WarWizzen

By GJ Kelly

Yarmian Eventyde, emotionally numb and still in shock after losing the two loves and ten years of his life on Greenwater Island, receives a request for help from the man in Farakand, Ranquin Dutt. Leaving Coldharbor and his friend, Sumner, the only man who truly understands what happened to Yarmian, the Wizzen takes ship to Farakand.

There, Yarmian learns from Dutt that a warlord is rising in the far eastern wilds of Jumtuk, and that four neighouring lands are living under the threat of possible attack by the Warlord of Tuksmount and his barbarian horde. Worse, Ranquin Dutt believes the warlord is in fact a Wizzen... a WarWizzen of old drawing an army of thugs, brutes, and criminals to his fort atop Tuksmount.

The Isle of Sinnock, and its new Philostrate, Kurster, refuse to act on what they consider to be mere rumours, and will not involve themselves in what is, they say, a civil matter for the militaries of those four east coast nations to settle for themselves. No Wizzens will be sent, in spite of the fact that spies and an expeditionary force sent out to investigate Tuksmount have failed to return...

Yarmian immediately agrees to Dutt's request that he venture out into the wilds to discover the truth about Tuksmount, and in company with the business mogul's two biggest and best bodyguards, he sets off on what should be a simple journey across seventy-five miles of uninhabited wilderness.

Alas, poor Yarmian... it's neither.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GJ Kelly
• Release date: Oct 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215388341

GJ Kelly

GJ Kelly was born near the white cliffs of Dover, England, in 1960. He spent a significant part of his early life in various parts of the world, including the Far East, Middle East, the South Atlantic, and West Africa. Later life has seen him venture to the USA, New Zealand, Europe, and Ireland. He began writing while still at school, where he was president of the Debating Society and won the Robb Trophy for public speaking. He combined his writing with his technical skills as a professional Technical Author and later as an internal communications specialist. His first novel was "A Country Fly" and he is currently writing a new Fantasy title.He engages with readers and answers questions at:http://www.goodreads.com/GJKelly and also at https://www.patreon.com/GJ_Kelly

Book preview

Prologue

I am Yarmian Eventyde! I cried above the crackling fires and screams of enraged villagers. Come meet your fate, WarWizzen!

Yours shall be death, Cloisterling! came the retort, the voice mystically-enhanced and booming.

No Cloisterling me, you old fool! I taunted. Can you not see the Robe I wear!

And I opened the Izengate, and unleashed not one but four of the most intense Izenballs in rapid succession, pounding him backwards.

Then I started angling towards the southeast, aiming for the riverbank; for reasons I couldn’t explain, I felt that having the river at my back would be an advantage. Perhaps it was just because it meant there would be a large expanse of open land around me there.

Why then do you run, coward!

You wanted a Robe to be sent, well here I am!

oOo

1. A Leaden Lump

I’ll be leaving soon, Sumner, I declared, admittedly rather abruptly.

When?

A couple of days. Well… the day after tomorrow, actually. I’ve had word from a friend in Farakand, he seems anxious to speak with me.

Farakand? You’ve been there before?

Yes, once, a few… well, years ago now, I suppose.

He nodded, perhaps a little sadly, and we continued eating at his kitchen table in silence.

Spring was warming into summer, and I’d been ensconced in Dinnis Sumner’s spare room here in his little house in Coldharbor for some time now. How long? It’d been April when I’d arrived back in the city and hammered on his door, ten years after he and I had both ventured to Greenwater Lake. It was June tomorrow, and yes, Peregrine Mallard, the birdmaster from Ranquin Dutt’s messenger’s office, had sent a runner to me with a note from Dutt himself. After ten years of silence, Dutt still remembered me. Now, for the first time since I’d availed myself of the business mogul’s network, he had asked for my help, and for me to meet with him.

Of course I had replied in the affirmative, and Mallard had advised me that one of Dutt’s ships, the Pemmelaar, would be leaving Coldharbor for Farakand on June 2nd. Thus it would be exactly a day short of thirteen years since my leaving home in Dulluston, after Albionus had been murdered.

Thirteen years… The mirror (in the bathhouse at The Blind Peddler Inn, Sumner had no bathhouse of his own) had revealed my face looking no different than it had when Sylvee of Corf had pressed my head up against the mirror in her cabin aboard the Idalina, the day I’d left home.

