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The Key of Tanguroth Richard & Johanna Hardesty Co-author: J. R. Hardesty Ref. No. 802007sf Length 249,500 words

Summary

When a traveling blacksmith, a school dropout and an outcast harper are caught in a maelstrom of kin-slaying, sorcery and deathless evil, they must try to save their world with one sword, sheer gut stubbornness, lies and a few harp strings. And that was just the beginning...

From The Book

Siglin found a tuning key. Even to Bip’s untrained ears, the tuning process was painful, but soon Siglin had the old harp tuned the best it was possible for one so worn and beaten. Bip was dying to ask why Siglin did not pick out a better harp, but he held his curiosity in check. The harper tested the tuning one last time, stepped to a large slate hung beside the door and wrote down the number from the harp’s face and signed his name beside it.

“Shall we go?” He waved Bip out of the room ahead of him and closed the door. In minutes, they were outside on the portico. They were just descending the steps when Menannon’s voice halted them.

“Siglin, where are you bound?”

“I go to visit Dronin, Master!” Siglin halted mid-step and turned rather reluctantly to face the Giant. Menannon nodded slowly in acknowledgment.

“I would have a word with you on your return. Stop in my audience chamber, no matter the hour.” Before Siglin could reply, his master turned and reentered the hall. Siglin nodded to the empty doorway and turned to Bip.

“My master lacks something of the social graces,” he grinned at Bip as they crossed the courtyard. They turned north onto a narrow tree-lined side street curving back along the outer wall of the hall’s close. “Do you think it might be because he is over three thousand years old and sees no need for manners?”

“Perhaps he just doesn’t feel like bein’ so articulate,” Bip suggested mildly. Siglin gave him a puzzled look. “Well,” Bip grinned wickedly. “My Uncle Rusty has always led me to believe Giants use as few words as possible because they have minds of stone. It’s not easy to have to carve out everythin’ you say....!”

“Now, that is a new thought,” Siglin grinned back at him. “I have always known Giants posses hearts of stone, but minds? Well, that would certainly explain a lot of things.” They had a good chuckle over their shared wit.

They walked slowly along enjoying the warm sunshine. Siglin did not seem to be in any particular hurry to reach their mysterious destination.

They met few people along the way, but they all gave Siglin his due as a Master Harper, dropping a curtsey or making a flourishing bow or, among the wealthier, a solemn inclination of the head. It was immediately obvious to Bip Siglin was well known and liked here for he was recognized and accorded the respect due him even though he wore no robes or mark of any kind. He was, of course, seven feet tall, a Teluri and carrying a harp slung over his shoulder, but such a one could have meant nearly anything. To look at the harp, the last thing anyone would think was that it belonged to a master. A few folk stopped to exchange a word with him, but none held him long in conversation.

For nearly half an hour they walked along several connecting streets until they came to a high, stone wall with a massive ornate gate breaking its symmetry. A sign over it proclaimed it King’s Hospital of Hope. Siglin halted before the gate and pulled the heavy bell rope. A small window opened in the gate just above Bip’s head and a porter looked out. His face was curious until he saw Siglin, then it lit with pleasure.

“Master Siglin! When did ye get back? Ye’ve been missed, Sir! Come in.” Before the harper could answer, the little opening closed and a sally port opened in the main gate. Siglin had to duck to enter, but Bip could walk through comfortably.

“The Old Master is in the back garden this afternoon. Ye’ll find him easy enough.” The porter closed the gate behind them and pointed to a path around the side of a huge multi-storied stone-built building. “He’s failed a bit these last few months but it’ll cheer him to see ye.” Siglin nodded his thanks and headed for the path.

The grounds of the great building were well kept, with large flower gardens and shady trees set amid a veritable ocean of green grass. It was an extremely pleasant place – but the iron-barred windows in the building were quite at odds with the grounds.

“What is this place, Master?” Bip finally asked, instinctively keeping his voice low. Siglin looked down at him with a slight, understanding smile.

“This was the castle of Aridion City ere the Citadel was built. Now, those whose minds need rest are sent here for such quiet as they need until they are themselves once more, or death takes them. You perchance have heard it called Kinsop.”

“Kinsop? I’ve heard of Kinsop all my life. There’s an old saying in the Vale – I’ll retire to Kinsop!– as though it’s so bizarre on the outside perhaps things’ll make more sense inside the asylum.”

