Post by Maerin on Apr 1, 2008 18:11:10 GMT -5
Gven
Kingdom of Siyen
A sudden, cool breeze blew into the study through the open window, causing the candlelight filling the room to flicker. The man at the desk glanced up as the light changed. Glancing around to confirm that the candles had remained lit, he ceased his study of the documents on his desk and leaned back in the old wooden chair.
The scholar needed a break; the interruption made for a welcome reminder of that. He contemplated, briefly, walking over to close the window and keep the wind from putting out his reading light, but then chose not to.
Winter on the shores of the Tentarias had been stormy these past few months, and there had been only a few, precious opportunities permitting the windows to be left open. The fresh air would hopefully dissipate at least some of the winter mustiness of the house.
Besides, the scholar considered dryly, my work this evening has done little enough to further my goals here. I lose little in these moments of distraction.
Maerin of Varetta had lived in this house in the village of Gven for much of the past year; alone, except for an old housekeeper, employed by the landowner rather than Maerin himself, to keep up the necessities of the household. The Siyenese village had only a small harbor and waterfront, without the large warehouses that attracted the most significant portions of merchant traffic of the Tentarias.
However, as Maerin discovered last spring when he arrived in this village, the quiet character of Gven attracted many of the smugglers and other merchants interested in avoiding the more official attention to be found in larger ports. Such people inevitably had information that could be useful, interesting, and occasionally even both. He had spent the past year tapping into that stream of information.
Maerin sighed as he glanced over the piles of books, scrolls, and other documents that cluttered the expansive desk surface, as well as three adjacent worktables. Over thirty years ago, this town had been destroyed by Drakkarim, an army that invaded both Siyen and neighboring Rezovia with nary a murmur of protest offered by the kings of either nation. It had seemed that the complicity of both rulers with the Darklands at that time could not have been more obvious. That both royal families appeared to disappear...or die... almost entirely, man, woman, and child alike, in the years after the Freelands Alliance ejected the Drakkarim from Siyen added greatly to the circumstantial evidence. And yet, after thirty years, there does not seem to be a shred of evidence in either nation that such complicity had existed at all, let alone whether it might have been the kings alone that allied with the Darklands or...
...or what?
Maerin abruptly stood and began to pace about the room. He suddenly felt the need to stretch his legs, and hoped the cool night air would help clear his mind or focus his thoughts. Perhaps I am chasing a needle in a haystack without even the surety that this haystack contains a needle at all, he mused. After all, it is characteristic of the Darklords that they found pawns in individuals, rather than groups or nations. They had been fairly predictable, in that regard.
The young man frowned. Is that what is bothering you? he asked himself.
Maerin’s thoughts slipped into the well-practiced thought patterns of inner debate, and the response to his query of himself was quick in coming. Of course it bothers me, he thought. The Darklords were always Naar’s bluntest instruments. Even though their plots spanned decades, sometimes centuries, those plots were generally both obvious and predictable, once one uncovered one or two key facts or people. It had been a weakness those who had opposed the Darklords had often exploited.
Even the allegedly-subtle Gnaag, in the end, tried to destroy the world in one, final, climactic, all-out war of conquest. But despite armies that could not be defeated, lead by Darklords that could not be killed, and the conquest of much of two continents, that entire war was brought down in complete defeat with one, albeit one well-placed, magical explosive planted by one man in the heart of the Darklords' power.
That is what you fear, Maerin asked himself, knowing already the truth of the answer. The fear that has driven these last eight years of my journey. We are no longer faced by an obvious adversary that relies on plots and plans that can be dismantled merely by kicking out a single support prop. In the decades since then, plots by servants of Naar had been cropping up all over Magnamund. Most seemed relatively limited in scope, and yet the consequences often proved much vaster than the initial appearance of the plot had suggested. These newer servants of Naar in recent decades no longer played by the rules the Darklords had formerly championed.
Maerin paced back to his desk again. He began to sit down, and then froze at a knock came at the door. He did not realized anyone was in the house this evening, and his recent thoughts made him wary. Maerin’s eyes narrowed, his focus sharpened. Unsheathing a thin dagger from his belt, he slipped the blade out of sight under a sheet of parchment on the desk before him and remained standing as he responded. “Come in.”
