look.
        "I told you to be a model guest, did I not?"
        The embarrassed silence continued, but my pet inched closer, lifting his head.
        "And 'twas no bloody eagle, either, so do not claim that 'twas self-defense."
        He hissed shamefully.
        "Varus," Sevroa said softly as he spotted my pet. "You've named a snake 'Twinkle'?"
        My pet snake turned his head toward Sevroa, producing a very faint tinkling sound from the little bell I had asked a friend to put on him. It had to be put back on every time he shed his skin, but it usually kept him out of trouble. Usually.
        "I have not," I protested in a slightly sulky tone and bent to pick my little pet up in my right hand. He hissed amorously and twisted himself around my wrist as I straightened. As I turned to Sevroa, I grinned. "Not everyone finds Ormungadr easy to pronounce."
        The freewarrior stared at me, the tree and the snake for a moment before amusing me with his incredulous look again. "You jest."
        "No, I do not," I continued and petted Ormungadr's head affectionately, lifting him so that he could snuggle against my cheekbone.
        "Ashes... if that's the Franckan lovebiter..." he paused. "It's the Franckan lovebiter, isn't it."
        I nodded, smiling in turly good humour for the first time since the whole matter had begun. Now, as you might have guessed, the species was a conscious choice from my part. Who said I cannot laugh at myself, even a speck? Or am I not allowed to? (Yes, I do enjoy laughing at you lot more... )
        "You gave a Franckan species a Viklandish..."
        "Blasphemy, is that what you imply?"
        "Yes," he said harshly, but not really meaning it. Then he grunted something and turned back to face the fire.
        "Mind him not," I uttered to my snake. "He is but a young man, and unwise in the way little things work."
        My amphibious Franckan snake seemed to agree and slithered down to my other, still bandaged hand, coming across as worried as it stared at my bandaged thumb accusingly.
        I chuckled. "Yes, yes, I know. Shall I let you dote on me?"
        In response, Twinkle-Ormungadr regarded me in a mock-insulted manner. His tongue flashed.
        "Oh, do take my word for it, I am well. Or, at the very least, compared to the condition I was found in."
        "Cha," Sevroa interjected from the fireplace. "A snake, worried..."
        "Choke on it," I told him jovially. "And do behave yourself."
        "When the host arrives," he told me dryly.
        In response, Erkhan, carrying a tray with assorted dishes, cider and a good chunk of cheese, chuckled in the doorway. "Well said."
        Startled, Sevroa fell silent and turned to look as I turned and headed for the fireplace, with Erkhan not far behind. I seated myself carefully, lest my aching bodyparts protest more.
        "So," Erkhan said, and lay the tray down on the little table in front of the chairs. "Taliat said you wanted to have a word or two about... something."
        "Very much true. This has to do with the Grand Council's decision."
        "Oh," he said and looked at Sevroa, smiling knowingly. "And he's here because..."
        "I'm getting paid," Sevroa said innocently. "To do what you people can't."
        I exchanged a look with Erkhan.
        "What exactly is it you desire, Varus?" my peer asked, pouring cider for everyone and offering the first glass to Sevroa, who took it with a polite nod.
        "I need you, my lovely comrade, to come up with an illusion that will put to shame the ones mentioned in the report of the ruins." I glanced at Sevroa, who raised his eyebrows in an honestly surprised manner.
        With his head tilted to one side, Erkhan said, "But he's..."
        "Magickless," the bitter one added sourly.
        And then I said, "Think of it as a challenge, Erkhan. No-one else has managed to affect him in any way. 'Tis nigh impossible, hm?"
        Quiet with consent and grandiose visions of solving the problem no-one had ever solved yet, Erkhan reached out and scratched Ormungadr under the head. He liked challenges, oh yes, very much indeed. Most of the time the trick to get the Vovet-Man on the move was to pique his interest in one or two ways, though most of the time Erkhan performed with commendable initiative. He was one to take charge of things - only, he was also one accustomed to the Caedaren mindset revolving around individuality.
        Certainly, we may honour our leaders and kinsmen, but have you any idea, Ottaviano, what it is to issue orders to a bunch one cannot intimidate? We are, unfortunately, individuals to a fault. Sevroa is a good example of this. Though some things have changed, some have not...