Thirteen years since I bade farewell to my small gang of boyhood friends and drinking mates, sharing a last pie and a pint with them at The Peacock’s Feather. I had no idea what life had served up for them since that day thirteen years ago, and I probably never would; I very much doubted I would ever see Dulluston, or my old friends, again.

This little house won’t be the same without you, Ventine, Sumner sighed. I’ve grown used to having company. Will we have a last drink at the Peddler’s together, before you go?

No… no I don’t think so, Sumner. I still can’t trust myself with ale, or anything else even remotely potent for that matter. And that was true, too; my heart had been twice-broken, robbed of one love by Marragus, the greenwood entity, and robbed of another by him and the passage of time he’d inflicted upon me.

Maybe, Sumner declared, a little too hopefully perhaps, Maybe someday you’ll be able to remember the joys you shared on the island in the lake, instead o’ the pain and loss. Maybe.

Do you? Do you remember your Ginny with joy, or do you still feel that it was the cruellest of things, to be given a false life, a false marriage, and all that time together, only to have it snatched from you, and all for the entertainment of some ancient, nebulous, and indomitable entity?

"Aye, it is a cruel thing… a cruel thing, for certain sure. But in my mind, Ventine, it was real. It was all real. Every moment with her was real, and I remember them all now. I remember the life I could have had, but never did."

I know. And I did.

After another small silence, the meal finished and the pair of us staring at our memories in the middle distance, Sumner sighed aloud again and asked:

Will you take your books with you?

No. I’ve no need of them now. Oh, I might take the Crandallyne book on Lessers. And maybe the book on the care of mules, just for sentimental reasons.

Do you mean to give up Wizzenry, then?

"No. But ten years on the lake? That wretched cruel creature gave you the knowledge of panning for gold. To me he gave the full knowledge of the third book, the Theoratus. I don’t need the books any more. My old master once told me, if you understand the rules of Beldanian, you can make it up as you go along. Marragus taught me how to do just that. He taught me all I’ll ever need."

"Except how to do voices, eh? Unless your old master really did sound like a cross between a Muthian and a Jumtuk river pirate."

I managed a smile, sort of. Sumner had tried his best to cheer me up over the past weeks, but well, I really didn’t feel like being cheered up. Not that I was miserable, angry, or moody or anything. I just felt… numb. Empty. Bereft of emotion. It’s why I was steering clear of beers and wines and anything else, in case I lost my mind in drink and incinerated the world around me. I suppose it was a good thing, this numbness, a combination of shock at the loss of ten years, and a heart twice broken in a single day…

Will you see her?

You mean Dayna Reyalis? No. She probably thinks I’m dead, and it’s probably best that way. She has her husband and children now, and her own house and workshop. She has all she ever dreamed of. I won’t ruin it for her.

I didn’t mean will you speak to her, Ventine, I meant… well, will you go and see her, like you did before?

Creeping around like a night-lurk hoping to catch a glimpse of her, you mean? No. Once was enough. I saw her in her garden, with her husband and her children, and I heard their laughter. It’s enough for me to know she’s happy. I won’t risk her seeing me, and ruining that happiness. I’ll leave here at night, and head for the docks when it’s dark.

Like a night-lurk.

Yes. It’s why I’ve not been out and about very much, as you well know. Not that I know many people in Coldharbor who’d recognise me, but I don’t want to have to try to explain my absence to anyone. I’m tired of telling lies, even if they are for my own protection.

Aye, I know. So then, it’s off to Farakand you’ll go. And it’s into my books of fabletales I’ll return, and sit in my little garden, and dream. I’ll say cheerio to Orbury for you at the Peddler’s if you like?

Yes. You’ll have Sunday dinner there as usual?

Aye, I shall. You needn’t worry for me, Ventine. I’ll not backslide into the beer, such as it is at the Peddler’s, not like before. Not now I remember everything, and understand what happened to me. All the holes in my head are filled in now, and I don’t want to drown precious memories in beers and ales, not now they’re all back again.

In truth, apart from the occasional bottle of beer in the evenings, Sumner had abstained, relatively speaking, given the reputation he’d had as a drinker when I’d first met the man. Oh he still visited The Blind Peddler for a laugh with Orbury now and again, and had his Sunday meal there every week, and I’d joined him on a couple of occasions too. But also in truth, I felt a little uncomfortable at the inn now; Orbury had commented on how I hadn’t aged a day, even after ten years away, and of course no-one bar Sumner knew that I was a Wizzen, and I wanted to keep it that way.

