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Chapter 1: A walk in the woods

Ankur’s not so foul as some cities, and provides my livelihood at Court. Yet it’s still a city, with foul air and far too many people. When my distaste grows too much, I’m forced to leave for a time and seek my peace in the woodlands of my youth. Far from those who, appearances notwithstanding, are more my kin than the beasts of the woods. To most, the forest’s uncomfortable at best, when it ignores them and their sojourn’s brief; when it doesn’t ignore them, it’s cruel and unforgiving. Yet it’s the only place where what I appear to be means naught—where what lies within is all that matters. There’s an acceptance here, entirely nonverbal, that renews me and grants me for a time the reserves of strength I need to face those who judge me solely by my veneer. Such escapes help me endure my lot.

So it was that I wandered along a game trail, following fresh spoor—purely for the joy of tracking, for my pack was heavy with the best the royal kitchen could provide and there was no need to feed myself. My spirit was already lightening and my breath came easily in the clean air. Easily for the first time in weeks.

The deer I’d been following and hoped to see veered from the trail, as if it were avoiding something. Kneeling to investigate, the reason became obvious: a blood trail, and the deep, forked impressions of a boar’s feet in the spongy, fragrant earth. Boars were unpleasant company at the best of times; wounded, they were best avoided. I gritted my teeth and paid closer heed to my surroundings, for someone was hunting here illegally; no forester would have let a wounded animal escape to die alone and in agony in these woods. Yet I saw no human footprints paralleling the wounded beast’s path. If not the hunter’s responsibility, then it became mine. Though no longer a forester, years of training weren’t something lightly set aside.

A boar, even wounded, was nothing to face lightly, and I had only a short spear and my belt knife, more suitable for discouraging brigands than facing the fiercest animal in these woods. Casting about, I found a solid branch perhaps two hands-span long and an inch thick to serve as a cross-hilt, and grubbing in the rich loam beneath a nearby spruce, found the tree’s roots. I cut loose a couple feet of root, and stripped the bark and rootlets and soil until naught remained but the slick, elastic root surface. Exerting my strength, I lashed the homemade crosspiece to my spear, and leaned on it to test its strength. It sagged, but didn’t slide down the shaft under my weight. With time, the roots would dry and tighten; in the meantime, I hoped their grip would suffice.

Without further delay, lest my courage fail, I followed the boar’s trail. Of the emotions that warred in my breast, anger predominated: this wasn’t what I’d come here to seek, yet it had found me, and there was no hope of peace until I fulfilled my responsibility to the animal.

I forced the anger away, for I needed all my concentration to avoid stumbling across the beast, and the blood trail weakened as the wound scabbed over. There was little wind, and what there was gusted unpredictably from several directions. After perhaps an hour, spear cradled in both hands, ready to ground and brace against a charge, I found the boar resting on his side deep within a pine thicket. He snorted as a stray breeze carried my scent, and staggered to his feet, defiance glowing in bloodshot, piggy eyes. Bristly, coarse grey hair grew in irregular patches across his body. He was larger than a hunting dog and brawnier, his head level with my own. A chest wound had stained and splashed him with gore, and that wound reopened as I watched. Bright blood trickled, falling to glue together the browning pine needles. His breathing came raggedly, pierced with a gurgling whistle; he’d been hit in a lung. I hurt in sympathy. Warm pig smell mingled with the tang of blood, and we stood there, he and I, uncomfortably alike in certain ways, watching each other warily.

This boar was a giant of his kind, and outweighed me by a hundred pounds or more. My spear seemed unequal to the contest against curved tusks long as my hand and the unconquerable will that drives a boar down the shaft of an impaling spear and still leaves enough fury to savage the man handling it. It was no encounter I anticipated with any glee; indeed, had he been unwounded, I’d have fled up the nearest tree without a second thought and waited for him to leave. But he was wounded enough to miss a step as he gathered his legs beneath him, and I’d faced a wounded boar before. The whole matter became moot as he broke the standoff with his charge.

Even wounded as he was, I had to be quick. As he came at me, I dropped my pack, then grounded and braced the spear. For the second time that day, the boar ran himself onto sharp steel, burying it a good dozen inches in his chest before the broad crosspiece behind the blade brought him up short, spear bending under the impact and trying to spring from my grip. A gout of blood washed over my hands and streamed onto the forest floor, and his agonized squeal echoed in the still air. His breath blew hot on my face, and it took all my strength to hold that spear firm against his last desperate lunge to free himself. If he’d not been weakened by that first wound, I’d never have held him, but he’d lost too much blood, and sagged to his knees after one last abortive effort to wrench himself free. I withdrew the spear from his wound with difficulty, violated muscle spasming and gripping the blade, and watched him warily. Even this near death, he glared, trying to toss his head and gore me.

I changed my grip on the spear’s shaft and plunged the blade into his throat, severing the great artery that pulsed there beneath layers of corded muscle. More blood rushed from the wound to soak the ground, but this wound was mortal. With a quiver and a last plaintive squeal, the massive body subsided.

I took a deep breath, forcing the tightness in my chest to subside. An edge of the blade had embedded itself in the bones of his spine, and it took considerable effort to free it. That done, I wiped the blade on his ugly pelt, then did my best to wipe the blood from my hands with the clean litter that covered the forest floor. I hesitated before leaving, and cast one last look back at my vanquished opponent. But the day was waning, and I had one more task before returning to my own concerns.

I followed the boar’s back trail, easy enough given how quickly the blood increased as I neared the site of the original confrontation. My path took me towards the village that lay at the forest’s edge, and led me to a clearing. The greenlit afternoon silence stole my breath, and the pale sunlight that shone through the spring’s new leaves was magical, so despite my caution, it took a moment before I noticed the clearing’s occupants. When I did, my reverie vanished and I crouched under cover of some bushes.

Through the leaves, I saw an attractive women of middle years, long brown hair flowing unbound around her shoulders. She knelt across the clearing from me, eyes warily scanning the walls of early-spring growth that enclosed the glade. I remained still, and escaped her notice. She wore a man’s leather breeches and jerkin, but the undershirt that spilled from beneath the jerkin was finely embroidered. On the ground by her knees, a somewhat older man lay beside a shattered spear, legs splashed with blood and serviceable woodsman’s clothing stained with leaf mould. He had black hair, sun-lightened or beginning to grey, and worn shorter than the current fashion; his weather-beaten complexion spoke of someone who’d spent more time outdoors than in, but the quality of his sword’s sheath and hilt told me he was no mere woodsman. The pallor underlying his tan confirmed he was wounded, had any doubt remained.

My anger faded. These were no poachers—rather, unfortunates who’d blundered across the boar’s path and been attacked before they could climb a tree. Yet bitterness replaced my anger, washing over me like a green and spiteful wave, for it was spring and I knew why these two had sought out such a sheltered spot—had intruded on my woods and ruined my solitude. I wallowed a moment in the feeling, a grimace twisting my face and bitter tears starting from my eyes. But self-pity’s a poor path for one such as me, for it leads to self-murder—or worse, for at least self-murder brings a clean end. I fought that mood down before it could take hold, my instincts for self-preservation reasserting themselves. Envy was replaced by revulsion that I could behave as my foes at Court accused, and revulsion was replaced by a cleansing anger at my own weakness. Finally, concern replaced all else, and once more in control, I stepped from behind the concealing bushes, leaving the spear.

These woods had been nurtured for the King’s pleasure, and were well stocked with game animals of all sorts, including the boars so beloved of huntsmen. The woman feared the worst, for as I rose from concealment, she seized the broken spear and made ready to defend herself. Her eyes widened in shock at the sight of me, and I found myself pleasantly surprised she had the wit to avoid fainting—most of the women at Court are too well-trained in that reflex—but I held back a smile, knowing what effect that had on those who didn’t know me. Yet even now that she recognized I wasn’t what she’d feared, she remained wary. I strode into the glade, my steps silent upon the grass that had sprung up here where the light was stronger, my arms open and empty-handed, hoping she’d accept me as an ally if not a friend.

The man moaned and her gaze went straight to him. I froze, not wanting to startle her with a sudden movement. As I waited, sunlight warm on my back, the man’s eyes opened. I was close enough to see the blankness give way to shock as he focused on me. Callused as I was, that awakened a familiar pain in my chest, and it was faint consolation that he’d been expecting far worse. He made a tentative move for his weapon but subsided with an agonized expression as his wound made itself felt. His lady made as if to interpose herself, but halted when he placed a hand upon her arm. He forced himself up onto one elbow and reappraised me, his initial shock replaced by something more like confidence.

When you’re born a dwarf in a world of normal men and women, you soon learn to abandon any hope of the trappings of normalcy: friendship, apprenticeship to a suitable guild, and a place to live free of mockery and the torment of being different in a world that doesn’t forgive differences. Most certainly, you abandon any hope of the abiding attachments that might sustain you through your life. That’s not to say you abandon the available substitutes—in a kingdom as depraved as ours can be, such things can be bought, and there are always those who want something “unique” to brag of. And while my flesh is strong and (despite appearances) healthy, my spirit weakens often, and at times I’ve sacrificed my self-respect in the face of a greater need, knowing as I did that the fulfillment I sought remained ever out of reach.

What you never achieve is acceptance. I admit that in my more honest moments.

I made my first words light and reassuring, though the tightness in my chest diminished the intended effect. “Fear not, good folk, I’m Morley, the King’s jester. I’m here to aid you.” Though deficient in so many other ways, I’d been born with a fine voice. The man relaxed further, though his lady remained wary. The couple looked familiar, though I was sure I’d not seen them here at the King’s home away from Court; it must have been an overheard description that evoked that recognition. But I had more important things to concern me.

His voice was steady. “The boar?”

“Dead, Sir, by my hand. They’re tough beasts, but your aim was very nearly true.”

“Truer than the spear’s shaft. It surprised us, and I had no time to brace properly.” His face grew ashen as he struggled to rise and failed. “It wounded me when the spear gave way. Mercifully, my lady was spared any wound.” One hand relinquished the spear to caress the back of his neck. There was something more than formal devotion in that gesture. Though it was something forever denied to me, it was no less pleasant to watch now that I’d pushed away my envy.

“If you’ll lie still, I can help.” Then, apologetically. “It will hurt.” I knelt beside him and appraised the long slash wound that curved tusks had opened along the length of his thigh. There was blood aplenty, but the wound appeared shallow. Most importantly, I saw no bone; rather, there was surface muscle laved by a slow welling of fresh blood. The boar had touched neither artery nor tendon, and despite the blood loss, it looked more the sort of wound to provide a fine scar than something that would lame him in his old age. If the boar had surprised them, he must have been fast indeed to have escaped with so little harm. His eyes narrowed as I drew my knife, but he forced calm upon his face again. The woman watched me narrowly, hands once again tight upon the spear’s shaft.