        Apropos, the answer to my question: Effective only improbably.
        The youngest of us made a sound of morose amusement. "I'm a challenge, now, am I?"
        "'Twould seem to be your primary goal in life."
        "No, that's a different one," Sevroa replied, frowning and sipping his drink. He then glanced at the mug appraisingly before nodding to Erkhan. "I might as well admit that you serve good drinks."
        "Then I might as well suggest you try the cheese," Erkhan said, smiling. "What exactly, down to every detail, is it you had in mind, then?"
        I chuckled. "Taliat did not tell you?"
        "Unfortunately," he replied, clearly curious.
        "Nobody told me, either," Sevroa said and cut himself a bit of cheese.
        "Untrue."
        "You told me what I was supposed to do, not how you planned to get me started."
        I chuckled. "Fine, fine... you ought to at least know what 'tis you are in for."
        "I signed up, didn't I?" he asked boredly and ate the bit slowly.
        Erkhan smirked. "Yes, you did. Varus?"
        Examining the mug in my hand, I smirked back and then looked at them both before telling them what I had in mind. Halfway through my explanation, both were grinning like madmen, a sure sign that they both enjoyed the challenge.
        Sevroa for the fact that he would receive great glory and prizes for this, Erkhan, because here was a challenge and the chance to prove once and for all to everyone that he was the best of the illusionweavers.

        The mood had lightened by a hundred pounds when Contesq entered escorted by Samuel, who immediately ran off after his duty was done. Even Sevroa seemed content to be participating in the conversation, and for me this was definitely quite strange. I seem to recall Erkhan was presently recounting a rather humourous ordeal from his youth, though I am quite unsure whether or not it had something to do with Tikr and a flock of chickens. It might have been the one where all three of us - Erkhan, Taliat and I - had to drop a drunk high-ranking Heart in a river because he simply would not believe that we were going to cross the bridge when we damn well felt like it.
        (I ought to maybe tell you that one. It truly is amusing.)
        Contesq looked mellow as she walked toward us after a quick curtsey. She was dirty, fit for a bath and a good night's sleep. Something in her behaviour spoke of determination, the kind one can find from the face of someone whose long voyage was at its end.
        I think at this stage it would be good to explain something. Before I went off to persuade Sevroa into something heroic and possibly quite stupid, I sent Contesq to talk to Coerai. The darling girl said she was going to go say hello to the Bleeders back at the hide, and to tell Ganawade something. Whatever it was, it had me itching with curiosity and slight discomfort.
        "Hallo, gel," I said. Sevroa was content to stare at her guardedly, like he often did with new acquaintances.
        "E'en, gramps," Contesq smirked, eyes twinkling through the pipe smoke. She went through the curtain of smoke, absolutely shining in the light.
        "Ah, I see you two understand each other." Said a chuckling Erkhan, who, being a gentleman to the depths of his bones, stood up to pour in the fourth glass. However, and I remember this little detail very well, he twitched upon looking up at her a second time as realisation of some fact struck him. His face registered confusion, especially so when he realised there was cider all over the tray. "Ash and blood," he spat. "Are you horribly inconvenienced if...?"
        I hid my smirk. Once again, the Contesq charm was trampling everything in its path.
        "Not at all, Carenda Vovet." She graced him with a smile. I could see the stars lighting up in Erkhan's eyes as he offered the glass, looking quite lost in thought (or daydreams).
        Of all the people that had met Contesq, Sevroa was probably the only one who could resist the sort of innocent charm the girl had (never mind the fact she was far from innocent). The freewarrior looked as if he did not quite trust Contesq, and Contesq was not one to regard those who disliked him in one way or another. Being quite horrible at hiding her feelings, it was apparent just by looking at her that Sevroa somehow made her nervous. As did Erkhan. I noticed it from the look she gave him, a short, suspicious glance.
        Once she had sat down, Erkhan began to talk to Sevroa again. It was amazing how they got along, though it was mostly because they both loved to make more or less serious statements concerning my habits.
        I leaned closer to her. "What happened with Ganawade?"
        She smiled rigidly. "If you want me to be nice to you, shut up about it."
        As you can imagine, that had my eyebrows reaching for the sky. "Oh? Well. Forgive me."