“I have heard this saying. Every time your cousin Picky came up with a new prank, Master Rilino would slap his forehead and say it. You are right. It does seem to fit certain situations,” Siglin grinned, then turned serious as they neared the corner of the building and heard the sound of harping. The young Teluri stopped and considered Bip for a moment, his eyes dark with suppressed emotion. “Do not be surprised by anything you see or hear, just go along, if you will.”

Bip nodded, puzzled, but since this was the famous asylum of Kinsop, he imagined nearly anything could happen.

Siglin flashed a humourless smile and continued on around the corner. Bip followed him a bit cautiously.

They entered a secluded portion of the garden set about with comfortable chairs and low tables. There was a marvelous fountain in the middle overhung by a huge weeping willow whose leaves were turning the gold of autumn. Beneath its branches, Bip caught sight of a tall man dressed in golden robes seated on the ground playing a harp. On closer inspection, Bip could see the fellow was emaciated in the extreme. His skin hung on him as though he had once been much larger and had succumbed to some wasting disease. His sparse white hair was clean but hung limply across his forehead. Bip looked at his face and his heart nearly stopped. The man had no eyes! They had been gouged out, leaving only useless, horribly scarred pits. Bip almost gagged. Siglin laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder and held a warning finger to his lips.

“Master Dronin, has class begun yet, Sir?” Siglin approached the fellow noisily and sat down in front of him on the grass, motioning Bip to the far side of the fountain. Bip silently did as he was bid.

“Apprentice Siglin, you are late again, young man. I shall have to talk to the King about you! It is not fitting for a King’s Scholar to always be late for classes.” The old fellow turned his face towards Siglin as though he could see him. “Have you been practicing your healing scales? You will never make a healer if you do not put in a little more effort, young man!”

“I have tried, Master, but that fourth scale is so difficult. Could you play it again for me?” Siglin kept his voice high and was managing to give a very creditable performance as a young apprentice.

“Listen carefully this time, if you will.” Master Dronin set his fingers back to his harp and played an eerie series of notes. The harp was so badly out of tune it was nearly in tune, but in a lower key. Bip saw Siglin wince at the sound and could well sympathize, as the sound was making his own teeth ache.

“There. Now, you try it,” the healing master urged, and Siglin unslung his harp and played the same series of notes.

“No, no that will never do. You must tune your harp, child!”

This strange “class” continued for nearly an hour until finally Siglin had managed to render the harp he was playing nearly cacophonic and the old fellow was finally satisfied.

“At last, you are playing it right. Now this time remember it, please.”

“As you wish, Master. I will try...”

“Journeyman Siglin,” Dronin interrupted him. “Why did you not tell me Grandmaster Menannon is having you stand the Master’s trials too soon? You have only one chance to pass them, son. If you fail, you will ever be a journeyman! Now, you just leave it to me and I shall make sure you do not have to stand the trials until your arm is fully healed. I just do not know what the world is coming to when masters set their students up for failure.” The old fellow tsked to himself and began playing a tune on his harp, nearly giving Bip a headache. Siglin sat watching this strange shell of a man, his eyes glittering with unshed tears. Dronin played the same few bars over and over, but it sounded so ghastly Bip could not begin to figure out what he was attempting to play.

“Master,” Siglin’s voice was now within its normal range, “is there anything you require?” The harping stopped and Master Dronin turned his head about as though he were looking for something.

“You simply must find me my spectacles, for I am having a difficult time to read the new music Master Harlin brought to my office the other day. I would appreciate it, young man.”

At this, Siglin’s tears silently spilled over. He cleared his throat, barely able to keep his voice steady.

“I shall try, Master. They have to be somewhere.”

“Well, do not just sit there! Be about it, young man!” The old fellow waved him away with an imperious hand. Siglin stood and Master Dronin halted him again.

“Congratulations on winning your master’s cord today! That was magnificent playing! Menannon should be proud of you and if he is not, it is his shortcoming, not yours. Remember that, young man. Let not our Grandmaster keep you from your due in this guild. You have worked hard and deserve the credit! Ere you go celebrate, would you send Master Niial to me? I wish to ask his opinion on a point of healing technique.”

“I shall find him master!”

“Thank you, Siglin. The High One watch over you in all the dark places you must walk.” For just a moment, Bip got the impression the old Master’s mind was not quite as unhinged as it seemed to be, but then the fellow started talking to a non-existent group of new apprentices and Siglin beat a hasty retreat. Bip followed him.

They neared the gate and Siglin stopped, giving himself time to dry his eyes on his sleeve and arrange his face back to some semblance of normal. The porter came out of his small gatehouse and opened the sally-port for them.

