Blood on the Moon, A Journey of Discovery Options

[treydog]

What with all the excitement, I almost forgot that I need to add the next installment. Fixed now.

Before leaving Korst’s house, I read through the scroll he had given me, retelling the story of Aevar. Though I had never heard the story of the Gifts before, it seemed to awaken something deep inside of me, as though some missing piece had been returned. I had never been especially religious, a trait I knew I shared with Father. But the words of this story came alive in my imagination and I “saw” the events as if acted out on a stage in front of me. I could not help but recall the rumors that the blood of Skyrim ran in Father’s veins- and mine. Korst Wind-Eye looked at me with a smile of satisfaction, as if he had heard and approved of my thoughts.

Intent upon earning the shaman’s respect, I decided to show that I was more than just another arrogant Imperial.

“You are the healer and counselor for your people. Therefore, I ask you: Who among them has need of my assistance?”

Korst’s smile widened, and he said, “Already, you demonstrate wisdom. I believe you might find that two of villagers in particular would benefit from your aid. Speak with young Ingmar and then with Lassnr. Return to me when that is done.”

As I went back outside, I wondered- Ingmar? Certainly it was a common enough Nordic name, but this was a small village. That simplest solution would be to go and see so for myself, so I asked a Skaal guard to direct me to Ingmar’s house. With a grunt and a shrug of irritation, he pointed to the opposite side of the Great Hall and turned back to his survey of the perimeter. In the event, I had no need to go all the way to the dwelling, for a familiar young Nord bounded up to me and gave me a crushing hug. Then he released me and looked around hopefully.

“I heard you had come to visit us! Is Athynae with you? I wanted to show her my house and see if she wanted to hunt with me along the Isild River.”

My own sense of loss was too recent for me to feel any satisfaction when I told the youth that I was alone. And I actually felt somewhat better as I processed the knowledge that Athynae had never been to Ingmar’s house. Whatever else was going on, she had not cast me aside for this man. Of course, the idea was ridiculous on the face of it- what would she want with a mere boy? Albeit one who owned his own home- and who was taller, stronger, and probably better-looking than I…

With an almost physical effort, I stopped those unproductive thoughts and asked Ingmar,

“So, is all well with you? Have you need of… , anything?”

He beamed at me with innocent health and good humor and replied:

“No, I am well-pleased with things. Thanks to Athynae’s help, I passed the ceremony that makes me a man of the Skaal. So now I can join the hunting parties and even marry.”

He reached inside his fur cuirass to show me a bear totem carved from horker ivory and threaded onto a rawhide strip. He banged a friendly hand on my shoulder, nearly driving me to my knees before sprinting off again, calling over his shoulder,

“When you see her again, tell Athynae ‘thank you’!”

The best face I could put on things was that Korst should be satisfied- whatever might have troubled Ingmar had been taken care of by Athynae. And so now the young Nord could go out into the world and try to get himself killed- or married. Perhaps I was more fortunate than I had realized, since only the first option seemed to be open to me.

With a sense of fatalism, I asked directions to Lassnr’s hut, half expecting to find that Athynae had already been to visit him, as well. And she had no doubt waved a shapely hand and made his problems disappear. For once, the Skaal sentry who directed me was more forthcoming, warning me that Lassnr had a peculiar way of speaking.

“Just dinna be taken askew. He be a stout warrior and a good man. He disna mean aught by it; ‘tis just his way.”

Thus prepared, I knocked on the door of a house on the west side of the village. In response, I heard a sort of cough, which I took to be a greeting. When I opened the door, I saw a bare-chested Nord, who wore a wolf hide headdress. He was obviously agitated when I entered his cabin, but it was equally apparent that I was not the cause of his distress. He could not be still, instead walking around the room in quick, frantic circles. When I introduced myself he jerked his head and grunted, “Lassnr,” in response. The effect of his movements and attire was rather like trying to have a conversation with the beast whose hide he wore. Still I was determined to follow the shaman’s instructions, so I asked my question:

“Is there something I can do for you, Lassnr?”