When the table was cleared and the dishes done, Dinnis Sumner and I retired to the garden at the back of the house, sitting in the shade and listening to evening birdsong. It was quiet, and peaceful, and I understood why the old fellow (who really did look older to my eyes now) had wanted to end his days in these pleasant surrounds.

He put me in mind of Albionus, who’d often sat in his old rocking chair outdoors in weather like this, hands clasped over his chest, eyes closed, smiling at memories of other evenings spent in warm and gentle company perhaps, and untroubled by the world. Time, I think, was catching up with Sumner, whose early years as a Temparus had seen him outlive his old friends too, or so he’d said during our many conversations about what had happened on the island in the lake.

And me? I wasn’t ready for a rocking chair and after-dinner snoozing, not yet, not by a long shot. I still had plenty of work to do, and I still intended to put my full knowledge and understanding of the third book to good use; Marragus had taught me well, one way or another, and The Black Rose, and others, had it coming…

Will you be back this way, one day?

Hmm? To Coldharbor, you mean?

Aye.

I honestly don’t know. I’ve no idea what my friend in Farakand wants of me. I owe him a favour or two, and he has businesses scattered all over Carpidia.

Well, you’ll find a welcome here in my house Ventine, should you ever head back to Coldharbor and have need of a room. You know that, don’t you?

Thanks, Dinnis. I appreciate it.

And you needn’t worry about me tellin’ anyone anything. About Greenwater, or about Wizzenry, or you.

I know.

Aye, I think ye do at that.

Do you ever wonder how Norman’s getting on?

Eh? The mule you named?

Yes.

Sold ‘im back to Mule-man Rebby. I don’t expect anyone ever called ‘im Norman after that.

Shame. He was a good mule, and sharp as a new pin.

Aye, yer right Ventine, that he was. Y’know, I’d often wake up of a morning and crawl out the tent, and find Norman stood on the shore o’ the lake, staring out across the mist at the island, ears pricked. It was like… it was like he knew you were out there somewhere, and he was looking, and listening for you. D’you ever think of going back?

To Greenwater?

Aye.

No. Why in sight o’ the sun would I?

To burn the farkin’ island to ashes, you being a Wizzen and all, and likely a Robe too now, from what you told me.

Oh, I’d thought about it, believe me… But…

"What would be the point? The entity, Marragus, told me that the greenwood trees are scattered everywhere around Carpidia, and he’s connected to all of them. I can’t even be sure I was on the island in the lake all that time. Ten years disappeared, and me only aware of one or two of them… or at least that’s all I remember. You were gone a long time, too, when the entity snared you."

Aye, so they all said in Up’ton when I got back.

"Dinnis, for all we know, that fudknucklin’ greenwood boat dragged each of us down a long dark tunnel to some fabled land somewhere… or somewhen. How are we to know? For me, it was an island in a vast ocean. For you, it was a village in the woods beside a shallow river, where you panned for gold and lived with Ginny Pitkin. It might not have been the island in Greenwater Lake at all. That thing was old, and more powerful than all the Wizzens in the world."

Reckon we’ll neither of us ever know, then. For sure, I ain’t going back.

Me neither.

And there we sat, in a kind of comfortable silence, each of us alone with our thoughts and memories, while the sun slowly sank in the west.

Go back to Greenwater? No. I knew it would be pointless. I knew the entity dwelling there, if indeed it did dwell there, would not welcome me. Besides, what could I do against such a nebulous creature? Absolutely nothing. It had utterly humbled me, and I knew that for as long as there were greenwood trees somewhere in this world, there too would it be, watching, listening, and occasionally snatching people away for its own entertainment.

I had as much chance of putting an end to that indomitable creature as I had of turning an incoming tide by throwing peas at it.

Yes, I had learned much in all the years of its tutelage, and no, I didn’t need my once-precious books any more. Those I’d leave here in Sumner’s care, and who knows, maybe one day I might return for them. But I doubted it. I had lost the stick Albionus had made for me, the half-staff destroyed by that bastard Inquisitor, Beardy. I still had the old pocket knife my step-father had gifted me, and the black onyx ring too. It wasn’t as if I needed to cling on to the Temparus Temporarium in memory of him.