“I think the High One will be callin’ him home soon, Master Siglin, but until He does, the Old Master is very comfortable here and lacks for nothin’, so don’t you be worryin’ about him.”

“Thank you, Alain, for both your words and your kindness to him.” Siglin nodded to the porter and stepped through the gate. The sally port closed with a dull thud behind them and Siglin let out a heartfelt sigh. He set off with long strides, not towards the Harper Hall, but farther to the south, with Bip in his wake.

Neither of them spoke as Bip walked furiously to keep up with the Teluri. His curiosity as to what could possibly have happened to Master Dronin was nearly overwhelming, but he did not dream of asking. They wended their way through streets which grew more and more crowded and twisted, having grown haphazardly as the city grew. Soon they came out along the great mooring basin where the banks of the river Ari had been excavated to provide a harbor for the ocean-going ships which plied their trade throughout the kingdom of Aridion. Bip stopped for a moment, his eyes nearly popping at the sheer number of ships tied up at the wharves. They made a veritable forest of masts overhung with clouds of sails.

“All the world and his wife comes to Aridion City, sooner or later,” Siglin said, stopping beside Bip and nodding to the ships. He turned away and followed a small alley which came out on the next street but one directly across from an ancient stone-built inn whose jaunty sign proclaimed it the One-Eyed Spiralhorn. The paint on the sign had peeled enough it actually could have been called the No-Eyed Spiralhorn, but its name was too well known for such blasphemy. The place was so ancient the street had grown up in front of it to the point one had to walk down several steps to get to the door below street level. Siglin had to duck very low to enter the place. Once inside however, he could stand comfortably, a fact Bip found surprising.

The inside was unexpectedly light and clean, if old and well used. The taproom was ample and well furnished with long trestle tables across its width with several smaller ones clustered along its edges. The beams overhead were black with age and smoke and the floor rutted by the tread of generations of patrons. The great bar running nearly the length of the back wall sported not only the inn’s dishware but quite a collection of harps, pipes and drums, attesting to the popularity of the inn among the members of the Harpers Guild. At the moment, it was crowded with older apprentices and journeymen of several guilds, the most prevalent being the harpers. Several hailed Siglin, who nodded to them, but refused their offers to join them with a quick shake of the head and made his way to a small table in the back right-hand corner. They had no sooner gotten seated than the proprietor appeared, drying his hands on his apron. He was a stocky fellow who would not have looked out of place in full armour with a sword at his belt. He stopped for a moment to study Siglin’s face, then stepped up with a smile.

“Master Siglin, I take it you’ve just come from Kinsop.” It was not a question so much as a statement. Siglin nodded and the fellow turned without further comment, returning almost instantly with a small crystal decanter half-full of a clear liquid and two shot glasses.

“Here ya go, lad. Drink his health!” The proprietor poured the glasses brim full and set them in front of Siglin and Bip. He waited until Siglin downed his in one gulp, then without so much as a by-your-leave, filled the glass again and pointed to it. Obligingly, the harper downed this second glass, then placed his hand over it as the proprietor moved to fill it again. The fellow grinned and retreated, leaving the decanter behind, as there were many calls of “Here, Dickon, more ale!” from other patrons.

After Dickon had gone, Siglin filled his glass once more, then sat studying it. Bip picked up his own glass and sipped of its contents. The liquid burned all the way down, hit his stomach like a fireball, then exploded. He gave Siglin a startled glance, his throat too frozen to speak, his eyes watering.

“It is volnaka, a distilled spirit, a specialty of Cromb made from potatoes. They do not export much of it, so it is highly prized,” Siglin informed him with a fleeting grin. “It is not exactly easy to drink, but is good for getting drunk quickly should one so desire. It also works well in lamps and removes paint with remarkable ease.” Siglin drained his glass and filled it again. “And it is capable of erasing any memory of ever having drunk it.” Obviously, the young Teluri was intent on exploiting the drink’s full capabilities.

Bip sipped gingerly at his glass again, then pushed it away with a shudder. Paint stripper would be preferable. Besides, one of us should stay sober, he thought, grimacing.

Siglin sat staring at his glass, his mouth clamped so tightly the muscle along his jaw was jumping as it had that last day at the Lynwood harper hall when he was discussing nefrangs with Brandy. He said nothing for several minutes, then spoke so suddenly Bip jumped.

