the Conclave. Among other things, he left me excellent advice along with all his worldly goods, and specifically requested that I be installed as Sorcerer of Exidy in his place.
The Protectors were reluctant—one openly questioned whether I’d poisoned my own mentor—but the only way they could deny such a request was either by my failing the test, or their proving foul play on my part. While my passing score was the lowest possible, I had indeed passed, and it was soon established that Gilsen had died of old age. Natural causes, as the Healers say. To be honest, I shared their reluctance about my taking the position so quickly, but like them I would not deny my mentor’s last request.
A proper funeral for a sorcerer takes time, as do the arrangements for installing a successor. Thus, it was several more weeks before I took up the reins of what was now my wagon and set my face north for home. Things began to go badly soon after: bandits stole my ox and wagon one night, so I continued on foot. Travelers coming south began to warn of incessant rains around Mosvil, and how the road was near impassable.
I found the rain—or it found me—a day’s walk from Mosvil. Of course, conditions being what they were, that day’s walk took three days. Meals were cold, when I ate at all. My cloak stopped shedding rain, so I left it behind. Soon, I rolled up my clothes and walked in a loincloth, as mobility was more important than modesty. No one else was about anyway. It was summer, and the rain was warm.
So imagine this: incessant rain above, incessant mud beneath. The bandits had only done sooner what the mud would have done later. Other wagons stood abandoned along the way, and I took shelter beneath them to rest. And just as I thought how lucky I’d been to not fall in the mud…
Sura clapped her hand over her mouth. “You tripped.”
“I did. And after I spit out a mouthful of mud, I lifted my face and fist to the sky and swore an oath that even Captain Chelinn might have been proud of. I cursed the mud, and those who shirked their responsibility to keep up the road. I cursed the rain, and the sky that dropped it. And the rain stopped. Only then did I realize I stood inside the Mosvil gates, near-naked and covered in mud.”
Bailar gave a deep sigh and emptied his cup. Sura poured more, and he continued:
I entered the nearest tavern, expecting to be thrown out until I could clean up, but Enzid had heard me as well as Heaven. He hailed me as the savior of Mosvil, even as the rain began anew. Still, he was helpful. What few clothes I had were washed and dried by a fire. I got a hot bath, a hot meal, and a very good bed. He has seen to my needs as I travel by or through Mosvil, ever since.
Enzid believed that Mosvil was under a curse. He may well have some Talent, because when I read the ashes that night I saw both Moon and Fate. In such readings, the Moon indicates a curse, and Fate a purpose. The two appear together often; it means an unrelated occurrence has become the agent of the curse. To lift such a curse, you must remove both the cause and the agent. Only one is not sufficient. I agreed to help, more because I had no wish to continue walking in that rain than out of any duty I felt.
In such matters, it can often be helpful to visit both temporal and spiritual powers of the area. But Willetoi the priest was unhelpful, and the mayor—whose name escapes me—would not even grant me an audience. It was thus natural to suspect that the deeds of both men, separately or together, brought down the curse.
Again, Enzid was a great help. He was outraged at the news, and spread word to his fellow townsmen. Within a day, I was invited to be an honored guest at the mayor’s house. After introductions, the tea and cakes, all the trappings of politesse, at long last we began to discuss the matter at hand.
“You have come to help us?” Strass—that was the mayor’s name—asked me.
“I was not sent to help, I have
The Protectors were reluctant—one openly questioned whether I’d poisoned my own mentor—but the only way they could deny such a request was either by my failing the test, or their proving foul play on my part. While my passing score was the lowest possible, I had indeed passed, and it was soon established that Gilsen had died of old age. Natural causes, as the Healers say. To be honest, I shared their reluctance about my taking the position so quickly, but like them I would not deny my mentor’s last request.
A proper funeral for a sorcerer takes time, as do the arrangements for installing a successor. Thus, it was several more weeks before I took up the reins of what was now my wagon and set my face north for home. Things began to go badly soon after: bandits stole my ox and wagon one night, so I continued on foot. Travelers coming south began to warn of incessant rains around Mosvil, and how the road was near impassable.
I found the rain—or it found me—a day’s walk from Mosvil. Of course, conditions being what they were, that day’s walk took three days. Meals were cold, when I ate at all. My cloak stopped shedding rain, so I left it behind. Soon, I rolled up my clothes and walked in a loincloth, as mobility was more important than modesty. No one else was about anyway. It was summer, and the rain was warm.
So imagine this: incessant rain above, incessant mud beneath. The bandits had only done sooner what the mud would have done later. Other wagons stood abandoned along the way, and I took shelter beneath them to rest. And just as I thought how lucky I’d been to not fall in the mud…
Sura clapped her hand over her mouth. “You tripped.”
“I did. And after I spit out a mouthful of mud, I lifted my face and fist to the sky and swore an oath that even Captain Chelinn might have been proud of. I cursed the mud, and those who shirked their responsibility to keep up the road. I cursed the rain, and the sky that dropped it. And the rain stopped. Only then did I realize I stood inside the Mosvil gates, near-naked and covered in mud.”
Bailar gave a deep sigh and emptied his cup. Sura poured more, and he continued:
I entered the nearest tavern, expecting to be thrown out until I could clean up, but Enzid had heard me as well as Heaven. He hailed me as the savior of Mosvil, even as the rain began anew. Still, he was helpful. What few clothes I had were washed and dried by a fire. I got a hot bath, a hot meal, and a very good bed. He has seen to my needs as I travel by or through Mosvil, ever since.
Enzid believed that Mosvil was under a curse. He may well have some Talent, because when I read the ashes that night I saw both Moon and Fate. In such readings, the Moon indicates a curse, and Fate a purpose. The two appear together often; it means an unrelated occurrence has become the agent of the curse. To lift such a curse, you must remove both the cause and the agent. Only one is not sufficient. I agreed to help, more because I had no wish to continue walking in that rain than out of any duty I felt.
In such matters, it can often be helpful to visit both temporal and spiritual powers of the area. But Willetoi the priest was unhelpful, and the mayor—whose name escapes me—would not even grant me an audience. It was thus natural to suspect that the deeds of both men, separately or together, brought down the curse.
Again, Enzid was a great help. He was outraged at the news, and spread word to his fellow townsmen. Within a day, I was invited to be an honored guest at the mayor’s house. After introductions, the tea and cakes, all the trappings of politesse, at long last we began to discuss the matter at hand.
“You have come to help us?” Strass—that was the mayor’s name—asked me.
“I was not sent to help, I have
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