“Trust me,” I soothed. “Despite my fearsome visage, I mean no harm.” My choice of words startled them into an exchange of guilty looks, but they relaxed as I continued talking. “Modesty notwithstanding, I’ll have to bare the wound and cut a bandage.” I did this, setting aside what remained of the cloth, and he stoically bore the pain. Once I’d removed enough clothing to reveal bare flesh, the old scars that lay there told me the source of his courage—this one had fought before, many times, and was no stranger to wounds and surgery.

I spoke reassuringly to the woman. “If you’d help him, bring fresh water. There’s a stream perhaps twenty yards that way. Mind that the water is fresh, and bears no scum or debris.” I pointed without taking my eyes off the wound, and handed her my spare water skin. She left, and from the corner of my eye, I saw his obvious concern. “Fear not. The boar’s dead, and I saw no sign of others.”

“My thanks for killing him. A slow death when the wound goes bad is no fate even for such as he.” He grimaced as I pressed on the flesh on either side of the wound, exploring until I was satisfied there was no deeper damage or debris embedded in the wound. “Would that my first thrust had slain him and spared you the effort!”

By now, the woman was out of sight. I took a skin of fortified wine from my pack. “This will hurt, as you well know, but it’s necessary.”

He grinned, lips tight but appreciation replacing apprehension in his eyes. “Aye, but better that by far than river water.”

We shared a smile, then I washed the wound thoroughly, careful to ensure that I’d missed nothing and watchful for any new bleeding. This time, I saw a suspicious puckering of the flesh. Looking closer, I found and removed a long splinter that had come to rest in flesh after being expelled from the spear’s shattered shaft. Then I debrided the edges of the cut with a fine pair of scissors I’d purchased long ago. He bore the pain stoically, even though I’d distanced the woman to protect his dignity should he cry out.

By the time she returned, I’d cleaned the wound as best as possible under the circumstances and begun stitching it closed with some fine thread I carried in my kit. She watched, unflinching, and my respect for her grew. As I worked, she spoke in a soft, pleasant voice.

“What brings the King’s jester alone to these woods?”

“My feet,” I replied, more brusquely than I’d intended, avoiding her question. I hadn’t intended to give offense, but bitterness was always close to hand for me. From the corner of my eye, I saw them exchange glances while I used the river water to bathe the skin around the wound, careful not to contaminate the wound itself as I cleared away the clotted blood. With the wound now stanched, I covered it with peat moss from my kit and applied a bandage. It wasn’t as fine a job as one of the King’s surgeons could have done, but under the circumstances, I was proud of my handiwork.

“You’ll need a proper surgeon to tend to the wound when you return to town, but your leg ought to hold you ’til then. I’ve packed the wound with peat moss to keep it from festering, but you’ll need to change the dressing soon.” I verified that the bandage was tight, then rose and washed my hands with what was left of the water. Then I dried my hands on my jerkin and turned to go.

“Wait,” he called as I moved to leave the clearing. “Can we not reward you for your help?”

Our eyes met, and I read the expected pity in his gaze, but heard honest gratitude in his voice. “The King cares for me well enough. I’d stay and see you home, but...” I shrugged awkwardly. Once again he looked surprised, then grave as he replied.

“Know then, Morley, that you have the gratitude of Bram of Ankur for what you have done. Should you ever have need, seek me out.” He offered his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, I took it. There were calluses there, and old scars across the back, and though he didn’t exert his full swordsman’s strength, neither did he draw back in revulsion nor grasp my hand limply as he might have with a child.

Now I remembered why he’d seemed so familiar. He was one of the King’s advisors, and as ambassador for Ankur, he’d traveled widely. The lady, of course, would be his wife Margrethe. Their return after an absence of more than a year had been the talk of the Court, and I’d looked forward to meeting him, taking his measure, and learning where he fit within the network of alliances and counter-alliances that was life in Ankur.

What little I knew said he’d come from Amelior in the far West, acquiring a measure of infamy to equal the respect in which he was widely held. The infamy was natural for one who’d broken the bloodoath and survived; the respect was equally natural for one who’d played a key role in the war against his former countrymen these nine years past. The couple had been married since the war ended, and—spiteful rumors notwithstanding—I’d heard no reliable evidence either had been unfaithful. In Ankur, there’d have been no want of opportunity.

Our eyes met again, and I was warmed by what I saw. The pity was gone, and in its place lay respect, something I’d rarely seen directed at me. Uncomfortable with the emotions that raised and at the length of the silence that had fallen between us, I turned to go.

“I thank you, Bram. Rest assured I shall.”

“And thank you for meeting my responsibility to the animal.” I grunted assent, and left to reclaim my spear, for I had much to think on and much to resolve. Without looking back, I turned and moved off. I’d told my liege I’d return that day, but now found I needed more time to think. It was likely this would be my last visit to these woods for some time, and scant time remained to restore the peace I so desperately needed before the King’s entourage returned to Ankur.

Chapter 2: Another twist of the dagger

When I’d chosen to leave the woodland life and seek my fortune in the city, my foster father shook his head in incomprehension. It was beyond him why I’d leave the safety of the forest and secure employment as one of the King’s foresters. Though my father was learned in his own way, and knew the songs the minstrels had taught him and the histories that lay behind them, he could never understand my need to learn more of our land and seek the same acceptance in Ankur I’d gained in these woods. I wasn’t sure of my own reasons, save that the other foresters had not so much loved me as accepted me, and despite having earned their respect, I felt driven to find something more. What that was I couldn’t say, but if I could find it anywhere, I felt sure it would be in Ankur.

“And how will you provide for yourself?” my father demanded. “How will you protect yourself from those who will torment you because of what you are?”

I’d spent long nights pondering this, and had an answer ready. “I’ll earn my living by my wits and by the music you’ve taught me. Perhaps I’ll even find employ at the King’s Court, for he has no jester to mock him and teach him wisdom, and who better to fill such a role than one who has been mocked his whole life and learned wisdom thereby?”

Gaining employment had been a near thing, for though it was easy enough to play for my dinner and a warm, dry place to sleep in the many taverns of Ankur, I acquired more than a few bruises and had once or twice been in peril of my life from those who hated and feared me based solely on my appearance. But I’d fought down what rose within me and I’d persevered, enduring the city’s stench and foulness and trying not to remember how clean and pleasing the forests had been by comparison, until I earned an audience with the King. The quality of my music and the gentle mockery with which I’d reminded him of his own flaws had gained me a room in the palace and the King’s protection, if not yet his love.

It hadn’t gained me the acceptance I’d fooled myself I could achieve, and even the protection wasn’t always as efficacious as one might wish.

“Come now, little man. Surely even you can leap this high?” The taunting emerged from amidst a greasy mass of jowls. Because I kept my expression neutral and failed to furnish the response he’d sought, he grew more angry than mocking and waved a large fist beneath my nose. Arms akimbo, face calm but chest aching, I waited patiently for him to tire of his sport.

Another voice chimed in. “Jump, dwarf, or we’ll teach you some respect for your betters.”

I kept my voice calm, in part by imagining my hand drawing the long dagger belted at my side and cutting him a second mouth. A week in Ankur had done much to erode the calm I’d won in my brief sojourn in the woods. “Sir, I’m the King’s Fool by occupation, not by wit.” Then, noticing a familiar tall figure striding towards me, I couldn’t resist adding a taunt of my own. “But do enlighten me, Sir, how it is that you should have the wit of a Fool and not the profession?”

He made as if to strike me and I stood my ground, daring him with my smile. Then Bram’s hand fell on Fatty’s shoulder, spinning him around to face the King’s Advisor. “Surely you haven’t forgotten the penalties for striking the Fool, Osric?” The fat man hesitated, then glared at my savior. “I thought not. Now unless I’m mistaken, that Lady yonder—your wife, is she not?—beckons for your attention.”

I smiled gratefully as Osric dropped my motley hat to the floor with a clash of bells, spurned it with his heel, and strutted away among his friends, without looking back. But beneath that smile, my anger seethed, and it was several breaths before the pain in my chest eased and the pounding of my heart slowed. I tucked my hands in my belt to hide their trembling, as Bram bent to retrieve my headgear, not meeting my eyes and granting me time to collect myself. But his strong hand fell on my shoulder and squeezed as he set the hat back in place. From anyone else, I might have mistaken this for pity, but from Bram, I’d learned to accept the gesture for what it was: understanding and commiseration. That lifted my mood more than anything I could have done.

“I suppose I should be thankful, Bram, that he torments me only briefly. His wife must endure him constantly.” We shared a smile and parted, he rejoining his wife Margrethe, a faint limp evident in his gait, and me continuing on my rounds, sprinkling a witticism here and a song there, and keeping an ear open for words I’d report later to the King—and humiliating myself as the situation required, of course, for my job was to play the fool, not to leave that responsibility to others.

I passed the evening that way, uneventfully, though as always, much was said—and left unsaid—that I would report to my King or keep in mind for the future. As always, more of my countrymen laughed at me than with me. But that was something I’d long since learned to deal with, soothing its gall with enough ale to dull the pain’s edge without dulling my mind’s edge. Indeed, with that aid, I could believe my lot was better than it might have been. For instance, had I stayed with my birth parents rather than fleeing into the woods, I’d surely be dead now or crippled from their incessant beatings. Instead, my foster father had helped me earn the self-esteem that sustained me against the worst these people could inflict. Now, deep within, I had strength on which I could draw when times grew bad—strength that let me laugh at them even as they laughed at me. It made the evening tolerable.

As the night grew older and the revelers drifted away, alone or in pairs, I bent my path nearer the high table and watched for signs the King would soon be seeking his chambers. So it was that when he rose to leave, I was positioned to watch the few who still remained at table and note their expression or carefully affected lack of expression as their Lord left.

John had been a warrior before claiming his throne, and given the times we lived in, had been given ample opportunity to keep his skills sharp; that fitness, my delayed departure, and my inadequate legs conspired to keep me some distance behind him. I arrived at his chambers in time to see his squire struggling to remove a new pair of boots, not yet broken in well enough to slip easily from the King’s feet. At the jingle of bells, my liege looked up in distaste from his strivings, his look slowly easing into tired affection. “So, my short spy. What heard you that passed beneath my notice?”