Keig, the old housekeeper, opened the door and bobbed his head in an abbreviated bow to Maerin. The scholar sighed in some relief and forced himself to relax at least a little.
Maerin walked over to a chair towards the center of the room and sat down. As he did so, he gestured to the old man. Keig bobbed his head again and walked over to sit in another chair facing Maerin.
“Well Keig, what brings you up and about this evening? I thought you had gone home long since.”
“Sir, a message came for you today. I just found out about it, and thought I should not waste time in letting you know.”
Maerin frowned. “A message? For me? From Seroa, maybe? I was expecting some more documents from a friend there... Wait. You said today. I assume that must have been much earlier than this evening. Why have I not received the message until now?”
The old man hesitated, and then continued but apparently picking his words carefully. “The message, sir, was not actually sent directly to you.” Keig emphasized the word ‘directly’, Maerin noted.
Maerin’s eyes narrowed again in suspicion and he stared at the old man, who quickly elaborated.
“Apparently, sir, the message was brought this afternoon by a Talestrian trader, who stopped to replenish his freshwater before continuing. The trader, I hear, approached one of the elders and asked if you were present. Per your agreement with the village elders, the elder who spoke to the trader indicated you were not here but questioned the trader further. The trader reported he had carried this message up and down the Tentarias for several months, not knowing where you might be located and asking about you in every port he put into. He had little luck, but had been paid, handsomely and in advance, to carry the message for one year or until he found you, whichever occurred first.”
Maerin stood abruptly, cursing under his breath as he strode towards a map hanging on one wall of the study. As he stared at the map, studying possible courses the trader might have taken, he fired questions over his shoulder at the old housekeeper. “And you say this trader moved on today? Where was he sailing? Well?”
When the old man did not answer for a long pause, Maerin finally turned back on his heel in impatience. Glaring at the old man, the scholar noticed the small smile on Keig’s face, stifled the outburst that had threatened on the tip of the younger man’s tongue, and silently waited for the old housekeeper to continue. Keig’s smile widened, but he continued his story.
“The town elders paid the trader to give us the message. The trader was reluctant, of course, but the amount offered was…generous and the year was nigh up anyway. The trader demanded an oath that we would not ever tell anyone he had reneged on a deal. It was, of course, an oath we could offer in good conscience.”
The old man reached into his jerkin, pulled out an oiled-leather, weather-stained scroll case, and placed it on the table next to him. The seal on the case, that of Varetta, was clearly visible.
Maerin was sorely tempted to stride over and open it immediately. Such a message could not be good news, as his seniors had made the need for Maerin’s secrecy clear. However, the young man kept a firm thumb on his impatience. Keig was trustworthy enough, but Maerin’s habits of cautious secrecy, developed over the years of training and field experience as a spy for the Halls of Learning, were not to be tossed aside for any amount of impatience or alarm. Besides, there was another matter to address.
“How much did the town pay for this message? I can…” Maerin stopped as the old man raised a hand.
“I was told to tell you that village elders want nothing, sir.”
“Nothing?” Maerin was astonished. The village was hardly rich, and Maerin suspected the purchase of this message from the trader had cost them no small amount. “I cannot allow that, Keig. You and the others of Gven have both made me welcome here, and have maintained the discretion I asked of you last year on levels I never expected of you.”
Keig shook his head. “We gained from you living among us too, sir. Further, though we believe that this message will result in you leaving us soon, what you will have left behind in the short time you were among us will not soon be forgotten or dismissed.”
The old man stood and turned to leave. “I will bid you a good evening, sir, as it is late. I expect this,” and he gestured at the scroll case to emphasize his meaning, “may keep you up even later this evening. However, will you do me and my children the honor of joining us and our families for dinner tomorrow evening?” Keig held up a hand to stop Maerin’s response. “My grandchildren, sir, will wish to thank the man who taught them to read and asked for nothing in return.”
At Maerin’s silent nod, the old housekeeper walked out of the study, carefully but firmly closing the door behind.