He did not answer, but stopped his circling long enough to pick up a small portrait from the hearth. He handed it to me with a pleading look in his brown eyes and panted, “Tymvaul.” I glanced at the portrait and saw a younger version of the man who had now resumed his loping circuit of the room. Before I could ask any more questions, he darted outside with a series of sharp, wordless exclamations and a glance over his shoulder to see if I was following. When I stepped out the door, he raced around the side of the house, heading east. Again I followed, only to find him pacing back and forth beside a well. The structure was capped by a trapdoor secured with a stout padlock. Lassnr looked from the well to the portrait in my hands and shook his head spasmodically, uttering another series of sharp, wordless yelps. In between, I made out the words “Tymvaul” and “well.”

Trying to piece together the evidence, I asked:

“Tymvaul is your son?” He nodded.

“And you are trying to tell me something about Tymvaul?” He nodded more vigorously, adding another yelp for good measure.

“What are you trying to tell me, Lassnr? That Tymvaul has fallen down the well? Is that it?”

He practically danced with excitement, bounding around and nodding his head affirmatively.

“Then we should get him out. I will be glad to try.”

My words seemed to have an almost magical calming effect on the old man, for the fit that had possessed him suddenly passed. He drew in great gasping breaths and spoke coherently:

“’Tisn’t just a well; it leads to the Rimhull caverns. Ice-caves, and he be lost or trapped. I usually keep it locked- must have forgotten- or perhaps he took my key. Found it on the ground by the well and locked it up afore I kenned he was missing. It was only after he didn’t come home that I recollected he had asked me about the caves. He seemed drawn to the old well, no matter how many times I begged him to stay away. Certain I am that he’s down there, lost and alone.”

[mALX]

AHA! So...you are almost caught up on this site? (Awesome Write!!!!!) I loved this one!

[SubRosa]

Timmy fell down the well!

Sorry, I never got the chance to say that on the other forum...

Woof! More doggie goodness please!

[Acadian]

This was great. A briskly paced story that was fun to read.

I imagine Athlain must be now half expecting to see signs 'Athynae was here' everywhere he goes!

And so now the young Nord could go out into the world and try to get himself killed- or married. Perhaps I was more fortunate than I had realized, since only the first option seemed to be open to me.

Wonderful and cleverly put!

The effect of his movements and attire was rather like trying to have a conversation with the beast whose hide he wore.

Even more wonderful and clever!


So, it seems to be off to the ice caves?

[Winter Wolf]

Ha, it is great fun to take this trip down the well again.

I did manage to get up to date on your thread on the Beth forum.

I really loved the letters that Athlain sent home that always seemed to backfire against him. Awesome stuff.
And Athynae, who could not smile when she ripped into him when she first turned up on the snowcapped island?

Bring on more doggy treats!!

[Olen]

Another good part. I look forward to more.

I'd try to leave sme better crit but I javen't really got anything to say. The characterisation is great in particular.

[Destri Melarg]

Athlain's insecurity when faced with the reality of Athynae's interactions with other men certainly rings true. Isn't it terrible what love can do to a man? Of course, in this case, the object of that affection is definitely worth the heartache.

“I heard you had come to visit us! Is Athynae with you?

I had the exact same question when I started to read this.

[minque]

Isn't it wonderful how well my old doggie-friend pictures Athynae? And athlain...And the interactions between them, even when they are NOT together? Jeez, who knows where that dunmeri-imperial little woman-to-be is right now?

Now if I was her mother.... haha

A wonderful quotation:

And so now the young Nord could go out into the world and try to get himself killed- or married.

Got me smiling...

[Captain Hammer]

So glad you could draw the connection between two people known for falling down wells.

"What's that Lassie? Timmy fell down the well and now the water's creeping up from the floods but he's caught beneath a branch and has exactly 42 minutes before he drowns?"

No, wait, sorry.

“What are you trying to tell me, Lassnr? That Tymvaul has fallen down the well? Is that it?”

He practically danced with excitement, bounding around and nodding his head affirmatively.

Well done, few enough people catch the reference.