“The musing of the mice, my liege, and the ruminations of those more nearly my height—your hounds, that is.” He snorted, and encouraged by his mood, I continued. “And—happily—little else to distract you from matters of such gravity.” I swept him a bow that ended with my hat tucked beneath one arm, the other arm indicating his boots, with which the squire still struggled.

The first boot, not without some reluctance, conceded the field to the perspiring squire, and the King’s sigh was loud in the quiet room. “By such small joys are my days lightened, Morley. Yet surely there was something of wisdom in the musings of the mice?”

I returned his smile, pleased to have my words and my self thus welcomed. “Aye. There were those, Osric included, who made their usual halfhearted mutterings against you.” I named their names, and his face darkened, but he said nothing. “Your counselor Raphael defended you, of course, sufficiently strongly that Osric and company sought their diversion elsewhere.”

The King spat on the rushes. “And another loyal counselor defended you against that diversion. Morley, I counsel you to exercise your considerable wit more judiciously lest you find yourself again in need of aid.”

I fought down the outrage that arose at that warning, for I’d done nothing to justify his censure, and the accusation’s injustice stung me. “Sire, I—”

“Peace, Morley.” The tone was quiet, but the command was clear enough to stop my protest before it escaped my throat, where it caught, tangled and blocking my breath for a moment. In the silence, the second boot yielded with a suddenness that propelled the squire backwards onto his rump, and the King shot him an annoyed glance. “I wasn’t accusing you, but rather warning you. Were I you, I’d watch my steps upon returning to my chamber.”

I bowed, bells jingling, to conceal the sudden flush in my cheeks, and made sure to swallow the lump in my throat before I spoke. “A wise suggestion, Sire.”

“And one whose wisdom I shall ensure by seeing you home in good company.” He gestured at the squire, who had picked himself up and set the boots against the wall by the bed. Bowing, that worthy clapped a hand upon my shoulder and steered me towards the door.

“Good night, my Fool.”

I stopped at the door. “Good night, my liege.” I bowed again, bells jingling, and the squire and I sought my chamber in companionable silence. He left me at the door, with a slight nod that might have passed for a bow if one were feeling charitable.

My room was a tiny afterthought left behind when the architect mismeasured that part of the palace. As I set my key in the lock, I heard a heavy footfall from behind me. Fatty again? I spun on my heel to face the sound, preparing wearily to defend myself, but instead, faced an old man, unkempt grey hair spilling over sloping shoulders draped in stained, threadbare robes. The cautionary hand he held open towards me gave me pause, and I put aside the blade I’d drawn without thinking, watching his seamed face. There was evidence of long study in the lines graven about his eyes by years of squinting under inadequate light, and traces of soot from cheap candles deepened those lines in the weak lamplight; the deep set of those wide-spaced eyes hinted at wisdom. In contrast to the rest of his appearance, those eyes were sharp and hard as tempered steel, and I forced alertness despite my fatigue.

“I would speak with thee, Morley.” His voice was rich and self-assured, but pitched low and holding none of the condescension of most who addressed me. He had an odd, antique sort of accent, with a richness that warmed my musician’s ears after the dull sameness of Court speech. Though we’d just met, I found myself liking him, and the voice of caution spoke more faintly at the back of my mind.

“I’m afraid you have the advantage, m’lord. You are...?”

“Merely a simple scholar, Orgrim by name, with an offer that should interest you. Is there somewhere we might talk?”

I indicated my chamber with a wave, and he accepted with a nod. Humble though the tiny room was, it was home and I showed him in with all the misplaced pride of a host. I urged him to make himself comfortable in my one chair, too large for me by half, and sat on my bed. A child’s bed, but large enough and a comfortable enough nest when my life’s burdens grew too much to bear. I turned my gaze upon the scholar. “Well, Milord Orgrim. What brings you in search of the King’s Fool?”

Those sharp eyes focused with surprising intensity, seeking something, then the intensity subsided as swiftly as it had appeared. Orgrim’s voice was soothing, erasing my momentary apprehension at this appraisal. “Perhaps ’tis I who am the fool, Morley, but I feel certain we can aid each other.”

I allowed myself a look of polite interest, stifling a yawn that nearly escaped me. “How so?”

Again, that disturbing intensity crossed his face before vanishing into the depths of those eyes. Those unpredictable flashes of inner fire made it seem as if Orgrim had spent so long with his dusty scrolls that he’d forgotten how to mask his emotions against the scrutiny of those accustomed to courtly life, but it might only have been that I was so tired, and sought shadows where there were none. “You see,” he went on, ignoring my yawn, “it may be within my power to help you achieve normal size and appearance.”

I blinked in shock, now very much awake, torn between the need to hear him out and the rage that arose at the thought this was just some new and particularly cruel joke at my expense. I’m sure in that moment that despite what I’d learned in my year at Court, my emotions stood as clear on my face as Orgrim’s had so recently done. I took a deep breath and mastered myself well enough there was no trace of anger when I spoke. “If I heard you right, then you mock me, and I have no taste for such humor.” My hand clenched on my dagger’s hilt until my knuckles hurt, but he ignored that provocation and his voice was calm in reply.

“You do me an injustice, friend jester. I am quite serious. I believe I can help you in this manner, else I should never have been so cruel as to mention the possibility. Are you willing to explore this possibility?”

The sincerity in his voice was so real, and I so badly wanted to believe, that I almost missed his last words. There were tears in my eyes at the vision he dangled before me, and a knot of uncertainty the size of a mace head formed in my gut as I strove for a reply. My teeth had clenched so tight I could do naught but nod. And again, lest he’d missed it.

A satisfied look descended, erasing that intensity I’d noted before, and rising, he moved the few steps necessary to cross the room and kneel at my feet. He placed a firm yet gentle hand on my shoulder, and the compassion in his eyes was such that all my tension fled from me in a great gasp and all wariness vanished. I began weeping, great racking sobs torn from the depths of my being. He knelt and pulled me to him, holding my head on his shoulder until I regained control. Then, squeezing my shoulder as he turned away, he left me with the promise he’d return the next day and urged me to be patient until then. I vowed I would be, lying through my teeth.

Later, I lay in bed, too tired to think straight, yet too anxious to sleep. Fighting off a cloying sense of unreality, a fear began to grow in me, for only powerful magic could bring about the change Orgrim had proposed, and magic had been gone from our lands for generations. Indeed, the dark tales from the past that informed the bleaker of my songs made it clear why our ancestors had bloodily cleansed themselves of any taint of magic before undertaking the Exodus. But the dread in those songs warred with the cynical pragmatism that had kept me alive for so long. At last, it was my bladder that dominated and forced me to seek the castle privies, for I’d long since learned that the size of my room opposed the use of a chamber pot. I wrapped my robes about me, slid into my boots, and left the room. So lost in thought was I that I ran full into the tall figure that slid from the shadows to block my way.

Distractedly, I looked up to see who confronted me, framing an apology. I never succeeded, for before I’d completed that chain of thought, a second man seized me from behind and a third forced a gag between my teeth. The first man clutched a rag over my nose and held it there until I inhaled, smelling the sting of some drug and tasting its bitterness at the back of my throat. It was as if something heavy had crashed down upon my skull. As the corridor reeled about me, I felt the strength draining from my limbs and collapsed forward, striking the floor hard enough to feel the pain wash over me despite the drug’s numbing effects. As my mind fled somewhere far away, I heard words echoing in the expanding, pain-shot void that was my head.

“We’ll show the little rat, won’t...”

***

I awoke, supine and wrapped in a darkness so thick my first thoughts were of blindness caused by the drug or by striking my head on the floor. Despite the pain, I brought a hand to my eyes and probed at the blood that had caked there. I hadn’t imagined falling, and the blackness crowded even closer, a tangible pressure on my skull. I felt icy fear run down my spine and loosen my bowels, but I fought it hard, squeezing my eyes shut for what little comfort that gave and forcing my breathing to slow. I was increasingly aware of my bladder’s fullness.

The gag was no longer in my mouth, so I inhaled, not without some difficulty. Stale incense and a residue of torch smoke clung to the air, slowly dispersing in a sluggish draft. Thick silence hung about me, silence so intense I feared for my hearing. But the sound of my gasping breath reassured me, and the darkness pressed less heavily. I began mustering my resources, the same ones I’d learned as a child sleeping in the forest, burdened with the sure knowledge there were wolves and perhaps other, more horrible things, beyond the fire’s light where I couldn’t see them. Nonetheless, a scuttling sound in the dark brought the fear back stronger than before, for here there was no fire, and no foster father to reassure and protect me. It was several moments before I could force another breath.

The scuttling noise ceased, which was in some ways worse than had it continued. After all, something I couldn’t see was now watching me. I cleared my throat and swallowed hard to return my heart to its accustomed place, and the sound echoed. A small, enclosed space? As the thick atmosphere swallowed the first echoes, the scuttling noise came again, now moving away. Sweat sprang out on my brow and trickled in a clammy stream across my temples, for I still lay upon my back.

Once more I slowed my breathing, and my thoughts began to clear. There was a near-physical tearing sensation as I forced away the last of the drug’s grasp, and a calmness descended. Someone had intended to “fix me”, but since I still breathed, the fix had obviously stopped short of murder. Some twisted idea of humor? The thought comforted me. I lay still, hoping my awakening senses could offer some clue as to my whereabouts. I shivered, realizing belatedly I was cold.

A distant gong sounded, muffled by a depth of intervening stone; that changed the atmosphere from stifling to merely enveloping, for it meant I was near or perhaps even in the palace. The gong rang twice more before stopping—three bells in the morning if it was the same night. From the direction of the gong, overhead as best as I could tell, I was somewhere in the lower reaches of the castle. The crypt perhaps? Or mayhap the dungeon?

Despite my bladder’s urging, I lay still a little longer, cold seeping into my bones and beckoning darkness to follow. It was stone that supported me, probably a long, low slab if I was correct as to my location. I still couldn’t see, but my thoughts were clearer, despite a buzzing in my ears and a warm fuzziness that had taken root behind my forehead. I’d been rendered unconscious often enough in my youth to recognize the after-effects, and it felt much like that but with a difference I couldn’t place. That slight movement of the heavy air returned, reminding me there was at least one exit to this room. I only had to bestir myself and seek it. That took more effort than I’d expected, and I was scarcely able to roll onto my side before a sweeping dizziness took hold of and carried the world beyond my grasp for a time. I rested, waiting for it to return.