Besides, I had fifteen (or was it sixteen?) years of memories with Albionus, and all his lessons to guide me through my future. There was as much chance of me forgetting Albionus as there was of me forgetting how Sylvee and I had lived and loved together on an island in a vast ocean... even though in reality, we hadn’t. Perhaps Sumner was right, and one day, years from now, I’d remember the ‘life’ the Greenwater entity had given me with fondness. But not today.

Today, as every day for the last few weeks since my return to the real world, I felt numb, my heart a leaden lump in my chest incapable now of feeling. And yes, that, I’d decided, was a good thing, because feeling nothing was better than enduring the agonies I’d suffered that first night back here in Coldharbor, when I’d discovered from Dutt’s messenger that Dinny Sumner hadn’t lied to me, and that I really had been gone from the world for ten long years…

But yet, I’d felt something when the young runner had come with a message from Peregrine Mallard, and I’d read it, and replied, giving the lad a few pennies for his trouble. Reading the words on the page had triggered a feeling, out of the blue, unexpected, a frisson to enervate, albeit briefly, that leaden lump in my chest: surprise.

I had promised the old birdmaster I’d return to his office at a respectable hour, that first night back in Coldharbor when my insistent pounding on his door had roused him from slumber. And I had gone back too, the next day, apologising once again for having disturbed his peace with my urgent enquiry about the disposition of Tiresian’s ship, the Idalina. He was a good man, was Mallard, and loyal to ‘our mutual friend in Farakand’, and he’d asked no questions, simply taking at face value the coin dangling from my left wrist which identified me as an officer of Dutt’s organisation.

To Ranquin Dutt himself I’d sent a message, apologising for my lengthy silence, a decade long as it had been, and assuring my benefactor of my continued interest in his wellbeing. I’d received a prompt reply (as prompt as the distance between Coldharbor and Farakand provided, some two hundred and sixty-five miles as the pigeon flies) expressing his delight at hearing from his ‘trusted officer’, which indicated to me (and the birdmaster) that I might still avail myself of his considerable network of informants.

Hence my surprise when today I received his request for my help and his desire to speak to me in person. I couldn’t imagine why a man as wealthy and as powerful as Ranquin Dutt might need a Wizzen, but nor could I imagine refusing to aid him after all the times his network had been of service to me; simply discovering from Mallard that the Idalina was still afloat and under the command of its owner and captain, Tiresian, had been sufficient reward to ensure that I’d take the next available ship to Farakand.

In the morning, I’d count the wooden ‘Corky-coins’ I still possessed, make a little money, and stock up on travelling essentials like beefsticks and new clothes. I already had new boots, and master-made at that; ten years had taken their toll on my old ones and it was with sorrow I had finally committed them to the bin as beyond economical repair. Strange thing: the leather on those old Thellesene boots looked to have been corroded by years of exposure to salt water…

A new backpack, a smaller one this time, was also on my mental shopping list, since my bulky and heavy books would no longer be accompanying my journeys. Maybe if I could feel something, anything at all, I might feel a pang of nostalgia and sentimentality on leaving them behind, the Temparus containing as it did the scratchy handwriting of Albionus Eventyde, the only father I’d ever known.

Yet, if I lived as long as he had, the books would doubtless not survive the years along with me. And if I didn’t live beyond whatever need had seen Ranquin Dutt ask for my assistance, then the books wouldn’t matter anyway. Besides, I knew their content by heart.

I was, I decided, ready to leave Coldharbor behind me. Anywhere was preferable to sitting like a cuckoo in Sumner’s house, wallowing in numb detachment for the lives that that been stolen from me and the shock of a ten-year absence. Time to consign it all to history, and to move forward, and to chalk it all up to experience, as Porky Norm might say of any unpleasant event in his life.

Experience? Lived knowledge. What had I learned? Many new techniques, weapons, improvisation, and control of the Izen all around me. But perhaps most importantly of all, and in spite of all that, I had learned that I was neither invincible nor immortal, and that wherever I might travel in this life, there would always be something, somewhere, far more powerful and far more dangerous than I was.

Which, while a sobering thought and one that might hopefully temper the brashness of my youth, was also bloody annoying. Oh! Look! Annoyance! Perhaps I could still feel things after all…

oOo

2. Older and Wiser

Shopping for the items I wanted didn’t take very long, and occupied but a couple of hours of Tuesday morning, June 1st. Packing the new small backpack didn’t take very long either. My inventory of belongings made for a short list, and most of my possessions were in my pockets or worn about me; at least the more important things were. I still had the green stone fishhook given to me in Dulluston, but that was in the bottom of a pocket on the side of the backpack, spare socks and a couple of hankies stuffed on top of it.