[treydog]

Lassnr handed me the key and stood by with an expectant look on his face. When I hesitated, he seemed to take it as unspoken criticism, saying:

“I fear I am too old to survive Rimhull. Tymvaul came to us late in life- and then his mother died. There is supposed to be another entrance….” He waved vaguely to the west, toward the Isild River.

But he had misunderstood- it was not Lassnr’s courage that I questioned. At last I asked him:

“Please. Go inside and warm yourself by the fire. When I have word, I will come to you.”

His old eyes searched my face and he gave a wan smile,

“Bring him back to me, Athlain. I hate to think of him lying hurt and alone down there.”

Then he turned and shuffled back to the cabin door. I heard it open and close, leaving me more or less alone beside the old well.

An old well, yes. People got tired of going all the way to the river for water, tired of having to worry about getting eaten by a bear every time they got thirsty. So they dug a well. It was a useful thing, and it was no one’s fault that it was also a deep, yawning hole in the ground.

I fit the key into the lock and raised the door.

A hole that disappeared into an echoing darkness that seemed to breathe cold air…and to smell of a recent grave. And besides, I was an officer of the Legion. I was not supposed to be afraid of the dark- or of holes in the ground, even if they did seem to murmur just below the threshold of hearing.

There was no ladder- and why should there be? This was not a dwelling (or so I hoped). I stared down into the depths and understood how someone might fall in- the darkness seemed to pull at me. And I thought about the dark and about what Senior Trooper Carbo had said.

We do night exercises for a reason, recruit. And it ain’t so we can scare the scrib jelly out of you young “gentlemen.” Fear of the dark is a good thing. We want people to be afraid of the dark. We want them to afraid that YOU might be out there. And you are going to be the scariest thing there is- an Imperial Legion trooper trained by ME. You are going to be the last thing they never saw.

I made sure my equipment was secure and put first one leg and then the other over the stone coping, so that my feet dangled inside the well. And then I took a deep breath and pushed off into the dark. To this day, I cannot explain why I did not make use of a spell to slow my fall…. It simply did not occur to me that there was any other way than to jump in feet first- until I had begun dropping into the cold, by which time it was far too late.

The fall took forever and no time at all, ending with a plunge into icy water that closed over my head. Almost, I gasped in surprise, an action that would have given this story a much different ending. Instead, I clamped my lips and opened my eyes and kicked toward a lighter patch in the gloom. Another change in the quality of the light signaled blessed, breathable air above, and I clawed for the surface. I saw a sloping shelf of ice and pulled myself onto it.

My gasping and splashing should have alerted every creature for miles around, but I did not care. I was cold, I was wet, and I could feel the water that dripped from me turning into ice. I kept moving my feet for fear that my boots would freeze to the floor. I was shaking too badly to even consider casting a spell, so I munched holly berries and dried bristleback meat. The combined flavors were awful, but the alchemical reaction provided a bit of warmth that spread outward from my stomach. All of which meant I was only half-frozen, but had a foul taste in my mouth to make up for it.

So, when the skeleton guardian rounded a bend in the ice cavern, I was in a perfect frame of mind to meet him. I lumbered forward, the ebony and silver mace practically leaping into my hand, and I swung it with all the fury of someone who has just taken an ice-bath. A mace is the perfect weapon for dealing with animated skeletons- it crushes, smashes, shatters. My Legion training and Brynjolfr’s sparring sessions had put strength into my arm. And the mace Athynae had commissioned for me was a thing of beauty- at least if one takes delight in destruction.

Two swings were sufficient to reduce the undead warrior to his component parts, plus a handful of bonemeal. I did not stop to examine the bones, nor to wonder about Tymvaul’s fate. Instead, I stalked down the corridor with a snarl on my frozen lips. One way or another, I was going to get warm again.

The caves of Rimhull were not extensive, nor terribly elaborate- simply tunnels carved through the ice by melt-water and preserved by the flow of warmer air from the outside. I moved forward, keeping the draft in my face and destroying several more skeletons. It was almost a surprise when I at last saw a human figure standing in a small chamber, a figure that at least appeared to be made of flesh and blood. The man turned to me, and I nearly took a step back from his gaze.