I continued trying to move once the world returned, resting each time the vertigo tore at me, and at last managed to sit up, shivering, my legs dangling over the edge of my resting place. I sat there until the spinning faded and left me lightheaded but able to remain upright. Then I encountered another problem.

When I tried to slip from my perch, I found myself unable to do so. My feet swung against the slick sides of the stone, an unknowable distance above a hypothetical floor, while some instinct of self-preservation screamed its adamant refusal to proceed. I couldn’t force myself to step blindly into space, though chill sweat streamed down my sides from the force of my efforts. No matter how I tried to convince myself otherwise, nausea clutched at me and told me I was poised at the brink of some bottomless abyss.

The dark can do strange things to one’s mind.

I have no notion of how long I sat there, sick, dizzy, sore, my world narrowed to that part of my world that was within the length of my dangling feet; I can remember no sounding of the bells, which tells me in hindsight that I sat there for less than an hour. But a solution came at last when the increasingly desperate pressure of my bladder could no longer be denied. That gave me an unorthodox but effective tool for gauging my height above the floor, and the surge of amusement at the solution’s inelegance restored my morale. I parted my robes, aimed at the floor that lay somewhere below me and to the side, and pissed into the darkness.

Had there been any appreciable delay before the echo, my nerve would have broken and I would no doubt have remained there to this day. As it was, the time between the urge and the splashing on the stone was so short I couldn’t have been more than my own height above the floor. Perhaps a slab in the crypt? Thus relieved—and reassured enough to contemplate such wordplay—I seized firm hold of my courage and slid off the opposite side of the stone, dropping to the floor but going to my knees as the lightness rose once more in my head. On hands and knees, I made my way in the opposite direction from the puddle I’d created until I encountered a wall. Cold and slimy though it was, it was welcome. With the wall as my guide, I groped my way to an opening that gave onto a steep flight of stairs.

I crawled up those stairs, so eager to escape my prison that I ignored the damage I did to my knees in the process. My mind dimmed and my head began to buzz again, but I kept on doggedly, shoulder brushing against the wall to keep to my path. At last, my hand encountered a fresh rush mat instead of cold stone, and I raised my head a great distance to meet the faint but welcoming light of a distant torch.

Relief at my returned sight combined with joy at my return to the world of the living. It so overwhelmed me, I swooned like any Court lady at the sight of a mouse.

Chapter 3: Orgrim

In my youth, I’d often been ill, for though long days of work in the forest’s clean air had left me stronger and more robust than I’d ever expected to become, I still had a child’s body and the associated vulnerabilities. One of my fondest memories was of lying in bed, shaking with a fever’s chill, while my father heaped woolen sheets atop me, fed the fire until the sweat sprang out upon his forehead, and softly sang until his voice grew hoarse. I suppose it says much that I look back upon such a thing with fondness.

When consciousness returned, I lay swaddled in a soft, warm bed, though with no fire burning nearby and no quiet song to soothe me. Nonetheless, even though the rough woolens that swaddled me and held in the warmth made my bare skin itch, I was so comfortable in all other ways that I couldn’t make myself care. I wiggled my toes for the joy of the sensation and savored the luxury of a child in bed in the morning, the house still asleep and no chores that couldn’t be ignored for a time. I opened an eye, and found myself in an unpeopled room with rows of cots lining the walls. The infirmary.

I lay there a time, watching a spider weaving its web high up in the raftered ceiling as I listened to the muted sounds of a castle functioning smoothly in the midst of its daily routine. The ache in my head was still there, imperceptible for so long as I moved cautiously and kept my gaze from roaming; but if I forgot and moved my eyes swiftly, pain surged as if my head were being split with a hatchet. Empty as the room was, there was little to engage my attention, and even the spider moved beyond my sight. After a while, the simple pleasures of warmth, light, and a lack of pain eased me into sleep. I have dim memories of dreaming, but I rarely remember my dreams, and these were no different, hidden at depths where my conscious mind couldn’t retrieve them.

The touch of a cool hand on my brow woke me, and I raised my hands to clear the sleep from my eyes. My arms were weak and light in the way they’d always felt after childhood fevers, but they responded willingly enough. The man sitting beside my bed was Orgrim, his seamed face as kind as his eyes were hard. “I trust you’re well, friend Morley? It seems you had an accident, and I worried for your sake.”

I tried to talk, realized with a performer’s instinct that my voice would break, and cleared my throat instead. The pain that answered in my head was enough to blind me. “No accident,” I replied when my vision returned and my throat felt clear enough for talk. “Someone took exception to my behavior at dinner last night and chose to teach me a lesson.”

His finger pressed my lips shut. “Later, Morley. Console yourself with the thought that the malefactor shall regret having interfered with my plans.” He noticed my reaction at his vengeful look, and changed the topic. “There’s little time remaining. I’ve consulted certain auguries, and we must act tonight.” He paused in thought. “Listen carefully. We must meet some hours before midnight that I may invoke the change we spoke of. The crypt should be sufficiently private.”

I fought down my instinctive reaction, for I’d no desire to return there so soon; nonetheless, excitement at his promise helped me master myself, as did fear of the pain any sudden movement might awaken in my head. I’d recovered enough to attempt a jest. “Midnight in the crypt? Should I bring a virgin to sacrifice? You’ve left me little enough time to find one.” The jest would have been better spoken in a concerned voice, but that was beyond me, so I let the words carry the irony.

He pursed his lips, displeased, and I fell silent. “This is no time to be facetious, Morley. The timing is more important than you could understand, and the location, mere convenience; if you know anywhere else as private, we can go there instead.” I remained silent. “But, no, you need bring no virgin, merely yourself. Be glad that the practice of my kind of magic requires no such inconveniences.” I felt a sudden cold at his tone, myths and scare-tales of dark magics conjuring themselves for my mind to dwell upon. I hesitated, and he frowned at my obvious doubt.

“Come now. Despite appearances, you’re no child, and should place no stock in tales told to scare children. My profession is less distasteful than the mercenary’s, who kills for a handful of coins, for I shall end no lives to earn my pay.” He reached within his cloak, withdrew a small crystal vial, uncorked it, and thrust it between my lips. Assurances notwithstanding, the stained ivory ring, pallid on his hand, was ominous given the proposed location of our meeting.

“Drink this. It will hasten your recovery enough for you to be a conscious and willing participant tonight.” I drank with only a slight hesitation, gagging at the oily feel and the mustiness on my tongue. Then I brightened and sat up, the pain instantly gone and vigor creeping back into my limbs.

He anticipated my question. “Fear not. You’d have no objection to any ingredient. But let it be proof that magic can produce more than ill, whatever you’ve heard. Now listen, for someone comes and I must be gone before she arrives.” He whispered further directions concerning our rendezvous, made me repeat them, then rose in a single swift movement. I heard a door opening nearby and my eyes were drawn in that direction, mercifully without the pain that had greeted such a drastic motion scant moments earlier. I saw movement at the corner of my vision, and though I turned my gaze in that direction, I was too late. The old man was gone without a trace, the crystal flask with him, leaving no evidence he’d ever been here, apart from the clarity still spreading through my head. As I puzzled over his disappearance, a soft hand fell upon my shoulder and the voice of Bram’s wife, Lady Margrethe, sounded in my ear.

“It’s good to see you conscious again, Morley.” Her voice was cheerful and light, but there was concern in her eyes as she hooked a stool with one foot and drew it to my bedside. “How are you feeling?”

I watched her a moment, repressing a smile of welcome until I could manage one that wouldn’t look quite so appalling. I shook my head. “No pain,” I replied, marveling. “My... doctor... has done a most excellent job. In fact, I think I could leave this bed right now.” I started to rise, then fell back, realizing in that instant I was naked as a babe.

“Or could,” I added, “were I alone. A pair of trousers, among other things, would make me more confident of my ability to depart with dignity.”

A look of puzzlement crossed her face, then she laughed delightedly—and delightfully—when she caught my meaning. “I’ll see to that at once. When you’re dressed, if you feel well enough, come visit. Milord Husband commanded me to fetch you so you can meet our family.”

“Commanded?”

“Yes.” She smiled charmingly. “He labors under the burden of belief that he has some control over matters domestic. Let’s keep the truth a secret between us.”

“He wouldn’t be the first husband to be disabused of that notion,” I replied, smiling. “Very well: you have my word on it.” We laughed, enjoying our shared secret, and it was a warm feeling indeed. She left before that warmth faded, leaving me with a parting wave of her delicate hand. I lay back, contentedly smiling. For a moment, I let thoughts of Orgrim fade before the sweet memory of her laughter. Then I pondered my incredible luck, that soon I’d be normal, that my health had returned so rapidly, and that perhaps this would mark a truly new beginning.

When my clothes arrived, borne by a skeptical court physician, I dressed hurriedly, ignoring his distaste and ill-concealed surprise at my recovery. I thanked him for his help, and left the room before he could think to question me further. In the near-empty streets outside the palace, I strode along to meet my new friends. It wasn’t an opportunity I could afford to miss, whatever the remainder of that day held.

Bram was one of the King’s senior advisors and ambassador to the West. Though foreign born, he could still have claimed a mansion as a reward for his part in the recent war. He hadn’t done so. Instead, he’d turned down that lavish reward in favor of a smaller building, less ostentatious and farther from the palace. After our encounter with the boar, I’d researched the man and found much to my liking. For one, he was well liked by the commoners for his role in the increasingly legendary defeat of Amelior. His charity and defense of the commoners hadn’t hurt his standing either. But things balance, for he was not well liked by the old nobility, who resented his example more than his origins. Nonetheless, one could take the measure of a man by the enemies he’d made and the friends he kept. Both spoke well of Bram.

Despite the house’s distance from the palace, it lay in a pleasant part of the lower city. Smaller than a mansion, it was nonetheless a larger home than any I’d lived in before coming to Ankur. It was nondescript but attractive, with the main building crouched behind a low wall and a small stable nestled up against one side. There was no armed guard outside the gate, but the jagged barrier atop the wall suggested none was necessary. From what I could see, looking over the top of that wall as I descended the gentle slope towards the house, I suspected the presence of an atrium. The home was an appropriate metaphor for the man given the delicate political dance Bram played with Ankur’s many unfriends, both inside and beyond the city’s walls: formidable barriers without, but a warm welcome within. Bram himself had initially struck me as soft, but it was the softness of a dancer, concealing surprising strength.

