“Oh,” said Morrolan. “I know that.”
“How, you know?”
“Of a certainty. While I know little of those who bore me, I at least know my family name. Is it important?”
“Important?” said Teldra. “I nearly think it is!”
“Well, and why is it important?”
“Because from it, we can, with some work, learn many things that would be of interest to you.”
“What sorts of things?”
“Your lineage, any ancestral holdings you might have, your family history.”
“How, you pretend we can learn these things merely from my name?”
“It is likely, although it may take some few years, and much traveling.”
“Well,” said Arra suddenly, “it seems to me that we were just discussing the idea of travel, were we not?”
“That is true!” said Morrolan.
“Travel?” said Miska. “And to where were you considering travel?”
“We had not yet made that decision,” said Morrolan. “We were waiting to see if the goddess wished to give us a sign.”
“And,” said Arra, “I nearly think she has. Indeed, were the sign any more prominent, it would block our view of the sky.”
“Lady Arra,” said Morrolan, “I agree with you entirely.”
“Well,” said Teldra. “Let us see. First of all, if you will tell me your family name, then perhaps even from that I can make a guess as to a destination for which to start.”
“You wish me to tell you now?”
“If you would be so good.”
“Very well. My father’s name was Rollondar, and—”
“Rollondar?”
“Yes, that was it, and my—”
“Rollondar e’Drien?”
Morrolan looked at Lady Teldra, who had, quite against custom of the Issola, interrupted him, and had even done so twice, and who was now staring at him with an expression of astonishment on her countenance.
“Yes, my family name, I learned, was e’Drien. But tell me, for I am curious, why this seems so remarkable to you, for I perceive that you are startled.”
“I am, indeed, and I will tell you at once why it is so.”
“I am listening, then.”
“Here it is: I know exactly who your father was, and, moreover—”
“Yes? Moreover?”
“I know where to find your ancestral lands.”
“Ah! I have ancestral lands.”
“Indeed you do.”
“Are they far from here?”
“Rather, yes. Across the mountains, down a long river, and within a hundred leagues of the great city of Adrilankha, which lies along the Southern Coast of what was once the Empire.”
“That does sound like a long way,” said Morrolan.
“It is no quick journey.”
Morrolan turned his face to the west, and used his hand to
shield his eyes from the Furnace which, in the East, was blazing brightly enough to be annoying to anyone who looked at it.
“Yes,” said Teldra, as if reading his thoughts. “It is to the West that our destiny lies.”
Morrolan nodded, and continued staring. After a moment he turned to Lady Teldra and said, “What else do you know of my family?”
“I know one thing that will amuse you, I think.”
“Well, I do not mind being amused.”
“If you do not, then I will tell you.”
“Do so.”
“It is this: Your name, Morrolan, means Dark Star in the language of the Silites, who lived in this region many, many years ago, and whose language is still spoken by some.”
“Well, and if it does?”
“Your father also took his name from the same tongue, and it means, ‘Star that never fails.’”
“Ah. That is remarkable. A coincidence, do you think?”
“It is,” said Arra, “unlikely to be a coincidence when the goddess is at work.”
“Well, that name was given me by the good Miska here.” They looked at Miska, who merely shrugged.
“‘Star that never fails,’” repeated Morrolan. “Well, did he fail?”
Teldra said, “I would think, looking at you, my lord, that he did not.”
Morrolan nodded.
“And then?” said Arra.
Morrolan shrugged. “Do you, Arra, speak to our Circle. Tell them whither we are bound, and have them meet us there as best they can in their own time, and, moreover, have them spread the word to every witch that we will gather there.”
“I will do so.”
“Someday we will return, though; there is a debt here that I have not paid.” With this he sent a dark glance to the northeast.
“Then we are leaving?” said Arra.
“Yes. And if you wish to accompany us, Lady Teldra, we should like nothing better.”
Teldra bowed and said, “I should be honored, my lord.”
“And you, good Miska?”
“Me? No, my dear Dark Star. I believe I must return to my own land, now that I have delivered the Lady to you.”
“As you wish. But you must not fail to call on me, should you require me.”
Miska shrugged, as if to say that, save for his preferred drink, there was little he was likely to need.
Morrolan nodded and looked to the west once more. “We leave at daybreak,” he said.
How the Society of the Porker Poker
Came to Exist, and How It Had
Its Final Meeting
I
t was on a Farmday in the middle of winter in the 246th year of the Interregnum that the Society of the Porker Poker met for the last time. The Society had already had its number diminished in several ways: first when the Tsalmoth, Stagwood, had taken to the road to pursue his desire to be a bard; next when Flute, of the House of the Hawk, had become disgusted with the bickering of certain of the other members and ended her association with the Society; and most recently by the exodus of Mialand, of the House of the Lyorn, who had married and gone to live with her husband in the iron center of Lottstown, far to the East. With all of these desertions, more or less justified, the Society now numbered only four. All the members of the Society were between one hundred and three hundred years old—in other words, at the age where adulthood looms over one and demands an end to childish things, but the enthusiasm of youth has not yet been lost. Were the Empire still in place, no doubt they would have long before scattered and been pursing whatever lives their inclinations had led them toward, or at least living each in his own household; but the Interregnum had the effect, in addition to all of its other effects, of keeping families more firmly bound together, as if to provide a better defense against the untamed world outside the doors of the family manor.