The first thing I noticed was the ornate purple robe he wore- a robe that glowed and crackled with eldritch energy. The magicka made my skin prickle and I tightened a suddenly sweaty palm around the haft of my mace. The man’s face was known to me- it had the same structure as the one in the portrait Lassnr had shown me. But instead of the ruddy complexion of a young Nord, the skin was almost the ashen hue of a Dark Elf. And the eyes were pools of darkness, with no light of humanity. It was Tymvaul, and he was alive. But he was far from well.

His eyes bored into me with a burning cold, and he growled:

“Intruder! Who dares to venture so deep into Rimhull and to attack my guardians? The Mantle of Woe is mine, d’you hear? I have claimed the robe and its power!”

He reached his hands up to touch the fabric, as if drawing the essence of its evil magic deeper into himself, then continued in an unnaturally deep voice:

“I could not believe my eyes when I read the old stories. How could it be that an artifact of such power lay so near? It had to be my destiny to take up the Mantle of Woe and to command the dead to walk once more. So I jumped into the well and braved the chill of Rimhull to claim my rightful place as Tymvaul the Dark.”

He paused, and then looked at me with an almost pleading expression.

“It…called to me. Can you understand?”

Indeed I could. Some of the artifacts Father kept in our home seemed to whisper to one another- and to me. He was careful to keep them locked away, as far from our living and sleeping areas as possible. And he had warned me to tell him immediately if I ever had any strange dreams- especially dreams of wielding any of the weapons. And then I touched the bronze and silver horses that decorated my Legion cuirass, and thought that there were all kinds of dreams….

Meanwhile, Tymvaul was speaking again, his voice filled with longing:

“The Mantle strengthens my magical power, but causes the sun to burn me. So I have to stay underground most of the time…. I do miss the sun- and the sound of the wind in the trees- and my father. But the magic! The power it gives me! It fills me until I think I will burst!”

I had feared for the young man’s sanity- and I still did. Worse yet, I feared that I would have to injure or kill him to stop his madness. But his words had given me the clue I needed. Putting away my mace, I infused my voice with every bit of persuasion that I could muster:

“And what of your father? Will you turn your face away from him forevermore? He sent me to find you- he knew that you were still alive…. Take off the robe and put aside the evil it has wrought.”

His face seemed to settle into an expression of wonder and hope.

“Father? He sent you to find me? He still holds me in his heart?”

With convulsive strength, he wrenched open the robe and flung it away from him.

“I only wanted to study magic, free from the rules of the Skaal. Necromancy seemed an easy path to power. Now I see that I was a fool. Take that awful- thing- and destroy it.”

He straightened his shoulders and smiled ruefully. “As for me, I will leave Solstheim and study true magic. Tell my father that his love has saved me. I will return when he can be proud of me. And I would ask one more favor of you. There are some… items in the house that need to be removed. If you can do it without Father knowing, I would appreciate it. Thank you.”

And with that, he turned and disappeared around a bend in the corridor.

I whispered to his retreating back, “I think your father is already proud of you.”

[Destri Melarg]

I really enjoyed this chapter, but after having read it I find that I am freezing!

I did not stop to examine the bones, nor to wonder about Tymvaul’s fate. Instead, I stalked down the corridor with a snarl on my frozen lips. One way or another, I was going to get warm again.

This was my favorite sentence. I was right there with Athlain, looking for another skeleton to smash!

But he had misunderstood- it was not Lassnr’s courage that I questioned. At last I asked him:

“Please. Go inside and warm yourself by the fire. When I have word, I will come to you.”

This is slightly confusing, it is implied that there was a question here.

[mALX]

I was holding my breath! Even, or maybe especially knowing the outcome! Awesome Write Treydog! Woof!

[treydog]

The Mantle of Woe lay at my feet, crumpled and torn, but still pulsing with a magicka that made my teeth ache. My Breton blood was drawn to the evil garment; its power calling to the magic within me. But I had seen the effect it had had on Tymvaul, so I very much wanted avoid physical contact with it. If it could call to someone through so many feet of ice and soil, it was too dangerous to be left lying about, waiting for another victim.