Kingdom of Siyen
A sudden, cool breeze blew into the study through the open window, causing the candlelight filling the room to flicker. The man at the desk glanced up as the light changed. Glancing around to confirm that the candles had remained lit, he ceased his study of the documents on his desk and leaned back in the old wooden chair.
The scholar needed a break; the interruption made for a welcome reminder of that. He contemplated, briefly, walking over to close the window and keep the wind from putting out his reading light, but then chose not to.
Winter on the shores of the Tentarias had been stormy these past few months, and there had been only a few, precious opportunities permitting the windows to be left open. The fresh air would hopefully dissipate at least some of the winter mustiness of the house.
Besides, the scholar considered dryly, my work this evening has done little enough to further my goals here. I lose little in these moments of distraction.
Maerin of Varetta had lived in this house in the village of Gven for much of the past year; alone, except for an old housekeeper, employed by the landowner rather than Maerin himself, to keep up the necessities of the household. The Siyenese village had only a small harbor and waterfront, without the large warehouses that attracted the most significant portions of merchant traffic of the Tentarias.
However, as Maerin discovered last spring when he arrived in this village, the quiet character of Gven attracted many of the smugglers and other merchants interested in avoiding the more official attention to be found in larger ports. Such people inevitably had information that could be useful, interesting, and occasionally even both. He had spent the past year tapping into that stream of information.
Maerin sighed as he glanced over the piles of books, scrolls, and other documents that cluttered the expansive desk surface, as well as three adjacent worktables. Over thirty years ago, this town had been destroyed by Drakkarim, an army that invaded both Siyen and neighboring Rezovia with nary a murmur of protest offered by the kings of either nation. It had seemed that the complicity of both rulers with the Darklands at that time could not have been more obvious. That both royal families appeared to disappear...or die... almost entirely, man, woman, and child alike, in the years after the Freelands Alliance ejected the Drakkarim from Siyen added greatly to the circumstantial evidence. And yet, after thirty years, there does not seem to be a shred of evidence in either nation that such complicity had existed at all, let alone whether it might have been the kings alone that allied with the Darklands or...
...or what?
Maerin abruptly stood and began to pace about the room. He suddenly felt the need to stretch his legs, and hoped the cool night air would help clear his mind or focus his thoughts. Perhaps I am chasing a needle in a haystack without even the surety that this haystack contains a needle at all, he mused. After all, it is characteristic of the Darklords that they found pawns in individuals, rather than groups or nations. They had been fairly predictable, in that regard.
The young man frowned. Is that what is bothering you? he asked himself.
Maerin’s thoughts slipped into the well-practiced thought patterns of inner debate, and the response to his query of himself was quick in coming. Of course it bothers me, he thought. The Darklords were always Naar’s bluntest instruments. Even though their plots spanned decades, sometimes centuries, those plots were generally both obvious and predictable, once one uncovered one or two key facts or people. It had been a weakness those who had opposed the Darklords had often exploited.
Even the allegedly-subtle Gnaag, in the end, tried to destroy the world in one, final, climactic, all-out war of conquest. But despite armies that could not be defeated, lead by Darklords that could not be killed, and the conquest of much of two continents, that entire war was brought down in complete defeat with one, albeit one well-placed, magical explosive planted by one man in the heart of the Darklords' power.
That is what you fear, Maerin asked himself, knowing already the truth of the answer. The fear that has driven these last eight years of my journey. We are no longer faced by an obvious adversary that relies on plots and plans that can be dismantled merely by kicking out a single support prop. In the decades since then, plots by servants of Naar had been cropping up all over Magnamund. Most seemed relatively limited in scope, and yet the consequences often proved much vaster than the initial appearance of the plot had suggested. These newer servants of Naar in recent decades no longer played by the rules the Darklords had formerly championed.
Maerin paced back to his desk again. He began to sit down, and then froze at a knock came at the door. He did not realized anyone was in the house this evening, and his recent thoughts made him wary. Maerin’s eyes narrowed, his focus sharpened. Unsheathing a thin dagger from his belt, he slipped the blade out of sight under a sheet of parchment on the desk before him and remained standing as he responded. “Come in.”