        Just as quickly as the smile flowed to her face, it turned slightly more lenient. "No offense taken, yet. By the way, I have a message for you."
        I urged her to go on with hand gesture, too busy smoking my pipe to actually speak.
        "It was sent by a certain Coerai. She said you ought to strap a sword to your adorable hip."
        I coughed, having inhaled smoke sharply. Innocent... and so obvious. "Contesq! Be proper!"
        "Hah. Got you. Seriously this time? She said you should have a sword with you. Had something to do with whatever results you sent me to ask for."
        Fully aware of what was to come, I sighed and said it nonetheless. "And she said what of the circumstances?"
        "She didn't say. Except something about an emergency, which just figures. Still, there must be a reason, yes?"
        As I had expected. It always irks me how someone knows something so well, yet is not willing to impart the knowledge when it would be the opportune moment to do so. Voices are the greatest sadists of us, I have always said, and I will say so for as long as I live. Anyone who knows so much while making sure every single soul in her immediate vicinity is aware of her knowledge, yet unwilling to actually discuss it when prompted to speak of her information is a crueller person than some tyrant with a tendency to furnish with the bones and hides of his subjects.
        "Bloody Songsters," I grumbled. "Cannot trust them to be lucid when they are... Erkhan!"
        Sevroa and Erkhan, both smiling crookedly at something, turned to look at us like we were hardly in the room.
        "Spare a sword, old chum?" I said, probably in a rather angry manner.
        Probably, because with Erkhan, it is horribly hard to say whether or not he truly is offended. He simply beamed back at me kindly and said, "A sword, beloved comrade? Any particular kind?"
        I glanced at Contesq, who simply shrugged helplessly. Everyone was looking at her, making her nervous. "Does it matter?" she asked edgily. "A sword's a sword."
        "Sword," I said, looking back to Erkhan. He waved it off.
        "Just visit the armoury. I'm sure there will be something to your fancy. Left down the corridor opposite to the entrance to here, then the second door on the left." He turned back to Sevroa, who was having a second helping of cider. "As I was saying..."
        "I wish she would have at least had the decency to tell me what to expect," I grumbled to Contesq when the terrible two were blissfully busy discussing. "Coerai, of all people... I asked her to look into the matter, not supply me with recommendations that reek like a prophecy. Why does every damn soul in existence forget that I hate surprises?"
        "She did," Contesq said smiling softly despite my quiet raging. "She warned you of danger."
        On cue, my snake appeared from my sleeve, flashing his tongue at Contesq warily. "Hah. 'Twould be silly to presume that to be more than uninformative," I replied bitterly and scratched Ormungadr from under the chin.
        With a frustrated look on her face, Contesq looked at Ormungadr, who stared back amorously and hissed frantically. "You're not worried?" she asked, ignoring the serpent.
        "Contesq," I said patiently, gaze fixed on her darkening expression, "I have healed more scars than you have seen seasons. I am worried, but also not expecting very much. One begins to see certain patterns during the years."
        "Well that's a really nice way to put it, isn't it."
        "Yes, 'tis. I do hope you are not insinuating that I ought to run about flailing my hands in blind panic?"
        "Varus..." she said in a tone that I found familiar by now. "Please. You're tired and look like hell despite the fact that you're trying to come off as jovial and devil-may-care."
        I remember staring at her wordlessly, guilt-ridden and angry. Angry, at someone who looked at me and seemed genuinely worried. Certainly, Taliat, Erkhan (and his companion, what a marvellous woman) and some others know me well enough to know my bad moods disappear after I spend a season moping and doing my own things. Many a summer has gone when I sit on an island and do nothing but get comfortable by fishing and staying away from everything. What is the word... vacation? I have those, infrequently. Because old as I may be, I am no more invulnerable and tireless than a newborn. (Or is it because I am old? Oh well...) I was upset at Contesq, because she was right, making sense, being so insufferably compassionate. I detested that.
        Seething, I stood up abruptly, earning a poisonous glare from a startled, savage young man. "Are you coming along to see what 'tis I will choose to wield?" I glanced at the glaring one. "Or will you stay put and mope with Sevroa?"