“Master Dronin was the master healing instructor when I came from Lurey to begin training,” Siglin said, his voice tight, almost flat, with suppressed emotion. “He was one of the kindest, gentlest men I have ever known. Training healers was more than just a calling for him, it was a mission from the High One. He had already trained several generations of healers ere I came. Not long after I had begun my studies with him, he came to my room above the stables one day and handed me an armful of ancient scrolls and said he could teach me no more, but the ancient healers could. He said to pay particular attention to the works of the healer of Blue Hill.” Siglin downed another glass of volnaka, and said nothing more for several minutes. Bip never took his eyes from Siglin’s haunted face.

Then without preamble, Siglin began again, “Master Dronin always felt it was a detriment to his teaching that he had never been out of the harper hall and experienced healing and teaching in the real world. Several summers after I won my master’s cord, he asked Master Menannon to post him somewhere for a year. Menannon chose Provnia, a small, quiet, rural province above Burning Mountain. I visited him there several times as I passed through the area on one errand or another for Master Menannon. It was such a small place it had no harper hall and the resident harper was housed by the folk of the province by rota. He stayed with each family a month and taught their children, then moved to the next family and thus around and around.

“Master Dronin had been in Provnia for about eight months when he decided he should go to Lurey to obtain books for the children. There was one family in particular he loved: a young fellow and his wife with three girls just like stair-steps. The eldest, Katrina, was seven summers old, her sister Katia was six and Barushka five. It was for Katrina’s nameday he sought the special books. I stopped on my way north the day he was to depart and I had never seen him happier. The girls were the sweetest children you would ever want to know, and their parents good-hearted folk who would not have been out of place in Rhindol Vale.”

Siglin downed his drink and poured another one. Dickon came and quietly replaced the now empty decanter with a full one and retreated back to the bar. After he was gone, Siglin reached into his belt pouch and withdrew a small drawstring bag. Almost absently he opened it and tipped cut-crystal heart onto his palm where it lay, the lamplight sparkling from its many facets. Bip leaned over to get a better look. A beautiful white flower had been embedded in the crystal which was fit with a fine gold chain for wearing. Siglin drained his glass, then began to run the chain through his fingers. His hand jerked closed about the heart as he began speaking again, his voice now bleak with pain.

“I came back through Provnia a fortnight later. I knew there was something terribly amiss ere I even reached the first farmstead. While I had been in Luddesport on the coast far to the north, nefrangs had raided the province in their usual viciously thorough manner. They had spared no one, not even the animals. I reached the first farm to find its folk literally butchered and their bodies hung on a line between the trees in their own orchard as carcases for food. There was little left of them. I went from farm to farm. At all, the story was the same, half-eaten bodies and burned out buildings. My heart misgave me then, for I knew Master Dronin was no warrior. ”

Siglin drank another glass of volnaka. His hand shook slightly as he refilled his glass, a few drops spattered on the table top. When he resumed his tale, his voice had gone flat and colorless. He spoke as one in a dream.

“I approached Nikiro’s small holding and I heard the last thing I ever expected to hear: the sound of a harp. I rode up the slope through the pasture to the farmstead and saw Master Dronin sitting under the apple tree that grew just outside the front door of the cottage. I called to him, but he did not hear me, so I went down. As I drew close, I could see this farm had been raided as well. Of Nikiro and his wife, I could see no sign, but the girls were all lying sleeping by Master Dronin. He had covered them with blankets and was playing a lullaby, the same one he was attempting to play today. He had his eyes closed and he looked very relaxed as he played. Katrina lay with her head on his knee and a small stack of books beside her. He was playing the same few bars of the lullaby over and over and over. I dismounted and knelt to look at the child. She had not opened the twine holding her books and she never would. Half of her face had been eaten. All three girls were lying dead and half eaten beside him.”

Siglin was staring sightlessly before him, lost again in the memory of the devastated farmstead. Bip’s throat tightened and his eyes burned with unshed tears at the horror the young Teluri was recounting. Several of the nearby tables had gone quiet as more of the inn’s patrons turned to listen to Siglin’s words.

“I tried to rouse Master Dronin, but I could not reach him, and I knew I had to bury the folk of Provnia ere the wild animals came or Rondrahier’s monsters returned. So, I left him there and went back to the other farmsteads and buried all those I could find. When I came back to Nikiro’s, I found Master Dronin had buried the girls himself and then, in his madness, had gouged out his own eyes and laid them with the books on their grave and he was sitting there playing that same High-One-forsaken lullaby over and over and over....!” Siglin fell silent for a few minutes, his face white.