And yes, I still wore the flamewood pendant made especially for me, though it was old now and I’d had to replace the original thong Dayna Reyalis had fitted to it when she’d placed it around my neck. I didn’t think I’d ever need reminding, but every time I caught sight of that pendant and the flamewood’s shimmering sheen, it put me in mind of Marragus, the island, and of course Sylvee. I thought it was important that something of mine should bear silent witness to the ten years of my life that were lost and gone forever. Hopefully it really would serve to temper any future rash decisions on my part.

It occurred to me that the brashness of youth no longer really applied to me. Nobody in Dulluston had known my real age when I’d wandered off a barge down at the docks and been found wailing in the street… Albionus’ voice came floating back through my memories…

No-one had a clue how old you were, back when you were chucked off that boat. Could’ve been a big three or a small five or six. Mayor suggested cutting the top of yer ‘ead off to count the rings, but I couldn’t be arsed, and so we split the difference and we all just decided you were four.

And I remembered my astonished response, too…

You mean I could be twenty-one already! I could be twenty-one already and old enough to apply to study at the Isle of Sinnock!

Albionus had folded his hands across his chest, and let out a long, sad sigh, which had seen his moustache stir in the breeze of it.

Old enough, possibly, he’d conceded. Good enough? Not yet.

Well, I was bloody good enough now to teach those on the Isle of Sinnock a thing or two, and ultimately, that was my intention. But no, the brashness of youth was probably not an adjectival clause appropriate to describe the actions of a Wizzen who might in point of fact be thirty-four years old. Or thirty-one. Maybe I should just split the difference and call myself thirty, who would know?

But first, I needed to finish packing, get to Farakand, and find out what it was that had troubled my benefactor’s peace. The two books I’d decided to keep with me were slender volumes and went into the bottom of the pack to help keep its shape, and on top of them went my folded spare clothes (and they were lightweight summer garb now the seasons had changed). I had plenty of Corky-coins in a small bag, and some real ones bundled up in a hanky and stuffed in that bag together with the wooden ones.

Other ‘luxury items’ included a bar of soap wrapped in waxed paper, a thin waterproof cape and over-trousers neatly rolled up together, spare boots tied to the bottom of the pack alongside the Arpane long-knife which wouldn’t fit inside the backpack with the flap closed. I’d toyed with the idea of packing the old brass knuckles I’d won in a game of dice back in Dulluston, but decided that they’d lived in my pocket for so long a time now they should probably continue to rest there in peace, together with my not-so-peaceful pink quartz crystal.

When I stepped back from my bed and eyed the pack, running through my list in my head, I realised that by far the bulkiest of the contents were bundles of beefsticks in a large paper bag, and a new canteen of fresh water. Not much to show for the thirteen years since leaving home. But then, I’m a Master Wizzen. Apart from my stick, what more did I need? And not to brag, but there’d been times when I’d been able to use my own bones in place of a staff, and very effectively at that, much to the (short-lived) surprise of those who’d made themselves enemies of mine.

I was packed and ready to leave, and it wasn’t yet noon. I’d made arrangements via Peregrine Mallard to board the Pemmelaar after dark tonight, and the captain and crew weren’t expecting me until well after sunset (which at this time of year was after nine o’ the evening dial). Sumner was out, buying meat for what he called a last dinner before I left. With very little to do now but wait, I scanned the room, checked the empty drawers and wardrobe, stripped the bed, and made sure I left everything neat and tidy. After that, I took my pack downstairs and left it in the living-room, and took myself out into the back garden to sit in the shade of a canvas canopy.

I found my own sense of detachment a little confusing, really. I understood on an intellectual level that my return from Greenwater had been shocking. I also understood likewise that the shock of my heart being twice-broken, and in a single night at that, would combine with my utter disbelief at having been away for an entire decade to produce this numb, dead-inside coldness. But at the back of my mind was the niggling worry that one day soon I might simply collapse in on myself like a failed Sphere of Bombast, with equally catastrophic results.

