Lawrence Watt-Evans: Relics of War

“No, of course not. I know about Uncle Gror and Great-Aunt Sirina.”

Those two family legends were hard to avoid. Their mother’s eldest brother had served in a dragon’s company in the Great War, and had a scale the dragon had shed to prove it, a shiny dark green scale the size of a dinner plate; he had brought it out and shown it to them when he had visited several years ago. As for mizagars, their paternal grandfather had seen his older sister devoured by a mizagar when they were children, and the story, with all its gruesome details, had been retold many times.

“But that was a long time ago,” Ishta added, “and it wasn’t around here.”

Garander sighed with exasperation. “That doesn’t mean there aren’t any here!” he said.

“I’ve never seen any,” Ishta insisted.

But then they were at the door of the house, and there was no time to worry about a reply. Garander opened the door, wiped his feet on the mat, and stepped into the kitchen.

Their mother and sister, Shella of the Green Eyes and Shella the Younger, were standing by the big iron stove, taking turns scooping something from a steaming pot into clay jars. The air in the room was warm and damp and smelled of cooked apples.

“ Hai ,” the elder Shella said, without taking her eyes off her ladle. “Stay back, this is hot.”

Their sister threw them a quick glance, then returned to her work.

“Is Father around?” Garander asked.

“He’s in the smokehouse, I think,” their mother said. “Did you get the hay stored?”

“Yes,” Garander said. “The loft’s only about two-thirds full, though.” The family should have enough food for the winter, but some of their livestock might not be quite as fortunate.

“That should probably be enough,” she said, as she put down her ladle and clapped a lid onto the jar she had just filled. She swung the steel band over the top and pressed down hard, putting most of her weight on it, until she was able to hook the loop and seal the jar.

Garander was not entirely sure whether her comment had been about the hay supply or the jar of apple preserves, but it didn’t much matter. “Come on,” he told Ishta.

A moment later they were at the smokehouse, where their father had just finished hanging the remains of a butchered hog. He turned when they entered, wiping sweat from his face with a dirty handkerchief. “Done with the hay?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Garander said. “Ah…Ishta found something.”

“What kind of thing?” Grondar asked.

Wordlessly, Ishta held it out.

Grondar leaned over to stare at it. “What in the World is that?” he demanded.

Garander glanced at Ishta, but she seemed frozen in place, displaying the glowing object. “We don’t know,” he said. “Ishta found it.”

Grondar looked up from the mysterious thing at his son’s face. “It must be magic,” he said.

“We thought so,” Garander agreed.

“It might be valuable,” his father said.

“Or dangerous,” Garander said.

“Or both.” Grondar frowned. Garander noticed that he made no move to touch the thing. “We’ll want to have a magician look at it.”

“I could take it to Rulura tomorrow,” Garander suggested.

Grondar grimaced. “That doesn’t look like witchcraft to me,” he said. “They go in more for herbs and potions.”

“I know, but she might be able to tell us what kind of magic it is, even if it isn’t witchcraft.”

“Why would a witch know anything about other magic?” Grondar replied. “No, I think we should send it to the baron, and let his magicians figure it out.”

Garander’s insides seemed to tighten. “The baron?”

His father looked him in the eye. “I’m not making any secret of my loyalties, son. We’re north of the river, and as far as I’m concerned, that makes us Sardironese.”

“Some of the neighbors-”

Grondar cut him off. “Some of our neighbors are fools,” he said. “Ethshar of the Sands is fifty leagues from here.”

“And Sardiron of the Waters is thirty!”

“Which is much less than fifty, and the Baron of Varag’s stronghold is only five, which makes it the closest place you’re likely to find real magicians. Besides, it won’t hurt us to treat Lord Dakkar with respect. Tomorrow you’ll take that thing to Varag and let the baron’s magicians take a look at it.”

“ Me ?”

“Yes, you.”

“But Ishta found it!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, boy. I can’t send a little girl to Varag by herself. You’ll take it and see what the baron’s people make of it.”

Garander looked helplessly at Ishta, who was still standing there, holding the magical object out. She looked miserable, but said nothing.

“Can I bring Ishta with me?” Garander asked. “I’m sure she’d like to see the baron’s court, and she is the one who found it.”

Grondar shook his head. “No, she’d slow you down, and it wouldn’t be safe, taking a girl her age. Besides, I can spare one of you from your chores, but not both. You’ll go alone, right after breakfast.”

Garander looked from his father to his sister and back, but saw no help in either of them-Grondar had made his decision, and Ishta was not going to argue. His shoulders sagged.

“After breakfast,” he said.

The magical thing was tucked in a leather pouch, inside a wooden box, inside a leather bag, which Garander then stuffed into a traveling pack, along with a change of clothing, a waterskin, and a parcel of bread. He had his knife on his belt, and a purse with six bits in copper and five in iron-the sum total of his savings. Preparations made, he sat down to breakfast with his mother and sisters.

“I wish I was going,” Shella the Younger said, as she cut herself a slice of ham.

Garander made a noise.

“When you get back you’ll have to tell me what the ladies of the baron’s household are wearing,” she continued.

“Don’t get any fancy ideas,” their mother said, before Garander could respond. “We can’t afford silks and velvet.”

“I know, but are they cutting their sleeves full or tight? Are they wearing veils? Do their hats have brims, if they wear hats at all? Just because we’re out here on the edge of civilization doesn’t mean we can’t try to look fashionable!”

“It does mean we don’t need to worry about it,” her mother retorted. “Oh, I don’t suppose it will do any harm to know what’s in style; you can spend all winter sewing new clothes that will be out of fashion by spring.”

“Do styles change that fast?” Shella asked.

“Well…sometimes,” her mother replied. She glanced at her youngest. “You’re being quiet this morning, Ishta.”

Ishta pointedly said nothing, but glared at her brother.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Garander protested.

“It’s mine ,” Ishta said. “I found it.”

“I know!” Garander said. “I’ll give it back to you as soon as I can.”

“The baron may not allow that,” their mother remarked.

Garander glowered at her. “You aren’t helping,” he said.

“I’m just speaking the truth!”

“It’s still not helping.” He turned to Ishta. “I’m really sorry about this, but Father’s right-it’s too dangerous for a girl your age.”

“I don’t see why we need to take it to the baron at all,” Ishta said. “We should at least ask Rulura.”

“Father doesn’t think Rulura knows anything about any magic that isn’t witchcraft.”

“She might.”

Garander turned up an empty palm. “He doesn’t think so.”

“If he really wants to find magicians,” Shella the Younger said, “he should send you to Ethshar. They have dozens of magicians there. Probably hundreds.”