“I brought forth my harp and healed the ruin of his eyes so he would not bleed to death. Then I called Kyrian and brought him back here and he is as you have seen him, slowly wasting away from no cause but the contagion of his own mind!” Siglin downed the last of the volnaka and sat staring at the crystal in his hand. His eyes sparkled with unshed tears.“The High One help us, Bip,” he whispered. “We have got to recover the Orb and find the White Tower, else this will never end.” Siglin laid his head down on his folded arms on the table. His hand opened and the heart slid onto the tabletop with a soft thunk. It lay there, glittering, as though lit from within.

Bip watched him, his heart wrung dry. The Vale now seemed very small and far away and he wished with all his heart he could go back and retrace his journey home from Rusty’s that night, sticking to the Bammerford road, or better yet, staying at the McKlarin’s and letting Sandar make his way through the Vale undisturbed. If only he had done that, then Siglin would still be at Lynwood, teaching, rather than here, drinking himself into oblivion. Bip studied the young Teluri, suddenly realizing how perilously close Siglin was to breaking like Master Dronin had. Saga versus reality. Damn!

Early evening found them still seated at the table, Bip acting silent guard for Siglin. He had been keeping all at bay with a dark look and a shake of his head.

Total silence descended upon the taproom and Bip glanced about to see the door had opened. Grandmaster Menannon’s nine foot frame filled the doorway to more than capacity. The Giant had to duck and turn slightly sideways to get through the door, and it was a tight fit, but he got in. Every eye was on him.

“Peace be unto this house and all who shelter here,” Menannon’s deep growl reverberated from the walls.

“Be welcome, Grandmaster,” Dickon nodded to the Giant and with a jerk of his chin, indicated the table where Siglin and Bip were sitting. Menannon moved through the tables, pointedly ignoring everyone and came to stand beside Siglin. The Giant looked down and heaved a resigned sigh. The landlord and a willing helper dragged over to the table a huge chair obviously kept on hand for the Giant’s use. They replaced the chair beside Siglin with it, and Dickon indicated Menannon should be seated. The Giant nodded his thanks and sat down.

“Ale, Dickon, if you please,” he called over his shoulder as the landlord hurried back to the bar. As soon as Menannon was settled, the rest of the taproom returned to its business, though at a greatly reduced volume. Menannon nodded to Bip, then turned his attention back to Siglin. The landlord drew a huge mug of ale and brought it to the table in both hands. It positively thudded as he set it down.

“How long has he been here?” Menannon asked, looking from Bip to Dickon and back.

“They got here about four of the clock, or thereabouts,” Dickon said, and Bip nodded in agreement.

“So he spent a goodly portion of the afternoon with Dronin, then,” Menannon nodded to himself, his mouth tightening.

Dickon studied Siglin’s bowed head, then turned to look at Menannon, his forehead creased with worry. "Grandmaster, you are going to have to do something about this. It’s worse for him every time he goes there, as the Old Master is failing more and more. You have got to put a stop to these visits.”

“How exactly do you suggest I stop him from going? Forbid it?” the Giant asked, looking over at the landlord.

“If you have to!”

Menannon snorted lightly, “And when has that ever succeeded? You might as well talk to the wind and tell it to quit blowing as forbid this ward of mine to do anything he has set his mind on.” Menannon shook his head, a look of exasperation mixed with pride lighting his craggy features.

“It’s his mind I’m concerned about.” Dickon’s voice was gruff with worry.

“Aye,” Menannon agreed. “That and his liver.” The Giant picked up the empty volnaka decanter and handed it to Dickon with a shake of his head. “Do you have to give him this swill?”

“When you need to get drunk fast, it’s the only way to do it. And when he comes here from a visit to Kinsop, he needs to get drunk as fast as possible. Total oblivion for a few hours is what his mind requires to keep him sane. So again I say, you’ve got to do something about these visits, or it is going to crack him.” The landlord nodded again in emphasis and returned to serving his other customers. Bip and Menannon sat silently for a few minutes as the Giant drank his ale and studied Siglin thoughtfully.

“Well, young man, we were not properly introduced the other day,” Menannon said, brusquely addressing Bip, his voice firm, but not unkind. “You know who I am, but I’ve not had the pleasure in return.”

“My apologies, Master. I’m Biplinder Paddleford, a journeyman blacksmith from Rhindol Vale. My cousin, Brandowick Durisdeer, and I are with Master Siglin. He’s our new Master Harper...but then you already know that...” Bip stammered to a halt, his ears turning a shade darker with embarrassment. What a stupid thing to say to Siglin’s master.