I approached the gatehouse and knocked, preparing for a short wait, but my approach had been expected and the small viewport slid aside. Eyebrows furrowed when no one was visible, then those eyes narrowed and he looked down at me. Before I could give my name, the port slammed shut, echoed by the rasp of heavy bolts being drawn. The door opened, and a plainly dressed youth still in his late teens swept me a courtly bow, though without taking his eyes from me for an instant, and bade me enter. The gate shut behind me and he shot the bolts before the echoes had faded.

The gravel path leading to the door was neatly raked, and stones rolled beneath my feet, but even on the gravel, my escort moved almost too smoothly. My eyes were drawn to telltale bulges beneath his attire that suggested the presence of light armor. Moreover, a long scabbard swung against one hip, a sword’s worn leather grip protruding, and a matching dagger hung on the other. Weaponry held so near to hand, even at home, confirmed my sense of enemies—significant ones—at Court. In this light, I reappraised my guide and was no longer surprised at the smoothness and economy of his motion. He was neither a youth nor a household servant, and it wasn’t hard to guess his true profession.

“Lord Bram has interesting taste in... butlers.” I hesitated on the last word, but if he caught my emphasis, he gave no sign.

“Thank you. This way, Sir.” The floor inside the house’s main door was carpeted in woolen rugs, an interesting concession to luxury. He led me through several sparse but tastefully decorated rooms, past a few closed doors, and on into the atrium whose existence I’d suspected. What I hadn’t expected was the beauty of the small garden it concealed. Well tended trees and bushes drew the eye to a small pond, the ground around which was covered by moss and other low-growing plants. On the far side of this miniature forest, still vibrant with the pale green of spring and unobtrusively unnatural, there was a flat stretch of grass upon which a small blanket had been spread. Bram and Margrethe sat on the blanket, hands clasped and enjoying the peace of the moment. My guide cleared his throat, drawing their attention from each other to us.

“Ah! Morley. Welcome to our humble home.” Bram rose and came to meet me, proffering a hand to be shaken. His grip was firm but not ostentatiously so, and though I’d not yet seen him bearing a sword, the suggestive calluses were still hard, the product of considerable work.

“Thank you, Milord. But I confess surprise at your invitation.” I kept my voice neutral, but I didn’t meet his eyes lest he note my eagerness. Diplomats, like witches, are skilled at reading one’s thoughts.

“Not milord, merely Bram. At least, as long as we’re here among friends.” I cocked my head at the silent servant, and Bram grinned. “Consider us alone. James is one of the family, right James?”

“Right.” James sounded proud, though perhaps a little embarrassed. I suspected the pride was justified. “Drinks, Bram?”

“And food. Our friend is sadly underfed, which is understandable considering his condition.”

“My condition?” I blurted out.

“Yes,” he replied quietly, placing a hand on my shoulder and guiding me along the garden path. “A hungry, recent patient. I’ve spent enough time at the profession of arms to prefer even field rations to hospital food, and I can offer better than field rations.” Now that he mentioned it, I’d not been hungry since Orgrim’s draught had done its work. But I could feel a certain hollowness beneath my ribs, and his words made it grow hollower still. We sat together on the blanket, Bram settling companionably beside his wife. Margrethe cast a brief, warm smile at her husband, and I felt a twinge of jealousy.

Bram spoke again before the brief silence could grow awkward. “Well, Morley. As you may suspect, I’ve called you here for more than social reasons. “You see, Margrethe told me that you’d been surprised and beaten last night.”

“I did no such thing,” she interrupted. “It was your spy network that said so. I did nothing more than goad your conscience.” They frowned at each other, with well-practiced mock irritation.

“I sit corrected,” Bram chuckled. “In either event, I was informed of your ‘accident’ and I have chosen to do something about it, if you’re not averse to my intervention.”

A response seemed indicated, but I was unsure what to say. “I’m not sure I follow you, Milord.”

“Bram”.

“Bram. Last night’s incident was just one of a long series of such events. A little harsher than usual, but nothing extraordinary.”

From the corner of my eye, I caught a momentary flash of pity from Margrethe before she mastered herself. Bram went on. “True though that may be, it was unacceptable, and I’d halt this behavior. If you accept, I shall have it known that you’re under my protection henceforth.”

He paused, waiting and watching my face, and I resettled my weight, testing his words for condescension. An old reflex. “Out of pity, perhaps?” I asked in a low voice, regretting the bitterness that had crept into the words.

His reply was gentle but firm. “Before I knew you, I confess that might have been my sole motive. But as my wife so indiscreetly mentioned, I am nothing if not careful in staying informed. You’re skilled and brave, and unless I’ve misjudged you badly, as quick with a blade as with your wit. What I offer is a place outside my household, yet one that will inform your tormentors where you stand.” A pause, but he held my gaze with no telltale deflection of his eyes. “Should that explanation prove insufficient, consider that you provide an important source of information on the inner doings of the Court, and one I would be wise to benefit from.”

Margrethe elbowed her husband in the ribs, and her voice was sweetly mocking. “Make no mistake, though, you’ll be out on your backside the moment you misbehave. My husband is a beast at times!”

“But a fair one,” Bram added ruefully, and we laughed together.

As the laughter waned, James reappeared bearing a wooden tray of bread and cheese, glasses balanced amongst the food and a sweating bottle of wine clutched under one arm. Bram allowed his offer to rest for a time while we ate. Conversation was sparse, for the food was good and our attention was devoted to eating. When the last crusts had been consumed, James rose with a grin and collected the debris. He departed, leaving the remainder of the wine.

“Well then,” said Margrethe, brushing the last crumbs from Bram’s clothing. “Shall we consider you one of us, Morley?”

Perhaps it was the wine, but tears blurred my vision at the sweetness of the offer, and I fought hard to keep them from showing. It must have been the wine, a strong western vintage. “How can I say no?” I said around the lump in my throat, watching her face light up and Bram’s watchfulness ease. “But I must say no, nonetheless,” I continued before I could take the words back.

“Why’s that?” Bram’s reply was deceptively mild.

My face twisted as I fought to word an answer that wouldn’t offend them. “It’s not so simple as being unable to accept charity. Not, you understand, because I think you’re condescending, because I know you’re not... it’s just...”

“That you’ve depended on yourself for so long that you’re not yet ready to lean on another. That you’ve never been given cause to trust, and you have no reason to do so yet.” Margrethe’s face showed an understanding born of memory, giving the truth to her words.

“In part,” I replied. “Then there’s the matter of acquiring a dual loyalty that might come into conflict some day.” Bram’s eyes narrowed. All her reasons were correct, and my replies were not precisely lies, but they only touched on the real reason—the night that lay ahead and the different freedom it promised. “That, and I’m loath to bring any trouble upon you. There would be questions asked at Court about why someone other than His Highness had taken responsibility for protecting the King’s Fool.” I added the last to cover the brief pause after my answer.

“That’s not a consideration,” replied Bram. “My position at Court is secure.”

“So I see,” I nodded, my gesture taking in the broad-shouldered gardener who’d just emerged from a side passage. A sword hilt projected from a cart full of litter he was trundling across the garden. The man’s eyes were never still, flitting from his path to take in those buildings which overlooked the house.

“Touché!” chuckled Bram. “But I can accept your other reasons even if we quibble over the last one. Let me rephrase our offer. The position shall be yours should you request it. Until then, let us make the arrangement informal, on the basis of your accepting rewards commensurate with value tendered.”

“An arrangement I’m given to understand you have some experience with. Very well. That I can accept.”

I gathered myself to leave, but he hadn’t finished yet. “I thought you might also be interested to learn that Sir Osric disappeared from the Court some time after you were found half-dead in the halls near the crypt. Your incapacity has been accepted as clearing you of any taint of guilt in the matter. But it appears you have friends at Court you were unaware of.” His eyes narrowed, and I turned away lest he see the thoughts trying to surface. Thoughts of Orgrim’s words as he knelt by my bedside, and the fierce gleam in his eyes as he mentioned payments for deeds done to my person. I shuddered, not trying to hide it from my hosts.

Chapter 4: A bargain fulfilled

My one experience with real, tangible magic—the mystical, dangerous kind, not the poetical stuff that has to do with love and other metaphors—came during my youth. It was my first deer hunt, and to be honest, I was scared spitless, my mouth so dry I could hardly swallow. I’d seen several of the other foresters kill deer, I’d helped butcher the carcasses for our larder, and I’d drunk the still-steaming blood along with the others, so it wasn’t the blood itself that bothered me. No, it was the fact that I’d be taking a life. I’m not sure why that concerned me, for there were many people, my real parents among them, who I was quite convinced I could destroy without a moment’s hesitation. And aren’t we humans somehow more important than animals, though we live and die the same way they do? Looking back, I’m no longer sure what weighed upon my thoughts, other than perhaps the fact my companions would expect me to cause pain to a poor, dumb beast that had never done me harm nor was ever likely to, and to deprive said beast of the only thing it owned in all the wide woods.

My foster father, sensing as always what I was thinking, was sympathetic but firm: if I were going to live here with the other men, I was going to be blooded. And blooded I was. The older men surrounded me, laughing as they did, and from a flask of half-congealed blood, painted my face in vivid patterns, muttering half-heard phrases under their breath. The blood stank, and made my skin itch, but they assured me it was part of the ritual. Much of what happened afterward is a blur, save for two things. The first was the snap! of my crossbow and the moment of frozen time as the bolt sped across the clearing and sank into the deer’s chest, those long legs buckling beneath it before its panicky start could carry it more than a body length farther. A perfect shot—something magical in the mundane sense of the word.

The second thing—the literally magical one—was what happened as we stood over the corpse. As in the past, one of the men sliced open the big artery in the beast’s neck and let the blood flow into a small cup that would be passed from man to man to celebrate my achievement. This time, though, as slayer, I was to be first to drink. As I raised the cup to my lips, trembling with relief that this rite was nearly over and that there’d never again be a first time, my father’s hand fell upon my arm and restrained me.

“Wait, Morley. For a first time, there must be something special.”

The men linked arms to form a circle around me, then closed their eyes and began chanting something. I learned the words much later, but I shan’t repeat them, for they’re older than our time in these new lands and only for the ears of those who hunt together in the King’s service. The chant paused a moment, thick with the tension of hesitation, and my father nodded. I took a deep sip from the cup, the salty, metallic tang of the blood making me gag as it had always done. But as I lowered the cup, the chant resumed, and this time, I felt a burning in my throat. My first thought was that someone had slipped strong liquor into the cup as a joke, knowing my inability to withstand strong drink, but this was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. The fire spread from my throat to my chest, and thence to every smallest part of my body, as if I’d fallen into a campfire and couldn’t rise. Yet despite that great warmth, there was no pain, just a tremendous sense of energy coursing through me. Gradually, the sensation faded, and when my gaze turned to the men who surrounded me, all trace of mirth was gone; now, all that remained were smiles—some even gentle.