At last, I retrieved a sword from one of the skeleton warriors I had defeated and used the tip to raise the robe from the floor and stuff it into a bag. Even that indirect contact allowed me to “read” the magical properties of the aptly named Mantle of Woe. It would give the wearer a vast reservoir of magicka upon which to call, as well as significantly improve his skill as a conjurer. At the same time, its evil nature made the user vulnerable to standard weapons and unable to endure direct sunlight. In other words, it was the perfect apparel for someone who wanted to become that darkest of all mages- a necromancer. And now it whispered its insidious song to me.

After I had pulled myself from the icy water at the bottom of the well, I had been cold and angry. The fight with the skeletons and the emotional battle to free Tymvaul from the robe’s influence had drained the anger out of me, and now I was simply cold- and frightened. It was all very well to say “destroy the robe,” but accomplishing the task would be more difficult. An artifact, especially a powerful one, stored unimaginable amounts of magical power. It also absorbed something of the nature and the desire of its creator. Destroying the artifact released all of that power and will in a cataclysmic instant.

Had I been on Vvardenfell, I would have dropped the thing into a lava pool, trusting the elemental fires of Nirn itself to unmake it. But I was not, and did not know when I might return. Perhaps Korst Wind-Eye could provide some guidance. For now, I had saved Tymvaul from the robe, and that would have to be enough.

I followed the passage the young Nord had taken and found an opening onto the east bank of the Isild. The slope of the land told me where the Skaal village stood, and I turned towards it and the warmth of the half-timbered dwellings. Lassnr opened his door at my knock, a guarded hope in his eyes. His expression clouded as he looked past me and did not see anyone else.

“He is not with you, then? I had hoped….”

I interrupted, reassuring the old man: “He lives, and he is… well. He had a- ah, difficult time, but is much stronger now. He has decided that he would like to study magic and said he was going to Vvardenfell- and perhaps to the Imperial City after that. He wanted me to tell you that he would not have survived if not for your love. I think that he will do well.”

Lassnr’s face cleared and years seemed to drop away from him. He even smiled, though the expression was tinged with regret.

“Well, I will miss him…. He always was mad for anything to do with magic- or with books. He lives, and he knows that I love him. It would be selfish to ask for more.”

He stood for a time then, lost in thought, perhaps remembering the past or envisioning the future. But then he shook himself and took in my condition. He placed a strong hand on my shoulder and guided me to a seat near the fire.

“Forgive me, Athlain. Warm yourself and I will make us some stew.”

He paused and added. “If it is not too much to ask, would you guest with me? You could have Tymvaul’s bed. It would be pleasant to have company.”

I considered his words. In truth, I had no better place to stay, saving perhaps the great hall. Thirsk was too far to walk, and I did not wish to return to the fort until my task was done. And then a wave of loneliness washed through me, an awareness that it had been many months since I passed a night in anyone’s home. Except for the weeks in Uncle Sweetshare’s cabin, I had rarely been alone, spending my sleeping hours in Legion barracks and at Thirsk. But those places were transient, somewhere to wait until moving on, soon or late.

So I found myself hanging up the damp furs that had kept out the worst of the cold and unbuckling my armor. When I stood in the quilted under-tunic, Lassnr handed me a wolf-fur robe and a mug of mulled cider. Waving me back to my seat, he busied himself with a pot, which gave off a wonderful aroma.

“It’s just fish stew,” he said apologetically. “Venison comes from Skyrim or Tamriel, so we don’t see much of it. And it has to be dried or frozen for shipping, anyway. But fish we have in plenty, and carrots and leeks travel well enough.”

He tossed some feathery green leaves into the mixture and gave it a gentle stir, then carried the pot to the table. As we ate, he spoke of his son and their life together in the village.

“His mother, bless her, taught him his letters, and he read every book he could find. Mostly, he liked stories of magic and lost treasures. He was never interested in being a hunter, like the rest of us. He only brought in enough furs to earn coin to send off for more books. Maybe if we had been able to give him brothers or sisters, things would have been different. But he’s a good boy for all that, and even if he’s not like me, he is still my son. But what about you? Do you have any family?”