The names of these four will, no doubt, mean little to the
reader, yet our duty as historian requires that we introduce them at this time, in hopes that, hereafter, they will mean more, and will stir in the reader’s heart and mind whatever feelings of affection or disdain the unfolding of this history will engender. They are, then: Lewchin, Shant, Piro, and Zivra.
Lewchin, the only daughter of a Marchioness of the House of the Issola, was a hundred and ninety or two hundred years old, tall, dark, and rather frail in appearance; she was distinguished by that grace of speech and manner which always marks those of her House. She lived with Shant, who was nearly the same age as she.
Shant was the oldest son of a Dzurlord; and although he and Lewchin could not marry, owing to the difference in their Houses, they nevertheless lived together as husband and wife, as many did during that period of spiritual as well as material decay called the Interregnum. Shant was short and stocky for a Dzurlord and distinguished by green eyes and wavy fair hair that he wore in perpetual disarray, covering his noble’s point.
The third member was Zivra, who was something of an enigma. She appeared, at first glance, to be the Dragonlord she dressed as, and as, indeed, were her guardians. Yet she had blond hair, rare among that House, and fair skin; and above all she displayed a coolness and evenness of temper and a calm attitude that made one think more of a Lyorn noble. From the shape of her ears and her noble’s point one could easily believe her ancestors were Dragons, yet again, she lacked the sharpness of feature that one would have expected; instead her face was rather heart-shaped, her lips thin, her nose small, and her eyes widely spaced and vibrant. A casual observer might suspect her of being of mixed Houses, yet there was some indefinable quality about her that denied this. She was soft-spoken, yet there was no hesitation in her judgments of people or events, and she seemed, moreover, to be looking always ahead, as if there were something in the distance, or the future, that was calling to her. She was the oldest member, being two hundred and forty or two hundred and fifty years old, and if she still lived with her guardians, rather than having struck out on her own, it was because her guardians, having no offspring of their own, had made her their heir, and, being
old themselves, desired her assistance in managing the family estate.
The remaining member of the Society was Piro, who was the Viscount of Adrilankha and, moreover, he for whom this history is named. His mother was Daro, the Countess of Whitecrest, and his father was Khaavren, who had been the Captain of the Phoenix Guard at the time when the last Emperor was assassinated and the city of Dragaera dissolved into a sea of amorphia; and who is someone of whom we entertain hopes the reader will not have forgotten from those earlier histories in which he played no small rôle. Piro was, therefore, of the House of the Tiassa, as could be seen by the white and blue he affected; his quick smile; his bright, intelligent eyes; his lean form; and his long, nervous hands. He was, at this time, just about one hundred years old, and was the youngest member of the Society.
These characters being sketched, we will now, with the reader’s permission, give a brief history of the Society itself before moving on to the events of its last meeting. It had been formed, then, some forty or forty-five years previously, when some of its founders were barely more than children. The present members, along with a few others, had long been friends; indeed, had already formed bonds of common sympathy natural to a group of children of the same social class living near each other. They would often form parties of pleasure in which they would walk or ride into pasture or jungle areas near the outskirts of Adrilankha, where they would hunt or fish or simply sit and talk in the manner of children, and, later, in the manner of young adults.
On one such occasion, walking through the Generous Wood near the ruins of Barlen’s Pavilion on the west side of the city, they happened to disturb a wild boar, who panicked and charged them, snorting and bristling. Shant happened to be carrying a sword he had recently acquired—a poorly wrought sword, to be sure, but one that had a point nevertheless, and before he knew it, he had drawn it and held it out between his friends and the boar. The boar, with surprising intelligence, had stopped short of this formidable obstacle, and stood its ground, snarling and snorting, at which time Shant gave a halfhearted lunge, which punctured the skin of
the boar, and which puncture, in turn, sent the beast scampering back into the woods.
The friends, the danger now averted, relieved their tension through the sort of laughter that often follows fright—especially fright that, in the event, proves unfounded. Shant was declared a hero, to which he responded, between giggles, by holding his sword aloft and saying, “I dub thee Porker Poker.” The friends then immediately swore eternal allegiance to the Society of the Porker Poker, a name which stood them in good stead in the years that followed. We do not, by the way, know which members of the Society were actually present at the time, because the story was so often spoken of among them that those who were not there could soon tell it as well as those who were, and even see it in their minds, and so everyone eventually forgot who had truly been present—the incident had become the common property of the Society.