        He narrowed his eyes while Erkhan looked fit to toss a bucket of water on both of us. Thankfully Contesq disarmed the situation by heading for the doorway.
        
        Erkhan's definition of an armoury is somewhat flawed. What I see with my mind's eye whenever I think of the word 'armoury' is a dull room with numerous rows of steel objects. Swords, axes, spears, suits of leather and metal armour, that manner of thing. I would not, realistically speaking, expect to set eyes upon a gallery where weapons are placed in hooks that are in turn attached to a framed piece of wood. Amid curtains, pedestals and little plaques that explain the short history of the each of the weapons, no less!
        We stood at the door, though for the sake of honesty, I will admit I leaned partially against the wall with Contesq grabbing my shoulder. The damnable castle of Erkhan's and its layerslip corridors was getting to me. If it had not been for Contesq, this time I would have fallen on my knees. I remember a sudden pain, as if a steel hand gripped my innards and squeezed them. I shall not even speak of my stomach's contents.
        "And you couldn't bring yourself to discuss this earlier?" Contesq asked, still sounding worried.
        "Truth to be told," I wheezed and glared fiercely - like a cornered wolf - at the armoury, "no."
        "Fool," she reprimanded, squeezing my shoulder. "Fool."
        "Old men are," I snapped back and straightened, gritting my teeth and distancing myself from her, away from her touch. I wanted it, I trusted it not, so mixed were my feelings concerning Contesq.
        I hobbled stubbornly to the swords, then picked a curved sword I thought could swing with one hand or both. Bear in mind that my other arm was still sore after the clash with a gigantic, furry monstrosity, and that my path was taking me toward another clash, this one so serious a clairvoyant had sent me a warning. And if a clairvoyant sends you a warning, she is certain you will die.
        I unsheathed it carefully. All in all, it was a plain sword, but Erkhan loved plain, ugly swords. They were the most attractive to his sense of humour, because every last one of them was either heavily enchanted or a show of craftsmanship that would have had any decent weaponsmith taking his hat off at the sight of one of Erkhan's swords.
        I cannot remember what the plaque said of it, but it was an excellent sword. And I was concentrating on this particular aspect of the blade to keep myself from thinking about Contesq or even acknowledging her presence. After a few half-hearted, one-handed cuts at the air, I sheathed the sword. Ormungadr hissed sullenly from my pocket, clearly disliking all the moving around.
        Contesq was quiet as she stared at me in a frustratingly knowing manner, smiling.
        "Well?" I snapped. "Speak, girl, if you think you have a clever jest to spit out. Amusement I could do with, right now."
        But she only walked over and turned her head to look up into my eyes. Still smiling, before she poked me gently in the ribs with a finger. It felt, even through my studded leather mail, and I twitched. "Wouldn't you much rather sleep before you storm off to cheat death, once more? You're still sore. I can see it from your walk."
        Her hand wandered over to my chest, above my heart. The long fingers gripped the leather and pulled slightly, or at least tried to.
        I was stunned, staring at the young woman who charmed everyone, and the charm of whom I thought I could resist. The short hair that everyone agreed was an ugly new fashion, the roundness under which lay strong muscles, the eyes... damn. Damn her eyes, which looked as if they could only see me!
        "Contesq?" was all I managed to say, stuck to that very spot like a statue.
        "Please, Carenda?"
        And we stared at each other in silence for a while, chained to each other by a mere touch either of us could have broken any moment. As tension in these situations usually dictates, I muse, breaking such sweet bliss is sacrilege. And not breaking it is, too.
        "You make this difficult," I mumbled, closing my eyes only for a moment as the pain in my midsection grew again. "Have you any idea how..."
        "...how much worse you have been, and still fought?" She laughed gently. "You're an idiot, Carenda, if you go now to die. You say much, but with no content."
        Laughing despite the pain, I placed my hand on her shoulder, intending to push the emboldened young Eye away from me. I could not. My arm simply would not push her away, for my mind was still not made though I said to her, "Wench, you do not understand how hard 'tis to stop, lay down and rest. 'Tis not that time."
        "Listen, good man," she imitated my way of speech gently, a hand firmer than I had suspected suddenly enveloping around my wrist. "Feel sorry for yourself another night. Tonight you rest... or are you afraid, perchance, that you might cry?"