There was also a deep-seated suspicion that the greenwood entity was somehow responsible for this chilling absence of strong emotions, and that maybe the bastard had done something more to me than simply teach me the ways of a Master of the Beldane Robe. Maybe it’d been Marragus who’d somehow created a kind of buffer between me and the outside world, to prevent my shock and bereavement resulting in calamity for those around me when the emotional dam burst.

Bereavement? Yes, that’s what it’d been like for me. My life with Sylvee was over; she had effectively died on that island we’d shared. My life with Dayna was over before it had a chance to blossom beyond love’s first passions, and though she yet lived, here in Coldharbor with her husband and children, it was I who was effectively dead to her.

Sitting there in the sunshine of the first day of June, waiting for nightfall and my departure from the city-state of Coldharbor, I could rationalise everything that had happened to me and explain away this feeling of anaesthesia. The mind, I knew from experience, can very easily shut down and deny reality, and build great invisible dams or walls to protect a fragile ego from horrors which might otherwise drive it mad. Hadn’t Kibber done just that, back in Muthia?

I didn’t think I was turning into a heartless loony-man, but it felt to me as though my little teapot song was permanently, silently, running through my head, keeping me in this detached calm state, for the preservation and safety of all those around me. So be it. Yet, the suspicion that the entity Marragus might have something, if not everything, to do with it, was unsettling. I knew what he wanted me to do. He wanted me to do the right thing, up there on the Isle of Sinnock… I heard the entity’s voice in my head, clear as a bell:

Today’s Beldane Council bears no resemblance to that of those halcyon days. Today’s Council is an offence against the original ideals of Wizzenry, as codified in those green and salad days when the Isle of Sinnock became a civilising force for righteousness. They are an offence against Wizzenry, and Albionus named you Yarmian for a reason. Do you understand now, the nature of all your training? Do you see at last what it was Albionus hoped for you to do? Do you not see now the right thing he hoped you would do in his stead? Hmm?

Oh yes, I saw, and knew what the entity wanted me to do. He may as well have painted a target on the entire Isle of Sinnock and loosed me at it as an arrow from a bow…

Why?

Oh yes, I had business with three of the MBRs on the Isle. Kurster, Arrapthane, and Norridus. And I knew all about them, thanks to Marragus; had he not taught me their strengths and weaknesses, their deeds and misdeeds, and how they were all an offence against Wizzenry? He certainly had. And for why had he done so? For to assist me in my act of vengeance for my father, Albionus Eventyde.

But why?

There was only one answer I could think of, the reason for the all-powerful, indomitable creature that was the greenwood entity to wish to arm me so effectively against the Isle of Sinnock. It served his purpose. It served his purpose to have me destroy the Beldane Council in its entirety. And though yes, it would doubtless prove entertaining for the nebulous creature to witness the demise of Sinnock, I’m older now, and wiser than I had been when first I’d been snared by the creature and dragged into his realm in that wretched little greenwood rowing boat.

You simply cannot trust a creature as old and as powerful as Marragus not to be insane.

Ah there you are! Hello annoying little voice in my head. Where’ve you been?

I’m back! Oh! There you are, Ventine. I’m back.

So I see, Sumner.

Got us a big already-roasted chicken, just needs warming up. Got a loaf of fresh bread too, so’s you can stick some roast chicken sarnies in your pack in case you get peckish aboard ship tonight. There’s salad veggies too, and mustard.

You shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble on my account.

No trouble. Asides o’ which, you insisted on paying rent fer the room, and since my house is mine bought and paid for, I didn’t need the money, so I spent it on food for a last dinner. Can’t be sending you off to faraway Farakand with nought but a pat on the back and an empty belly.

It’s decent of you, Dinnis. Thank you.

Nah, don’t mention it.

Sumner sighed when he took his seat under the canopy, squirming a little to get comfortable, and habit saw him tilting his old hat back on his head.

Reckon it’ll take a while then? To sail to Farakand, I mean? I only ever took boats up and down rivers, and that one ship as brought me here from Narrespoint all them years ago.

"No, it won’t take long. Winds will still be fair at this time of year. It’s July that the mariners find annoying, with its very light winds and frequent becalmings. If the winds stay fair and the ship can maintain a steady four miles an hour, it’ll take three days to get to Farakand. But, as an old seafaring friend of mine once told me, simple mathematics means bugger-all to the wind. Means nothing to pirates either, and there’s more of them to be expected the further north you go."

Muthian yokel too, was he?

!