And so I found myself telling this man who I hardly knew about growing up near Ald’ruhn with two sisters. He laughed when I described some of the elaborate pranks Mae and Cai had played on me, and smiled when I spoke of Mother and her garden. If he noticed that I did not mention Father, he kept it to himself. We settled into a comfortable silence, each lost in our own thoughts.

At last, Lassnr spoke quietly, his eyes on the jumping flames in the fireplace.

“We always hope our children will turn out better than we did. And we try to keep them from making the same mistakes. Sons have a hard way to go, trying to live up to their fathers. But you know, fathers have a rough path as well, trying to be everything their children think they ought- fair and strong and brave. Good night to you Athlain- and thank you for saving my son.”

He turned down the lamps and rolled himself in his furs, from whence there soon issued a gentle snoring. I tried to follow suit, but sleep would not come. As I tossed and turned, I recalled Tymvaul’s request that I “remove some items” from the house. Moving quietly, I arose and went to examine the bench and shelves where Tymvaul’s possessions were stored. What I found was chilling: a copy of Darkest Darkness, several human skulls, and a ghoul heart. Anyone with the slightest knowledge of magic would know these items indicated a study of necromancy. And I was also certain that I must get rid of this evidence.
While I considered how to do it, a voice spoke from behind me:

“I knew what Tymvaul was doing, but I feared driving him away, so I said nothing. But then, I’m about as magical as a lump of mud, anyway.”

It was Lassnr, who had obviously heard me moving around in the dim cabin. I should have realized that such an experienced hunter could move quietly at need. I turned to look at him and explained:

“We need to be rid of all this; it would not do for anyone to find it. The ingredients and the book can be burned, and I will place the skulls inside a barrow when I can. Tymvaul has taken a different road now, and he should be allowed to follow it.”

[mALX]

I always jump when he comes up behind him - scared what his intentions were, lol. (by always I mean I jumped when I read it before...didn't he put his hand on his shoulder before? Have you edited it to keep me from a heart attack this time? ROFL !! Awesome Write Treydog !!!!!

This post has been edited by mALX: Mar 20 2010, 04:16 PM

[Olen]

Yup, seconding the awesome write comment. I like the emotion there is in the story, it's so much more than just someone going on a quest, you give a feeling of the wider picture and deeper drives. I'm sure I've said it before but I've bough published books which didn't balance all these things nearly so well.

I also like the atmosphere the piece has. The melancholy is offset by a certain optimism which sits well with the other themes and actons.

Really great stuff

[SubRosa]

I always liked this chapter. I like any post that is about characters interacting rather than action (there goes my estrogen again). This one always shines for me because of the parallels between Lassner and Tymvaul, and Athlain and Father. This one part always stands out to me:

Sons have a hard way to go, trying to live up to their fathers. But you know, fathers have a rough path as well, trying to be everything their children think they ought- fair and strong and brave.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Mar 20 2010, 11:49 PM

[haute ecole rider]

I haven't commented before now, since I see you're not caught up to your thread over on the Unnamed Forum.

However I wanted to mention that I finally had time this week to catch up and read the entire Blood on the Moon from the beginning, and point out what a delightful story this is from the beginning! Now the chapters I have already read are so much richer!

Love this story and your characters even more than evah!

[treydog]

Thanks, everyone. I still have a couple of "old" installments to post here to complete this chapter. And I have the next Interlude written- I think. And then my posting schedule will resume its normal glacial pace.

After my late night conversation with Lassnr, I was able to sleep, untroubled by dreams or doubts for a few hours at least. When morning came, we dined on bread covered with honey, along with strips of meat the Nord hunter identified as horker. The flavor was strong, but not unpleasant, so I ate my fill. While I sipped a mug of cider, Lassnr fiddled with his pipe and gave every sign of having something say, but not quite knowing how to start. At last, I decided to help him:

“I have partaken of your hospitality, and guested in your home.” Then I dropped the formal phrases and said, “You aren’t going to offend me; please speak your mind.”

He drew on his pipe and then brought his clasped hands down on the table with a gentle thump.

“We always pay our debts,” he said abruptly. “Food and a place before the fire are simply the due of any traveler who is friendly. I know you did not save Tymvaul in hope of payment, yet payment is owed. I have some snow-bear pelts that I was saving; Brynjolfr down at Thirsk can make some good armor from
them, if you want.”