        She had silenced me again. The corners of her mouth creased toward a smile, but a tension appeared on her brow and her eyes were shining with slowly forming tears. "Please? There's no honour in dying like a fool. Even if you really are one."
        Even with Clarefaer, I had never felt like this. It had been casual with her, with anyone for a time I cannot comprehend anymore. Contesq felt familiar and consoling in a manner that made me feel uncomfortably relaxed in her presence.
        Relaxed, daring. And speechless. I know this all will feel sappy when you read this, and Amanda may even start wailing, but as foolish as I feel writing this moment of weakness for Mother knows who to read, I could hardly give a damn. It is no laughing matter. Not even today.
        And back then, it was enough to nearly have me in tears.
        "You saint," I said hoarsely, and then the pain came back, burning. I clung to her. "Walk me. I may know where Erkhan's guest quarters are."
        To lessen my pain, she smiled through her tears. And then she took me away.
        I am no longer certain of what happened when we found one of the guest rooms after three corridors of throbbing, radiating abdominal pain. As it happens, I never pried into the happenings after the armoury, because... because. As you may have noticed, I do not wish to remember moments of weakness, and I am quite certain I would be given a detailed account of my behaviour should I ask.
        Bits and pieces I do remember, but my first memories of the room are hazy.
        The curtains covering the doorway parted as I fell to my knees past them, gasping for air before collapsing into the position anyone with severe stomach pains would have. Through the pain and confusion, I realised Contesq's strong hands pulling me up and her saying something.
        Whatever it may have been, my first clear - well, certain - memory is of finding myself lying on a made bed, fully dressed, my cloak as a blanket. Contesq was sitting on the ground and had her legs under her like a meditating magicker. She was looking at me morosely, worry clearly readable from her face.
        "We have no water, am I correct?" I mumbled, the pain steadily growing.
        "No," she said, staring at me intently and faintly apprehensively.
        "Of course." I lifted a weak hand and placed it on her head, fingering one of the faint curls. Though it may now come across as more than peculiar, I was genuinely afraid then that my life was coming to an end and I could not see it, not even from the eyes of others. In the old days, one would earn respect and remembrance by uttering a jest with one's dying breath, and I was intending to travel down that road if I truly had to.
        But I also did not want to mock my young companion, who had so much potential - I wanted her to be one of mine, that much I knew. I had almost planned it already, as well.
        "Contesq, please, tell me," I whispered finally. "What was it, with Ganawade?"
        She twitched at the question, but looked to not have taken offense. In fact, she smiled a little, though it was clear she was about to grin. "Ganawade wanted me to keep... an eye on you. Go on, smile... but it's true."
        "He always did have an avid interest in things that were none of his concern."
        "Yes," she smiled, only faintly.
        After pulling my hand back to my side I closed my eyes, then forced them open again. Concentration was becoming hard, consciousness slippery. "If by morn... if 'tis past noon and I do not wake up..."
        "...Varus?"
        "...toss the me and the bloody bed into the sea and see that it burns. That," I sighed before closing my eyes again, "will give the Viklanders something to think about."
        I thought I heard her laugh a most beautiful laugh before I fell unconscious smiling. Smiling, I am quite sure.

        Occasionally I wake up in the middle of the night not to sleep again until the next, as I find myself hoping that I would have died in that fashion. Only a bottle of wine or Erkhan's cider brightens my mood when I have one of those spells. I was happy, then, when Contesq doted over me.
        I fell. When I said that I "fell unsconscious", I was not pulling your proverbial leg (or ear) in any manner.
        I woke up sensing movement, very aware that my muscles did none of the work. Opening my eyes, I saw things one would normally glimpse during a layerslip if one did not blink. And I was falling, falling slowly down and flailing madly, through thunderclouds before plunging into the sea and deep into its bottom, surfacing near a backwards running large gray creature, missing a bush of blue flowers by inches as the ground gave way to another scenery...
        These are things I remember and have remembered ever since that day, and they are only a fraction of the things I saw as I was torn between every possible direction, often almost hitting both flora and fauna the like of which I had never seen before and never have seen, for that matter.