The Giant smiled slightly and took a long pull on his ale mug. They were silent again while Menannon’s eyes roved back and forth between Siglin and Bip as though he were probing the depths of the relationship implied behind Bip’s words.

“When did all this happen, Master?” Bip asked quietly, finally breaking the silence. Menannon glanced over at him, by his look weighing whether Bip had the right to an answer. At last he nodded to himself and set down his ale mug.

“Nearly eight summers ago now Dronin got it into his head he needed to practice his art in the outside world and he asked to be posted somewhere. At first I refused him, for I knew his was too gentle a nature for the realities of life beyond Aridion City’s walls. But he convinced Siglin his teaching would be improved with the experience and so Siglin set about persuading me. He can be very persuasive, this ward of mine, so against my better judgement, I selected a place for Dronin I thought would be relatively safe and easy to deal with: the province of Provnia. They had not had a harper in residence in many a summer.” Menannon ceased speaking for a moment and took another long pull from his mug.

“It was the misfortune of us all Rondrahier chose that time to loose his nefrang hordes on that small section of Linden. It was also my misfortune that I had sent Siglin north to Luddesport with a message for Cennon, the Elder Journeyman there, so it was he and not another who discovered the devastation and witnessed the ruin of a man who had stood his friend since he was a child.” Menannon reached out a strangely gentle hand and stroked the side of Siglin’s face.

“This ward of mine has a heart too easily marred and a spirit too prone to taking to itself burdens to which it is not entitled. So of course, he has felt it was his fault because his was the voice which persuaded me to let Dronin go to the posting. No amount of reasoning to the contrary will dissuade him of this. Every time he goes to Kinsop, it is a new sword stroke to his heart to see Dronin further reduced to a shell of the man he was. Emotion is a terrible thing, young man. It destroys everything it touches.” The Giant took another long pull at his ale mug.

“I have tried all of his life to train Siglin to control his emotions, to use his head and not his heart, but to no avail. He is quicksilver and stars, with a heart of glass so fragile....” Menannon’s voice trailed off and he just shook his head and laid his hand on Siglin’s shoulder. They sat in silence for several minutes while Menannon drank his ale and Bip considered his words. Almost absently the Giant reached for the crystal still lying near Siglin’s hand. He picked it up by the chain and turned it about in the lamplight it’s facets casting rainbows of color across the table.

“It belongs to him,” Bip replied to Menannon’s unspoken question.

“A starflower from the high mountains of Provnia,” Menannon mused softly then he picked up the discarded bag, secured the necklace within it and placed it within his own belt pouch and returned to his ale his face wearing a slight frown.

“I’m puzzled about something, Master.” Bip looked up at the Giant. “If your healers can heal someone’s body the way they do, why can’t they heal someone’s mind?”

“I fear it is not the same thing. You see, the body is simple in that each part has a role to play which, when combined with all the rest, keeps the person alive. It is almost mechanical in its simplicity. The mind, on the other hand, is spirit and memory, forethought and logic, will and dreams, and all of the other intangible things composing a personality. These cannot be healed by any outside force. Believe me, healers have tried for ages uncounted to unlock the secrets of the mind, but none have succeeded, not even Siglin here, the most gifted healer Linden has ever seen.

“He tried everything he knew and searched every scroll, tome and codex in the library for a clue, anything to go on to discover the key, but found nothing. He was so obsessed with the search he went nearly a fortnight without eating or sleeping. The night he finally gave up, he hurled the tome he had been reading through the library window, then started cursing a list of curses longer and more inventive than any I have ever heard, and I have heard more than most. Then he stormed out of the hall and came down here, got drunk and stayed drunk for a whole sevenday. Siglin does not admit defeat easily, which I suppose is my fault, as I have sought to train him to find a way to succeeded no matter what the opposition or odds.”

Bip sat quietly, thinking about all of the things he had just been told and trying to put them into perspective. He watched as Menannon drank his ale and absently began massaging the back of Siglin’s neck and shoulders. Bip was finding it hard to reconcile the small ways in which the Giant was showing his feelings for his ward with the whip scars on Siglin’s back. There were some deep currents here at which Bip could only guess.