His face flushed with embarrassment and I understood his difficulty. He had just offered me the most valuable thing he possessed- and he was afraid it was not enough. If I refused the offer, it would shame him, make it appear that I thought he was destitute or unwilling to honor a debt. But even if I accepted, he would feel that he hadn’t paid enough. I searched for a solution that would keep his honor intact- something he would know to be valuable to me. A casual phrase from the previous night came back to me- Lassnr describing himself as “magical as a lump of mud.” There was the answer.

I went to my gear and handed him the bag containing the Mantle of Woe. He looked at me oddly but took it and did as I bid when I asked him to open it and tell me if he felt anything. With a bemused smile, he glanced at the robe and then back at me.

“Perhaps if you explained what you mean by ‘anything’? Because anow, all I feel is like a man holding a bag of someone’s washing.”

“That’s good- in fact, it’s perfect. That robe is evil, and its malign influence is what caused Tymvaul to… do the things he did. I need you to keep it safe until I can figure out how to be rid of it permanently. Will you do that? It might be dangerous- the robe has a way of drawing people to it.”

Lassnr frowned, but with determination rather than concern. “Yes, like those creatures that try to call sailors to their doom. I have just the thing- a box I picked up when I was a young man and went a-roving.”

He reached under his bunk and drew out what appeared to be a plain wooden chest, reinforced with iron straps and a lock. I looked at it doubtfully.

“Lassnr- that robe called Tymvaul all the way through 60 or 70 feet of ice and rock. I don’t see how a wooden trunk will help.”

He drew a key from around his neck and opened the lock, a smile on his face. “You are right. But this is no ordinary sea-chest.”

When he raised the lid, I saw that the interior surfaces were all covered with a dull grey metal. But what drew my gaze was the blue crystal that rested on the bottom of the box, radiating a light the color of a clear winter sky. It was the size of a large kwama egg and altogether beautiful.

Lassnr rapped the metal sheeting with a knuckle. “Lead. There were times when we needed to move things that the wizards would have given their eye-teeth to get. The captain, he had these chests made to keep anyone with a nose for magic from discovering our cargo- like that elf-stone.”

When I reached out a tentative hand, he nodded good-naturedly, and I touched the shining object. Despite the light it cast, it was cool to the touch and exuded a soothing magic. I reluctantly removed my hand and asked, “ ‘Elf-stone?’ “

Lassnr replied, “That’s what we called them. They come from the ruins where the old elves lived- and died- over on the mainland. Needless to say, it isn’t exactly legal to buy or sell them without an Imperial contract. But I don’t care for the magic, nor for the gold it might bring. The color reminds me of the ice of Skyrim- and of my Ragnild’s eyes. They were just that shade of blue, and seemed to shine just that way.”

He stopped speaking, and gazed into the depths of the crystal, back to a happier time. Then he shook himself and placed the Mantle of Woe inside the box, closing the lid and cutting off the tranquil glow. It was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. But I also realized that I could no longer “hear” the dark whispers of the robe.

Experimentally, I raised the lid- the Mantle’s influence seeped out and coiled inside my brain. I shut the lid, and the sensation ceased, cut off as if by a knife. I smiled at Lassnr and told him:

“If you can keep that robe locked inside the chest until I can dispose of it, I will be the one who owes you a debt- along with every other person who might be influenced by its evil magic.”

We shook hands and then I impulsively reached out and hugged the old man.

“Tymvaul will come back to you,” I promised. “How could he not?”

[SubRosa]

“Tymvaul will come back to you,” I promised. “How could he not?”

This is what stands out to me in this piece 'o chapter. Again, because of the similarities between the pairs of fathers and sons. Of course Athlain would not sense the symmetry, at least not yet. But it is delicious nonetheless.

[Destri Melarg]

As I stated the first time I read this chapter, I love Athlain's understanding of the concept of the 'burden of obligation' (giri to the Japanese). His ability to find a way for Tymvaul to show his gratitude that allows him to keep face is almost chivalrous.