        I fell through a mile of soft snow before finding myself lying unharmed next to the sword somewhere where there had, by the looks of it, once been a lush forest. Nearby was a hill, on top of which was a gigantic, rotting evergreen tree. I had once known such a tree, and thus was properly confused until I realised this was not the same tree. Dead men were rotting with the majestic, tall tree, their large corpses lying on its roots. Of them, one or two were still clutching their axes and shields. They were bearded and dressed like warriors on the eastern coast. No horned helmets. A pair had died smiling. A bit farther away from the tree there were a few even larger corpses, dressed much more simply. Then I noticed, as I turned, destruction as far as my eyes could see, with mountains keeping their silent vigil far in the direction my back had been turned to just a moment ago.
        Few trees stood anymore. The evergreens were scattered everywhere, even in the river that ran dark red and half-frozen past the great tree. Snow fell peacefully, burying the trees and more large corpses, a few of them a curious shape. From the direction opposite to the mountains, from down the river, a cold breeze blew the scent of sea to me. In the distance, I could see large figures, but at this distance they were mere shadows in my eyes...
        Only after ogling around like a newborn kit and devouring all this information, I noted a detail that seemed so insignificant compared to the death and destruction around me. The pain in my stomach was gone; I felt whole, I felt alive, young - unlike only moments earlier in Erkhan's multilayer fortress.
        Yet it was weak solace when walking to the tree I realised I had no water, no food, no gear. If the corpses had any on them, I would not even consider it - they had been rotting for a few days now. And drinking from the river that was still blood red after the battle was long over did not seem any more intelligent.
        In an attempt to retain my sanity, I reached out at the strings of destiny and tried to Find Contesq. Alas, I felt nothing. Upon attempting to Find Erkhan I was hailed with similar results. I still kept trying, as I know so many people and so many places, but with every failed attempt my panic grew. Would I die alone, without anyone to hear my final laugh? Would there be ravens to eat my eyes? The dead had seemed to misplace theirs, though the two dead ravens lying on the ground next to one of them seemed to have misplaced their heads.
        I grew worried. It seemed like the simple ground fowl would have the last laugh. I had one, deliciously delirious, myself.
        In the middle of this thought I felt something brush my leg and heard a faint sound. "Thank Mother!" I whispered as a black and yellow head looked out from my pocket. "You scaled saviour," I mumbled, taking the serpent into my hand.
        The poor snake had survived the hellish ride, and was just as confused as I was, and to calm him down I petted him for a moment before I let him slither up my sleeve. My pet's presence helped me adjust slightly, but I still lacked a proper idea of where I had ended. I was alone, with a snake to help me, with a sword that could feed me only if I found prey slow enough. Do not misunderstand: I still know how to sneak up on an auroch with the wind blowing into my face, my person covered by the illusions of my people. But I was still wounded - tough luck, as Sevroa would say.
        I cursed the dark and I cursed the light, and I cursed the tree and the bird that I barely saw sitting on the tree's highest branch. The moment it set off gliding, I could tell it was a falcon, which of course made me a little apprehensive. To it, I must have been a snake.
        Thinking about the bird and all the other details around me, I realised now the situation was worse than I had thought upon first glance, if I remembered the myths. I took off my glove and felt the ground. It was dry, as dry as it could get, the plants dead and withered.
        My frustration grew. As an outlet I punched the ground angrily. Then, muttering a choice oath, I stood up.
        Suddenly and once again, everything changed. When I out of growing desperation tried Finding Sheiko Nightwrought, the last prominent person in my recent memory, I felt her presence in the direction of the mountains. Not stunned as much as surprised and relieved, I spent a while staring at the mountains, then at the corpses while I recounted a few tales in my mind.
        Shuddering with rage, fear and excitement, I left the corpses of men, ravens and whatever monsters the others were to rot. I left, to seek out Sheiko, who was my means to getting home. Damn the humans and their wars, in any case. They were no longer my priority, interest, or even duty. I could not feel the presence of Clearspring, not Deepwild, not Teragon or anything I could think of in the shaky state of mind I was in. No cities, no realms - no problems.
        I turned away from the wind, and headed onward to adventure, through the scent of coals and ashes. As I walked, the snow began to fall more steadily, as clouds darkened both sky and ground, making me hope the Seer would have told me to bring along more clothes and not a damn sword.