“Welcome to our brotherhood, Morley. You’re now part of this forest as we are, and as much a part of its cycle of life and death. Some of the strength that courses in the blood and sap of all the living things that surround us now lives in you, and you’ll return that strength to the forest the day you die.”

Never since, in all my years, have I encountered something I could truly call magic. Today, I was chilled by the realization that I would soon participate in a second magical rite, and one such as had been unknown to my kind since the time of the Exodus. The dampness of the air this far below the earth accentuated that feeling, and in the crypt’s torchlit darkness, the cold sought gaps in my clothing like a thing alive and wrapped its fingers about my skin. My nose itched from the dust deposited in that chamber by as many lifetimes’ use as I had fingers on one hand, and raised again by our footsteps. The torch smoke that eddied along the ceiling before beginning its gradual descent to the floor didn’t help. I shivered in anticipation, certain now this whole thing was somehow wrong and hating myself for wanting it too much to do the wise thing and flee.

Orgrim was intent on his own preparations and oblivious to my struggle. The learnèd kindness on his face was gone, and the iron concentration that replaced it contained elements of a harshness that had been absent before—or that I’d failed to note because of my preoccupation with his promise. Seen askance, side-lit by the torches, that face seemed less and less human with every passing moment, though there was naught but human he could be. The mage knelt, using a long ivory wand to trace a circle in the dust and hedge the drawing with contorted symbols and glyphs that writhed beneath my gaze if I concentrated on them too long. That done, he rose and turned an appraising eye on me.

The cold objectivity in that appraisal, like a vivisectionist teaching a class of surgeons over the squirming body of some malefactor, made the chamber’s chill seem warm by comparison. I stepped back a pace, turning to flee, but those eyes seized me and transfixed me, held me to that spot as if I’d sunk to my knees in clay. I watched, helpless as a beetle trapped in amber, while he turned once more to the circle; with a sweep of one hand and a flash of ruby light from his wand, he swept the dust from the circle as if it had never existed, leaving a clean-traced outline in the center of the floor. Once again, those eyes turned to me.

“Come.” The flatness of his tone contrasted with the sharpness of my response. Involuntarily, my hindmost foot traced an arc through the dust and turned me towards the circle. Terror rose in me, trembling in my hands and heart, but I moved helplessly until my other foot stepped into the center of the cleared space. Marshaling what strength of will remained, I turned to face my captor—for such he now was—with what defiance I could muster. In the amber glow of the torchlight, the blade of the obsidian dagger that had appeared in one hand took on a lurid gleam, and I felt my eyes drawn to the blade.

“Calm yourself,” he intoned, and a drugged calm fell across my heart, easing my fear. But it was an imposed peace, and sat uneasily.

“The dagger?” I gasped, voice small and unrecognizable in my ears.

Orgrim laughed, an unpleasant, sharp bark. “Blood,” he replied, voice and gaze steady. “For all life magics, the sorcerer needs something of life to work with. You won’t miss what little I need.” He stepped forward, careful to remain outside the cleared circle, and I felt panic rise and struggle against the bonds he’d laid on my mind. The bonds won. “Your hand,” he demanded.

I raised my hand and with a firm grip, he took it in his own. I had time to note the strength of his grip before the blade sliced into my palm. I tried to draw away, but his grip was too strong, and the imposed calm dulled the pain; the wound should have been agonizing, but it felt no worse than removing an old, blood-encrusted bandage. Blood sprang up in the wake of the blade’s passage, and he nodded, satisfied. A wave of dizziness assaulted me, though I’d sustained many worse wounds with no ill effect. From out of nowhere, Orgrim conjured a small crystal flask into which he squeezed perhaps an ounce of my blood. Then, releasing my arm, he slashed the dagger across his own palm. Before I could wonder at that, he clasped his hand to mine and pronounced words that echoed in the beat of my heart even as they rang in my ears. Though I’d steeled myself to make no more unbidden comments, I found myself speaking words I half recognized. A cold burning awoke in my hand, and a roseate glow sprang up, visible through the skin and bone and gristle, and when he released me, the wound was gone, leaving a fading scar.

From within his robes, Orgrim produced a small, fine-tipped brush and knelt once more by the edge of the circle. With sure, quick strokes, he began a meticulous tracing of the circle’s boundary and the several runes by its side, using my blood for paint. He finished by adding a five-pointed star that walled in my feet, and began tracing yet another series of odd symbols where each point of the star met the line that marked the circle. As the brush lifted from each figure, he spoke a word with a strange sibilance to it and the figure twined upon itself and vanished. The design now complete, Orgrim finished by encircling the star once again before flinging the flask and the last of the blood into the air. There was no sound from their fall, but my attention had been caught up by the small pouch that replaced them in his hands. From this he dusted small amounts of a glittering powder onto the circle, scattering pinches symmetrically in four directions around its perimeter to complete the process. There was a sharp metallic tang to the air as he flung the pouch after the earlier implements.

“Prepare yourself,” he said, voice deep and resonant with the same sense of gathering power that precedes a thunderstorm.

I needed to hear my own voice for what courage that would lend me. “For what?” My lips were dry, my voice drier.

“For what is to come. There will be pain, but it will not last.” Again panic clawed at the bonds on my mind, but a lassitude growing within me defeated it. The mage’s eyes closed and he relaxed into the placidity I had come to associate with the old man. Under the circumstances, that illusion of normality scared me more than anything that had come before. But as I watched, things grew worse.

The old sage’s calm, patient face had scarcely reappeared when it began to change. The wrinkles smoothed and vanished like clay being polished flat by the hands of a master potter, and the grey washed from his hair like a fresh painting caught in the rain. Glossy black, the tight curls of his full beard grew dark as night itself. Paler and paler became the tone of his skin until it was somewhere between alabaster and the dull belly of a fresh-caught trout. Straighter and straighter he stood until the last traces of his stoop vanished.

The change complete, his eyes snapped open once more and though a new man stood in the room, there was no mistaking whose eyes blazed at me. Slowly—excruciatingly so—he spread his arms wide, as if struggling against some mighty weight, the wand lifting to the left, the bone ring to the right. A sharp exhalation escaped his taut lips, whether grunt of exertion or exclamation of pain. The torches flickered and died, and in their place sprang up a somber red glow, the color of fresh blood, licking around my feet from its origin in the geometrical figure encircling me.

“We begin.”

Orgrim stood silhouetted by the glow, his face limned by the sullen light at my feet, and as I watched, his arms clenched inexorably towards the center of his body, as if he were bending an iron bar between them. The glow brightened in response until a bright orange tinged with cherry red, like new-forged iron, seethed at our feet. An answering glow came from the ring and wand.

“When it comes, open yourself to it, make it welcome. Do you understand?” I tried to speak a denial, but that part which was bound nodded its acceptance. Without another word, he turned the power of those eyes inward. As if of its own volition, his mouth opened and began forming tortuously pronounced words that fell upon my ears like shadows upon my eyes. Slowly at first, then in an ever-increasing rush, the words beat at my mind, at the walls around me, at the very world itself. I bit my lip to hold back a scream of terror, for the drugged calm now abandoned me, and blood from my bitten lip began to trickle down my chin, noticed only later when I examined my face in a mirror. There was a seething within me, the panic beating against the clenching of my jaw, until at last it grew too much and I released it in a cathartic scream. That scream masked, but failed to hide, a ripping sensation, half-heard, half-felt, in the air around me.

I reeled forward a half step in the sudden silence, bringing up against an invisible barrier that stung the hands I’d flung out to stop my fall.

I turned my head numbly towards Orgrim, my mind empty of all emotion in that anticlimactic moment. But even as my heartbeat slowed somewhat from its crazed pace, the mage’s intent gaze told me this peace was to be fleeting. A bead of sweat rolled across his forehead, down his nose, and off into space, but his eyes were for me alone. It was then, as a rabbit cowering beneath the stoop of a hawk, that I felt another presence in the room.

Walk some night, late and after a few drinks, into a darkened room. In the envelope of lightlessness, your eyes are of no use, so you extend your hands before you to protect your face from an unseen obstacle. Imagine how your whole world contracts to but two points, your foot sliding across the floor to seek out any obstacle that might trip you, your groping fingers outstretched at chest level. Feel the palpable resistance of the dark, teasing at your fingers with half-real hints of what lies ahead. Then feel a strand of cobweb, downy, immaterial, but heavier than lead as it misses your outstretched arm and brushes your face, avoiding your questing fingertips...

Something touched me then, something nauseating that settled upon my exquisitely sensitive flesh, caressed my body in a grip soft as moonlight yet firm as a hangman’s noose. The sense I was no longer alone grew, became a haze before my eyes, shot with a light I cannot describe even though it recurs in the rare dreams—the nightmares—I remember. My skin flinched away from that contact, hairs erecting across my whole body, and my muscles tensed as a warmth began to permeate me again. With that warmth, offensively intimate, came the sense of a sickening hunger that made me turn and try to run, gibbering with fear like a child fleeing unseen bogeymen, held captive by twisted sheets and the bonds of sleep. There was laughter, there was pursuit, and in the end, there was capture.

Backed into a corner of my mind, unable to flee farther, I hid from what approached, unable to confront my stalker. There came a gentle touch at that symbolic arm covering my eyes, a touch that became a prying, firm and demanding. I screamed, flailing out with the hand, echoes of my scream rebounding from the walls of my skull to torment my ears and feeding back into more screams.

“Open!” cracked the voice of the mage, penetrating through all the other signals vying for my attention.

“Yes, open,” echoed another voice, sinister with promise.

My last defense was to draw into a ball, fetal, the child brought to bay and hiding in a garderobe, unable to face what lurks just outside the opening door, knowing it’s nothing so comforting as the arms of a parent—not even the one who beat you senseless more nights than not. Those final walls crumbled and were as naught. Surrounded in my own mind, I recoiled but was unable to retreat further. A hand caught my jaw, lifted my face upwards, held my eyes to meet those of my assailant. And the face that looked down was my own, distorted with that unclean hunger.

The pain began then, as that face faded and I felt the walls of my body melting, yielding to an intense pressure. It was as I imagined being broken on the rack must feel, though the stretching came from within, not without. An all-consuming wave of pain contorted me, the agony mounting higher and higher while the child crouched in the ruins of the garderobe, shrieking in fear.