“Master Menannon,” Bip began, looking down at his still half-full glass and toying with it. “I know it’s not my place to tell you, of all people, what to do,” Bip looked up to find the Giant’s black eyes fixed upon him, “but someone has to say somethin’, so I guess it’s up to me.” Bip swallowed a bit convulsively. “It’s like this: Master Siglin is gettin’ very close to his anchor, as we say back home, meanin’ it won’t be very long before his anchor chain is so short it won’t hit bottom any more. What I mean to say is, you haven’t seen him in the field, in battle and its aftermath. I have, and I’m here to bear witness he is very near his breakin’ point. I don’t know how much more of this his mind is goin’ to be able to take. It’s not just this business with Master Dronin, it’s everything. You didn’t hear him the other night when he was tellin’ Tarin about fightin’ the nefrangs above Old Garnet, or see his face when he was talkin’ to Brandy about buryin’ half-eaten corpses...” Bip shook his head searching for the right words.

“I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is, he is just plain worn out and if somethin’ isn’t done about it soon, I think he will wind up sittin’ beside Master Dronin under that stupid tree over at Kinsop.” When Bip stopped speaking, he found the Giant’s gaze was locked on something. Bip followed it to find he had unconsciously laid his hand on Siglin’s arm and was holding it protectively. Menannon cleared his throat.

“You presume much, young Paddleford, and you know not what I’ve seen with these eyes. Yet, you mean well.” He paused, looked at Siglin briefly, then continued, “These things are not unknown to me,” he said quietly. “There have been several times in the last few summers I have thought I would loose him, but he always managed to rise like some damned phoenix from the ashes of his own mind to do my bidding!”

“How?”

“Sheer will power because it was I who asked it of him. It is both that simple and that complex.” Bip’s confusion must have shown on his face, for Menannon continued. “Siglin has been raised on the concepts of duty, loyalty, and honor. I have tried to train him to withstand extremes of pain, hunger, thirst and exhaustion which would kill any normal person, even a Teluri. I’ve forced him to develop his will until it is nigh to unbreakable. He has become the ultimate warrior, but I have never been able to train his heart. That is his weakness.”

Bip looked up in surprise. How could havin’ a lovin’ heart be considered a weakness? he wondered, puzzled.

Menannon finished the last of his ale in one gulp, set the mug down surprisingly gently and rose, as though he had said too much.

“Come, my brave heart,” he murmured, reached down and picked Siglin up as though the harper weighed nothing. He turned to the bar.

“What do I owe you, landlord?”

“Nothing. You know that, Grandmaster. I’ll never accept a silver penny from either of you. Now, take him home and see to him,” Dickon growled, in an effort to cover some strong emotion.

Menannon nodded and crossed to the door where he halted. He turned slowly, brow furrowed in thought, “Dickon, would you do me the service of locating a comfortable house and a trustworthy couple who would be willing to take on the care of Master Dronin?”

“I know just the place and the people!” Dickon nodded. “It’s....”

“Nay, tell me not, for if I know not where Dronin is, this ward of mine will be unable to force the knowledge from me. Come to me at the hall tomorrow and we shall make arrangements for Dronin to be moved from Kinsop. Don’t tell anyone there where you are taking him either, for Siglin can be very persuasive and we do not want him to ever find out where his former master abides.”

“Good enough, Grandmaster. I’ll see to everything,” the landlord said, eyes twinkling. “We’ll manage to take care of this lad of yours despite himself. I wouldn’t advise telling him tomorrow Master Dronin has been moved, however. Master Siglin is going to have one murderous headache when he wakes up and won’t be in the most receptive of moods.”

“I have other things planned for him tomorrow.” Menannon looked down at his ward’s still face, his own craggy features lit with a slightly impish grin Bip found a bit unnerving. “He’ll be doing penance enough he won’t have time to think about Dronin until long after things are settled. Goodnight to you.” With that, Menannon maneuvered himself and his burden out of the door and up the stairs into the street with practiced ease. Bip grabbed the old harp from where Siglin had left it and followed, closing the door behind them. The noise level in the taproom quickly returned to normal at their departure.

#

Loud pounding on the chamber door woke Bip the next morning just after first light. He opened his eyes to see Tarin cross to the door and fling it open to reveal a rather flustered looking apprentice.

“What can we be doin’ fer ye?” Tarin asked gruffly.

“Grandmaster Menannon’s compliments to Master Siglin,” the boy’s voice was breathless with running. “He requests Master Siglin substitute for Master Koorin today, as he has been called away on business.” The boy bobbed his head to Tarin and scurried away. Apparently, the fact Siglin had been brought home as drunk as a Borian slaver was already well-known throughout the hall, and the boy was reluctant to witness his reaction to the summons. Either that or he could hardly wait to go down and tell his mates at breakfast. Tarin closed the door and came to stand beside the bed.