Keig, the old housekeeper, opened the door and bobbed his head in an abbreviated bow to Maerin. The scholar sighed in some relief and forced himself to relax at least a little.
Maerin walked over to a chair towards the center of the room and sat down. As he did so, he gestured to the old man. Keig bobbed his head again and walked over to sit in another chair facing Maerin.
“Well Keig, what brings you up and about this evening? I thought you had gone home long since.”
“Sir, a message came for you today. I just found out about it, and thought I should not waste time in letting you know.”
Maerin frowned. “A message? For me? From Seroa, maybe? I was expecting some more documents from a friend there... Wait. You said today. I assume that must have been much earlier than this evening. Why have I not received the message until now?”
The old man hesitated, and then continued but apparently picking his words carefully. “The message, sir, was not actually sent directly to you.” Keig emphasized the word ‘directly’, Maerin noted.
Maerin’s eyes narrowed again in suspicion and he stared at the old man, who quickly elaborated.
“Apparently, sir, the message was brought this afternoon by a Talestrian trader, who stopped to replenish his freshwater before continuing. The trader, I hear, approached one of the elders and asked if you were present. Per your agreement with the village elders, the elder who spoke to the trader indicated you were not here but questioned the trader further. The trader reported he had carried this message up and down the Tentarias for several months, not knowing where you might be located and asking about you in every port he put into. He had little luck, but had been paid, handsomely and in advance, to carry the message for one year or until he found you, whichever occurred first.”
Maerin stood abruptly, cursing under his breath as he strode towards a map hanging on one wall of the study. As he stared at the map, studying possible courses the trader might have taken, he fired questions over his shoulder at the old housekeeper. “And you say this trader moved on today? Where was he sailing? Well?”
When the old man did not answer for a long pause, Maerin finally turned back on his heel in impatience. Glaring at the old man, the scholar noticed the small smile on Keig’s face, stifled the outburst that had threatened on the tip of the younger man’s tongue, and silently waited for the old housekeeper to continue. Keig’s smile widened, but he continued his story.
“The town elders paid the trader to give us the message. The trader was reluctant, of course, but the amount offered was…generous and the year was nigh up anyway. The trader demanded an oath that we would not ever tell anyone he had reneged on a deal. It was, of course, an oath we could offer in good conscience.”
The old man reached into his jerkin, pulled out an oiled-leather, weather-stained scroll case, and placed it on the table next to him. The seal on the case, that of Varetta, was clearly visible.
Maerin was sorely tempted to stride over and open it immediately. Such a message could not be good news, as his seniors had made the need for Maerin’s secrecy clear. However, the young man kept a firm thumb on his impatience. Keig was trustworthy enough, but Maerin’s habits of cautious secrecy, developed over the years of training and field experience as a spy for the Halls of Learning, were not to be tossed aside for any amount of impatience or alarm. Besides, there was another matter to address.
“How much did the town pay for this message? I can…” Maerin stopped as the old man raised a hand.
“I was told to tell you that village elders want nothing, sir.”
“Nothing?” Maerin was astonished. The village was hardly rich, and Maerin suspected the purchase of this message from the trader had cost them no small amount. “I cannot allow that, Keig. You and the others of Gven have both made me welcome here, and have maintained the discretion I asked of you last year on levels I never expected of you.”
Keig shook his head. “We gained from you living among us too, sir. Further, though we believe that this message will result in you leaving us soon, what you will have left behind in the short time you were among us will not soon be forgotten or dismissed.”
The old man stood and turned to leave. “I will bid you a good evening, sir, as it is late. I expect this,” and he gestured at the scroll case to emphasize his meaning, “may keep you up even later this evening. However, will you do me and my children the honor of joining us and our families for dinner tomorrow evening?” Keig held up a hand to stop Maerin’s response. “My grandchildren, sir, will wish to thank the man who taught them to read and asked for nothing in return.”
At Maerin’s silent nod, the old housekeeper walked out of the study, carefully but firmly closing the door behind.