Then something snapped, and I soared free into welcoming darkness.

***

There were voices, those of Orgrim and another whose voice was familiar but whose identity I couldn’t ascertain. As my eyes opened, both voices ceased, leaving me in silence.

I lay on my side in a tiny room, supported above a bare stone floor by a rough, sturdy bed that was far too small. I was buried beneath a layer of blankets, knees half drawn up to my chest. Every inch of my body ached as if I’d been overexerting myself for days, but the pain was comforting because it meant I was no longer dreaming. My vision cleared. I was alone save for the grey-haired sage who’d become the dark wizard of my nightmare, for such it had obviously been; as I’ve mentioned, the only dreams I remember are nightmares. My mind followed my vision, clearing, and panic rose in my breast as the elements of the nightmare returned.

A firm hand pushed me back against the pillows, and I realized I’d tried to sit up. Orgrim appraised me a moment, guardedly, then relaxed and let that familiar warmth return to his face. “Welcome, Morley. You’ll be glad to know that the transformation worked.”

“Worked?” My voice sounded odd, fuller and deeper than I remembered.

“Yes. You’re a man as normal as any other, as you desired.” Stiffly, the old man rose from the stool he’d occupied and limped across the room to where a mirror leaned, face to the wall. Holding the frame close against his body, fingers clasping its carved edges, Orgrim returned to sit by my side, then turned the mirror. “See?”

Someone calm but weary stared back, handsome, intelligent, but wearing a shocked look and dark bruises beneath his eyes. It was a stranger, familiar only in the eyes that greeted me every time I’d looked in a mirror. My mirror, though smaller than before! In wonder, I lifted a hand to “my” face, wincing at the pain such a simple motion evoked, seeing the stranger wince in time with the pain that surged in my abused muscles and bones. Long, graceful fingers stroked that face, even as I felt their caress. Awestricken, I lifted my gaze to Orgrim.

“Is this real? Is it forever?”

“Aye, it’s both.” The kindly face creased in a grin as tears sprang up in my eyes, tears of joy and gratitude. Even though a part of me struggled to reconcile the gentle smile with the masterful stranger of my nightmare, I felt elation surge in my breast and used that energy to clamp down on my tears. Tears, as I’ve already mentioned, can be dangerous for one such as I, for they wash away the self-discipline that protects me. I dabbed at my eyes, hurting them momentarily before my new hands responded to my urging and applied proper pressure. I looked again at the mirror, just as my benefactor moved to take it away. The mirror tilted away, and I caught a glimpse of something disturbing before Orgrim’s words recaptured my attention.

“... of course, you’ll be weak for days yet. What we did to your body was ungentle. Sleep, and when you’ve recovered enough, we’ll discuss what I require of you.”

There was something in his voice that compelled, some part of me that answered, and I felt a wave of weariness sweep over me. I sank back into the sheets, wondering as I did whether I’d imagined that Orgrim’s reflection had been absent from the mirror.

Chapter 5: Walking for the first time

When I was a child, I’d once done something that upset my parents. What that something was is long lost, a loss I would never have expected given the intensity of my memories of what followed. I’d been beaten before, to the point of leaving bruises that lasted for more than a week, but this was the first time they’d broken bones.

You never forget your first time.

A broken bone’s a strange thing. As it happens, the intensity of the pain is unlike anything you’ve ever felt—at least if you’re like most, and lucky enough never to have been hurt that badly. The pain ebbs, replaced by something less pleasant: a nausea comes in the wake of that pain, and a curious disorientation or unreality. The surgeons tell me it’s your mind providing the detachment you need to ignore the damage and escape whatever broke your bone—a simple survival reflex. Of course, some things you can escape more easily than others. The pain returns, and it lingers.

Now, many miles and years away from that memory, I felt many of the same sensations. The pain was a bright but fading memory, but the nausea still lingered and the disorientation wasn’t helped by the fact that none of my body parts occupied the positions I’d grown to expect. It was another day before my aches and pains faded enough I could rise unassisted from my bed; I’ll spare you the unpleasant and embarrassing details of trying to cope with daily necessities.

Orgrim brought me food, and new clothing, and helped with those other necessities before leaving me to lie in peace. I was in my own room, and for the first time, I noticed how small and cluttered it was. The new me must have been almost six feet tall, a giant among men, and my chamber hadn’t been over-large even for the dwarf I’d once been. I was weak from my ordeal, and my memories of the nightmare were growing fainter. All that remained clear was a lurking feeling that something more than passing strange had happened, something both horrible and wonderful.

Yet I couldn’t place my finger on what disturbed me so much more than any other nightmare.

More immediately important was the absence of the hard-won grace and coordination that had been mine before the transformation, replaced with an adolescent’s awkwardness. This worried me out of all proportion to its significance, and Orgrim was hard put to convince me I’d adjust to my new body in time. While my mentor was away, I stayed closeted in my room, pushing past the pain, moving and stretching until at last the pain waned, the stiffness faded, and I became confident in my movements. My absence from Court had surely been noted, yet this bothered me less than you’d expect. Clearly, I couldn’t simply return and pick up my life where I’d left off.

My lute helped me learn the ways of my new body, for I’d acquired some small skill with it in my earlier incarnation, and this skill returned with satisfying speed. In fact, with my longer fingers, I was finally able to play chords that had been painful or impossible to reach. My playing had acquired a wild note, but I attributed this to my excitement and the tension of awaiting Orgrim’s return. Those times he visited, bearing food and wash water and carrying away the chamber pot, he complimented my progress and suggested I’d improve faster if I relaxed conscious control and let my body care for itself. He was right, of course, though there was awkwardness in doing so, as if someone else was pulling the strings that moved my limbs. But that feeling faded once I no longer concentrated so hard on what my body was doing, and I soon gloried in the return of deftness to my movements. On the third day, I was confident enough to go out on my own.

Entering the hallway outside my door without looking, I ran into a serving maid hurrying on her business. I reached out to grasp her arm and keep her from falling, pleased at my success and the ease with which I held her up until she got her feet beneath her again. She was one of the women who’d taunted me before, but I felt too good now to bear a grudge. Indeed, her smile became open and appreciative, and held a hint of promise as her eyes passed over my new body.

I decided I was going to like my new life.

I was preparing to start an innocent little conversation with her, when her eyes widened and she pulled from my grip and fled. Orgrim had appeared as if from nowhere, frowning as had become his wont of late. “I thought I instructed you to keep to your room?”

I smiled warmly, willing to forego promised pleasures for the moment; after all, I had a lifetime of such things ahead. “Not exactly. You said to remain there until I felt well enough to leave. I do, and there are things I’d rather try than remain confined in that cell. I’ve a fancy...”

“I imagine you do,” he interrupted, raising a skeptical eyebrow and thrusting his chin in the direction of the departed woman. “But I think you’d be wise to remember a few things first. For one, there’s the matter of your name.”

“My name? What of it?”

“Surely you haven’t failed to notice that you’re no longer the man you once were? Should you go about naming yourself Morley, people will begin to ask unpleasant questions about the disappearance of a certain dwarf. Questions neither of us would be pleased to answer.”

“You said a few things.” My smile faded as some of the sober realities of my new life intruded on my euphoria. “What else must I be wary of?”

“Familiarity with those who knew you before.” His distaste deepened. “Such as that woman, for instance. Those you knew before may recognize you from certain habits, including how you express yourself, and the more so should you behave as if you know them. And let us not forget the ancient proscription against letting a witch live; you’d be doing me a grave discourtesy if you made others suspect my existence.” As dwarves did not suddenly become normal solely by thinking virtuous thoughts, this was a serious risk. “Finally, there’s payment for my services.”

“Ask, and if it’s within my power to give, I shall.” At the back of my mind, there was only a slight hesitation, swiftly erased by gratitude.

“Indeed you shall,” he said. Then, with a visible effort, the patient wisdom returned. “Morley, please don’t misunderstand. I don’t own you despite the great favor I did you. But there are many tasks I must accomplish in coming months, some of which I can’t perform myself. I’ll need your assistance, and as you’re without employment, we can come to some accommodation.”

“Aye, there’s that,” I mused. “More importantly, I wouldn’t have you feel I’m ungrateful. Truly, you’ve helped more than I can express with words alone. In return, I’ll help as best I can.”

He smiled. Reaching inside his robes, he produced a small but weighty leathern bag that clinked as he dropped it into my palm. “For living expenses. I have a task for you, though it’ll be an hour before you can begin. Meet me in front of the library, and I’ll instruct you in what’s needed.”

We shook hands to seal our partnership, and I noted with pleasure the strength of my grip, more than the equal of his firm handshake. Afterwards, I set off down the corridor. I wasn’t sure at first where I was headed, but as I walked, I decided to pay a visit to Bram. His offer of a formal bond had been attractive, and now that I’d no longer burden him, I could more easily accept his offer. The notion of treating Bram as an equal—and believing it—and the chance of someday attaining the stature and peace he’d found warmed me. That easily, I cast aside Orgrim’s warnings about familiar patterns, certain my friend and protector could pose no danger.

I nodded at the guards on my way out of the building, and they nodded back, politely but with no sign of recognition. That amused me, but I had little time if I was to visit my friend and still reach the library at the appointed hour. I arrived at Bram’s house much sooner than I’d expected, so distracted by my newfound speed and the alacrity with which people moved out of my path that I little heeded the walk itself. A knock on the barred gate produced no immediate response, so I settled down to wait. Shortly, there came a grating as the viewing slit slid open, and a pair of wary eyes appeared.

James’ voice came from behind the thick wood. “Good day, Sir. How may I help you?”

I cleared my throat, suddenly awkward. James’ eyes narrowed when I hesitated. “I’m here to see Bram, James.”

He was plainly trying to place me, for his brow furrowed in concentration and once more his eyes swept over me. “I’m afraid I wasn’t told to expect your visit, Sir...?”

“Mor... Modred,” I improvised.

“... Modred,” he continued. “Are you perhaps an old friend of the master’s?”

“Not exactly,” I sidestepped the question. “More... a friend of a friend. Is your master in?”

James seemed caught between the urge to invite me in and natural caution at the arrival of an unanticipated stranger. He was a good man, his youth notwithstanding. “Umm. No, Modred—Milord and Milady have gone for a walk. If you tell me where you’re staying, I can send a runner when he returns.” Caution won out over hospitality.

I repressed a grin. “No, that won’t be necessary. He doesn’t know me, so you’d just confuse him. I’ll return some other time to visit.”