“Well, this is sure to be painful,” the Dwarf grinned at Bip and shook his head. “Ye’ve ne’er had a hangover ’till ye’ve had a volnaka hangover. ’Tis foul stuff, but effective. Well, get yer clothes on an’ help me wake him. I’ll be comin’ right back. I’ve got to find him some clothes an’ robes.” Bip slid out of bed and got dressed with alacrity as Tarin left the chamber in search of fresh clothing and teaching robes for the harper.

“What’s going on?” Brandy inquired, one blue eye showing over the top of his blankets.

“Master Menannon is assignin’ Master Siglin to substitute for one of the other masters today,” Bip informed him. Brandy turned his blankets down and sat up.

“As drunk as he was last night, this ought to be a glorious fiasco. I’m glad Menannon isn’t my master! What was Siglin drinking last night anyway?” Brandy asked as he quickly dressed and pulled on his boots.

“Volnaka,” Tarin said, coming back into the chamber with his arms full of clothing.

“You’re kidding!” Brandy crossed to the bed, and reached out to turn the harper’s face towards him. “He’s not just going to be hung over this morning, he’s probably still drunk! Whatever possessed him to drink that swill?”

“He had his reasons,” Bip said, coming to stand by his cousin. Siglin’s eyes looked bruised in the morning light and his face was still nearly sheet white.

“They’d better have been good ones.” Brandy sounded skeptical.

“Well, out o’ the way lads! We’ve got to be gettin’ him up or his master’ll have his ears.” Tarin moved the basin back to the small table at the head of the bed and filled it with cold water from the pitcher he had brought with him. He soaked a cloth in it and wiped Siglin’s face. The harper hall’s well was extremely deep and the water from it icy cold even in summer and near freezing in the winter. Siglin stirred uneasily at the touch of the water. Tarin grinned at the reaction and turned down the blanket to expose the harper’s chest. He re-soaked the cloth and wiped down Siglin’s bare chest. The contrast between the warmth of the blanket and the icy touch of the cloth was so great Siglin caught his breath and opened his eyes, groaning as he did so. Brandy was right, Siglin’s eyes were so glazed and bloodshot hardly any of their starfire showed. He really was still drunk and not just hung over. Bip shook his head. Beside him, Brandy snorted in disgust and went to the hearth where the empty ash bucket was set and brought it over to stand next to the water basin.

“Come on, laddie! Ye’re on duty in an hour, so let’s be wakin’ up.” Tarin washed him down with another icy cloth.

“Tarin, will you stop that?” Siglin muttered, trying shakily to sit up. He almost made it, but rolled back with a groan. “Will you tell your friends to take their hammers and go home? The High One’s teeth! My head hurts.” This last was more hissed than spoken as Tarin clasped arms with him and pulled him into a sitting position. The Dwarf grinned at him.

“Come on, Pointy Ears.” Tarin had to hold Siglin upright as though the harper were a mummer’s puppet whose strings had been cut. “Bip, rinse this out again, will ye?” Bip quickly rinsed the cloth and handed it back. The water was cold enough to make his fingers burn.

“This’ll get yer attention, an’ ’tis sorry I am to be doin’ it to ye.” Tarin shifted his position and wiped the icy cloth down Siglin’s back. He got the desired reaction. Siglin stiffened then lunged from the bed. He had to hang onto the bed post to remain standing, but he was up.

“Help him dress while I fix somethin’ fer his head.” Tarin started for the door, but Siglin halted him.

“What am I doing today?” the young Teluri’s voice was a little plaintive. Tarin stopped with his hand on the doorhandle.

“Yer substitutin’ fer Master Koorin,”

“Beginning drum class. High One help me!” Siglin groaned, grabbed the ash bucket and promptly threw up.

“I knew that would come in handy,” Brandy observed drily.

“How did you know?”

“Because, my innocent cousin, I once over-indulged in volnaka and was hung over for the best part of a sevenday. And I spent most of it being gloriously sick and begging anyone and everyone to put me out of my misery. Come on, lets get him dressed.”

About The Author

Richard has written publications for the IT department of Flathead Valley Community College and has published several scientific papers on butterflies. Johanna (Jan) has taught at both the elementary and high school levels and has composed public presentations for the National Park Service during her twelve years with that agency.

Copyright 2008-2009, Richard & Johanna Hardesty (Expires February 12, 2009)

To request information on this author or a manuscript contact the listed agent or e-mail: dbooth@authorlink.com

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