No, he was from Garroon. Maybe one day I’ll be able to do the voices.

There was a quiet pause, before Sumner suddenly asked:

Will you do one last thing for me, Eyan? I know it’ll sound daft to yer ears…

What is it?

Will you send a bird, a message, when you get to Farakand? Just so I know ye got there safe and sound. After you disappearing on the island in the lake… I’d just like to know you got to Farakand safe and sound.

If it’ll give you some peace of mind, Dinny, then yes I shall.

It’s just… well, ye never know. Most ships are built in Ereston, with timbers from the great forests there, and well, maybe… He tailed off, and shrugged.

Maybe a greenwood beam or two might slip through their mills?

He shrugged again, and I heard the entity’s voice whispering through the canvas above our heads… The seeds of these trees travel far, by wind and by bird, and where they grow, there you’ll find my eyes and my ears… it is… entertaining for me…

I’ll send a message by bird, Dinny. When I get to Farakand.

Ta.

No need to reply, either. I don’t know how long I’ll be staying in Farakand, or where I’ll go next. If my friend up there needs me to go off looking for a lost ship or something, well…

Nah, no need to fret none about that, I shan’t be replying. It’s just so I know you got there safe, and the farkin’ ship didn’t carry you off like that stinkin’ greenwood rowboat.

I nodded, and understood. The old prospector, a former Temparus in decades gone by, and me… well, together we shared a common bond, after all. We’d both of us been entertainment for the entity, and those experiences would doubtless leave indelible scars on both our minds. Neither of us would ever be able to speak about our experiences at Greenwater to anyone else but each other; no-one else would ever believe it, and would think us both mad, and Kibber-mad at that.

So there we sat, the two of us Greenwater survivors, talking quietly, and probably for the very last time, about our experiences while held in thrall to the entity, wondering at the apparent senselessness of it all. We ended up deciding that the nebulous creature was insane after endless eons of loneliness, perhaps sleeping and then waking up from time to time to create little worlds of its own. Worlds that it populated with characters plucked from the minds of foolish trespassers who stepped into the cunning snare of that shimmering greenwood rowboat.

Later, with the sun on the wane, we shared that last meal of roast chicken and salad together, there at Dinnis Sumner’s kitchen table, in the little house in Coldharbor that had always been his dream; a dream made a reality thanks to the lessons in finding gold taught to him by the creature who’d found each of us so entertaining for a moment or two of its timeless existence. And yes, from time to time, our eyes strayed to the table itself, uncovered as it was by any kind of tablecloth, and we did so because we both of us knew that neither one of us could ever entirely trust wood again…

Later still, when the sun went down and shadows grew long before merging into darkness, I rose from the chair in the living-room, donned my pack, and picked up my stick.

Well, Dinnis. It’s time I made a move.

Aye so, Eyan, he sighed, pushing himself out of his comfortable chair. And this time o’ night, you won’t have to worry none about old Hurmen Heavyhand or his idiot son seeing you and maybe recognising you down at the docks.

I must have made quite the impression on them. You said none of ‘em ever troubled Dayna Reyalis again?

No, they never did. And don’t you worry, I’ll keep an eye on the lady and her two young boys, from time to time.

Thanks, I nodded, and held out my hand. Thanks for everything, Dinnis. Be well, my friend, and I won’t forget to send word of my safe arrival.

Sumner took my hand, and shook it warmly, and then he embraced me, and I him, and he slapped me on the arm when we pulled away.

"You go careful now, good master Ventine. This friend o’ yours in Farakand is as rich as you say he is, then whatever troubles he has as needs your aid, will be troubles enough indeed."

I know. But I’m used to it, Dinny. I was told a long time ago, trouble comes to me like flies to shite, and I don’t think this time will be any different.

oOo

3. Memories and Fabletales

I was entirely untroubled on my walk to the docks, not even by bored ladies of the night standing in the shadows outside their brothels down scumbuggery way. Perhaps in the dark I might have looked like a penniless sailor headed back to his ship after a run ashore, or perhaps there was an air about me which saw them holding their tongues. More likely, they were just tired, it was late, and I was striding with purpose towards the wharf.

I knew I should feel sorry to leave Coldharbor behind me; I’d had such dreams of spending a life with Dayna Reyalis here, after all. But dreams were all they were now, and history. What was it Albionus had said? The past is gone, wrapped in the funereal shroud of memory, and the future may never happen. Live your