“Very good, Sir. Have a pleasant day.” I nodded, feeling trepidation at his obvious concern and his poorly concealed efforts to memorize my face. Orgrim’s advice seemed more sensible now I’d come up hard against the realities of my changed circumstances. I’d avoided thinking things through, and that luxury couldn’t last much longer. Heaving a sigh so heavy that a passing merchant shot me a sharp look, I turned my steps towards the library. I estimated I had some moments remaining before meeting Orgrim, but would not risk arriving late and raising his wrath. He’d placed considerable importance on the task he would set me, and that made it important for me as well.

Ankur’s library was an imposing building made from piled blocks of neutral-brown stone fitted together seamlessly without the aid of mortar. It was unornamented to the point of drabness—to the point you’d pass by without a second thought were you not seeking it. I waited by the main entrance, noting as I did how most Ankurites ignored it. Not surprising, given that most people couldn’t read more than the few words or signs necessary for their livelihood. Even I, who’d learned to read each winter with the other foresters and who’d read every scrap of paper or parchment that came within reach, had never spent any time here, and I was looking forward to learning what the building held now that I—however temporarily—had no formal responsibilities to occupy my days. It was as I pondered these thoughts that Orgrim arrived, as silently as on each previous occasion.

“To business,” he exclaimed, the sudden sound of his voice making me startle. “The task I’ve set you is a simple one, Morley... or should I say Modred?” He smiled coldly at the surprise on my face. “Ah, have you forgotten so soon that I’m a wizard, and that wizards have ways of knowing that are denied common men?” He smiled his gentle smile, removing some of the sting. “I need you to enter the library and retrieve two items.” He handed me a scrap of parchment with two titles upon it. “Take this,” he continued, handing me my lute, which I’d not noticed he was carrying, “and inform the librarian that you’re a traveling minstrel who must consult certain ancient texts so you may more accurately compose a ballad on the days before the Exodus.”

“Before we came to the new lands?” A good excuse, for ballads of those days have been popular ever since the King took such an interest in them after the war with Amelior. “But there’s one small flaw in your plan.”

“And what might that be?” His gaze hardened, though the smile never faded.

“You said you’d need me to retrieve the texts, which I assume means that you want them removed from the library. Were I the librarian, I’d see no reason to let a stranger carry away treasures that may be older than Ankur itself.”

“Your wit does you credit, but I wasn’t yet done explaining.” From within his cloak he removed a medium-sized hemp sack. “In here you will find two scrolls. Spend some time consulting the ones I have sent you for, then exchange them for the ones in the sack when no one’s watching.”

“That should be simple enough. But I find myself full of questions today. Why do you need me for such a simple task? Couldn’t you simply conjure the books out of the library, with none the wiser?”

Orgrim sighed, assuming a look of exasperated patience. “Modred, as you now understand, my existence in Ankur must remain unsuspected. There are certain intricacies involved in any magic, and while it’s simple enough to scry the location of the books, removing them through those thick stone walls poses a challenge. One well within my means to surmount, but there are more important things to spend my energies on. Moreover, any such magic would leave my signature behind for all to see.”

“Maybe to another wizard, but to a librarian?” I paused in thought. “Ah. I hadn’t considered the possibility you might have a... rival.” The thought was both exciting and somewhat alarming.

“Quite so. There are certain signs that suggest I’m not alone in this town. Now enough questions. I’ve set you a simple task, and it’s time you proceeded. Cross the librarian’s palms with a few coins should she prove obstinate—there’s a spell even you should be able to manage! Just one thing: under no circumstances make a fuss or do aught to attract attention and cause your visit to be remembered. If you can’t obtain the scrolls without making yourself memorable to everyone in the library, leave. There are other mundane ways to obtain the scrolls should the open approach fail.”

I quirked a grin, and bowed deeply enough for my still-developing balance to come into question and turn the bow half-mocking before I recovered. Ignoring his amusement, I turned on my heel and entered the library. I half-expected to be stopped by guards or at least to encounter some physical barrier to entry, but evidently there was insufficient interest in old books among Ankurites to make these treasures worthy of theft. In fact, the only obstacle was the thick rug that caught my oversized feet and sent me sprawling. I managed the fall well enough to avoid crushing my lute, but the old woman dusting the shelves and the two scholars conferring at a low table couldn’t fail to notice. When I met the eyes of the scholars, challenge in my eyes, their amused contempt changed to solicitous looks. I paused to re-examine my instrument for damage, then got to my feet as the woman came to join me.

“I trust you’re undamaged, young man?” she inquired, failing to hide her amusement.

I smiled. “Aye, apart from my dignity, though it appears I’ve come seeking forbidden knowledge your library’s loath to yield.” Her smile broadened. “Thanks for your concern.” I swung my lute around to my back, careful to not misjudge distances and cause another disaster, then dusted off my knees. As I did, I took the opportunity to look around. The inside of the library was as plain as its exterior suggested: a high, vaulted ceiling crisscrossed by stone arches and illuminated by a combination of slim, thickly glazed windows at the ceiling and man-tall, arm-thick candles in wrought-iron stands in recesses all about the walls. Deep stone shelves rose to the ceiling, and there were ladders here and there against the wall to facilitate access to upper shelves. Two long tables occupied the center of the room, each piled high with scrolls and surprising numbers of the bound books that had begun to appear with increasing frequency. The two scholars had gone back to their discussion, poking at various scrolls now and then as if using them to prove some obscure point.

“Can I help you?” The librarian flipped her feather duster, impatient to get back to work.

I returned my attention to her. “Certainly. I’m in the process of preparing a ballad of the old days in honor of the King. Unlike my colleagues, I believe in first learning about my subject, and that’s why I’m here. I was advised that the library contained two old scrolls.” I’d palmed Orgrim’s scrap of paper while we talked, and presented it with a flourish.

“You’re sure we have these?” Her brows knit in puzzlement. “If we do, they’re old indeed. I can’t remember a request for them.”

“I have it on excellent authority they’re here.” I spoke those words glibly, then realized I had no response ready if she asked the name of that authority; mentioning Orgrim’s name would’ve been unwise, and I knew no other name I could invoke without requiring the construction of a dangerous chain of lies.

But she was more interested in my choices than in learning who’d recommended them. “Bide a while. I’ll go seek them.”

I watched as the librarian wandered, preoccupied, from one row of shelves to the next, lips moving as if thinking aloud. I’d always assumed there’d be some simple method of finding and retrieving texts, but my assumption proved unjustified; this was still a profession in which masters passed obscure lore to apprentices, such as the location of prize texts, rather than making the information available to anyone. I swung my lute off my shoulder, sat at one of the low chairs, and began tuning, falling into the calm that simple activity always evoked. A glare from the two scholars, who I’d been watching with some interest as my fingers followed familiar paths without my guidance, interrupted me.

“Is there a problem, wise Sirs?”

“This is a library, not the King’s audience chamber. Be silent. If you must practice your trade, do it elsewhere.”

Surprised by his vehemence, I leaned the lute against the table, not wanting to dislodge the scrolls, and turned to examine the contents of my sack. Orgrim had told me there’d be two scrolls inside, and it was as he’d promised. Each one had an old, musty smell to it and felt dry and brittle to my probing fingers. Opening the mouth of the sack just enough to admit some light, I craned my neck in a vain attempt to see the titles on the scrolls. This occupied me briefly, and when I looked up from my efforts, the librarian was perched atop one ladder, several scrolls tucked under her arm as she craned her neck to read the titles of others. As I watched, she pursed her lips in disapproval and replaced the scrolls under her arm on the shelf.

Having done so, she descended cautiously and crossed the room to my table. “I must apologize, but my search is taking longer than I’d anticipated. I’ve unearthed several treasures whose existence I’d forgotten, but not the particular ones you sought. I’m afraid that the task may take some time, particularly given that those two gentlemen have provided me an afternoon’s work replacing the scrolls they’ve already consulted.”

I nodded sympathetically, and eased a coin from my pouch. “Most inconsiderate of them. Nonetheless, my patron was most insistent that I create the best song that was within my resources.” I grasped her wrinkled hand and slipped the coin into it. “I would be more than grateful if you could spare the time.” I maintained a gentle pressure on her hand, smiled as warmly as I could at her, and watched with pleasure as she blushed and looked away.

“I’ll see what I can do, Sir. Return tomorrow and I’ll have the scrolls for you.” She pulled her hand from my grasp, and I let her, enjoying the opportunity to play this game.

Outside, Orgrim waited impatiently by the door. “You have the scrolls?”

“No. The librarian couldn’t find them, though she promised she’d have them by tomorrow morning.” His look hardened. “You seem to feel some urgency about… borrowing these old texts. I’m curious why they’re so important.”

He frowned, and I wasn’t sure whether the displeasure was at my impudence or my failure in this first task. “Let me say only that the scrolls speak of events around the time of the Exodus. They provide important clues to the nature of the magical cataclysm that set us to fleeing the old lands. Because the practice of magic has been proscribed since before our departure, honing one’s mystical skills is next to impossible without a free exchange of knowledge. For a scholar like me, the information in those old scrolls provides precious clues about the nature of magic.”

I pursed my lips, realizing the depth of my ignorance. “Is it wise to pry into such matters? What destroyed our old lands would also threaten the new.”

Orgrim’s frown deepened. “Don’t presume to provide guidance on something you don’t understand. Some of us have learned the lessons of the past.”

I averted my eyes, not liking the power in his eyes any better despite increasing practice, and wondering about the sense of something left unsaid. Changing the subject seemed wisest. “Point taken. In the meantime, what’s our course of action?”

“Obtaining the scrolls tomorrow won’t delay my plans, and I must accomplish other things today. Very well. Spend the remainder of the day however you please, though I caution you to stay far from those who once knew you. I shall wake you early tomorrow so we can return to the library.”

“Done.”

He strode away into the crowd, brisk strides belying his aged, careworn appearance and reminding me of the youthful black-haired man he’d become in the nightmare that preceded my transformation. Those memories still bothered me, though in the clear light of day, they seemed a trivial thing. Surely such an experience as I’d undergone would leave any man with bad dreams for a few nights? I was enjoying my new body far too much to question my fortune, but that didn’t stop me from reflecting upon what Orgrim had said—and left unsaid—as well as upon his reaction to my questions. Perhaps some reading of my own would be in order. No one who knew me would be in the library, and there was the enticing prospect of feeding my curiosity and easing my ignorance.

The more I thought of the past few days, the more I felt sure I could no longer afford that ignorance.

©2004–2024 Geoffrey Hart. All rights reserved.