One by the one, members drifted away because of other interests, marriage, or relocation. Shant acquired a better sword, but kept Porker Poker suspended by wires on the wall of the parlor of his home in Adrilankha, which home he later shared with Lewchin. It was here, then, that the Society met in the small but tidy parlor of Shant’s family home in Adrilankha, with Porker Poker—to which, by custom, they solemnly offered the first toast—still on the wall above them.
The toast being done, they set about, as they had so often before, engaging in conversation. “Well,” said Shant, “has anyone anything to report that concerns the Society? That is, has anything of interest to any of the members happened since we last gathered? I can say, for my part, that it has been a pleasant enough week, but nothing has happened that is worth reporting.” In fact, it was rare indeed for anything to have “happened,” yet this usually served as an effective gambit for opening the conversation that was the meat and bread of the Society’s meetings.
On this occasion, Zivra shifted in her chair, as if she would speak, but didn’t. This was noticed by Lewchin, but she decided that, if Zivra preferred to wait before giving her news, then Lewchin would respect this preference. Piro, on the other
hand, said, “I do not know the significance of it, but I can report that a messenger has arrived and put the manor into something of an uproar.”
“How, an uproar?” said Lewchin.
“Well, that is, a subdued uproar.”
“What precisely,” Shant inquired, “is a subdued uproar? For you perceive I desire precision of all things.”
“I will describe it as best I can,” said Piro.
“I await your description with all eagerness,” said Shant.
“Here it is, then: A messenger arrived some four days ago, that is, the day after we last met.”
“Well?” said Lewchin. “Whence came this messenger?”
“That I cannot tell you, only—”
“Yes?”
“He was a Teckla, and he wore the livery of the House of the Dragon.”
“There is nothing remarkable in that,” said Shant. “Dragonlords often hire peasants to run errands, and it is only proper that they wear the Dragon livery under such circumstances.”
“Oh, I agree, there is nothing remarkable in that. Only—”
“Well?”
“His message:”
“What was it?”
“I assure you, I haven’t the least idea in the world.”
“How,” said Zivra. “You have no idea?”
“None at all, on my word of honor.”
“And then?” said Shant.
“All I know is this: The messenger spoke to the Count my father and Countess my mother for some time, and then departed, and after he left—”
“Well?” said Shant. “After he left?”
“There were unmistakable signs of agitation in the behavior of the countess and the count.”
“And yet,” said Lewchin, “they gave no indication of the cause of this agitation?”
“Exactly. Indeed, far from giving a reason for it, they made every effort to hide it.”
“The Horse!” said Shant. “It is a regular mystery.”
“So it seems to me, my dear friend,” said Piro.
“But,” said Zivra, “what could the explanation be?”
“I could not guess,” said Piro. “Only—”
“Well?” said Lewchin.
“I intend to attempt to discover it.”
“You have not yet done so?” inquired Zivra.
“I have tried, but I have not yet succeeded.”
“Well,” said Zivra under her breath, “there are mysteries abounding these days.”
“I will,” said Piro, “certainly inform the Society when I have learned something.”
“And you will be right to do so,” said Shant.
“Perhaps it is an impending invasion by the Islanders, or news that roving bands of Easterners have made it this far. Or, yet, it may be news of bandits nearby, or even of another onset of the Plague.”
“Speaking of the Plague,” remarked Shant.
“I would rather not,” said Zivra, with a grimace.
“Refusing to speak of it,” said Shant sternly, “will not cause it to vanish, any more than refusing to speak of the marauders from the sea or the reavers from the East will prevent them from appearing.”
“And, therefore?” said Zivra.
“Therefore, I propose to speak of the plague.”
“Well,” said Piro. “Let us speak of it, then.”
“I have heard of a marvelous preventive.”
“Ah, have you then?” said Piro, sitting back with the attitude of one prepared to listen to something either interesting or amusing, and not yet certain which it was to be. Lewchin glanced quickly at Shant, something like a smile apparent from the crinkling around the corners of her eyes. Zivra raised her graceful eyebrows slightly and gave no other sign.
“Indeed,” said Shant. “And I will share it, if you like.”
“Well, do so then,” said Piro.
“This is it: The first symptom of the Plague is that one begins to feel tired, is it not so? First, the victim finds himself sleeping a great deal. This is followed by a reddening of the features, a dryness of the mouth, a shortness of the breath, a fever, delirium and then either the fever will break, or death will follow soon after.”
“Well, this is all true,” said Piro. “And then?”
“You will agree, I think, that these symptoms follow in a regular order.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Well then, if one was able to stop the disease in its early stages, it would never reach the latter stages.”
“That is but logical.”
“Well then, I have learned of an herb that, when chewed, will prevent sleep.”
“And so you believe—”
“Well, if, as we have agreed, the first symptom is prevented—”
“Then the poor fellow will simply remain awake until lack of sleep sends him out of his senses.”
“Well, what of it?”
“For my part,” said Piro. “I should rather have a clean death than lose my mind.”
“Pah! Brain fever can be cured. Death cannot.”
“You cannot mean you would prefer madness to death.”
“You cannot mean you would prefer death to madness.”