Lawrence Watt-Evans - Relics of War

But he said none of this aloud. It wasn’t any of the innkeeper’s business, and Azlia had already made plain through her silence that she was not going to help him get Ishta’s talisman back. She said nothing about the talisman when she bade him good night and left.

He spent the night curled back to back with a wool merchant in one of the inn’s cheapest beds-apparently the wizard’s generosity had not extended to anything better. He did not sleep well, and at dawn he rose, careful to not wake the merchant, resolved to do what he could on his sister’s behalf. He gathered his things, brushed off his clothes, waved farewell to the innkeeper, and slipped out the front door into the morning mist.

He made his way back up the hill to the baron’s house, moving slowly and uncertainly. He could not bring himself to simply walk home without making at least one more try to recover Ishta’s magical device, but he had no clear idea of how he could convince the baron to return it. He had hoped some brilliant inspiration would strike, but none did.

The guard at the door was not anyone he had seen the day before; presumably this was the man who had the early shift. It took a moment before Garander could get up his nerve to tell him, “I need to speak to one of the magicians-Azlia or Sammel.”

The guard looked him over from head to toe, then asked, “Are they expecting you?”

“No, but we spoke yesterday. They have something that…well, really, I suppose the baron has it, but I need it back.”

“The baron has it? Lord Dakkar?”

“Yes. At least, that’s what they told me.”

“And what is this mysterious thing Lord Dakkar has?”

“It’s a sorcerer’s talisman, left from the war. My sister found it.”

The guard frowned. “Are you a sorcerer, then? Or your sister?”

“No, we just found it. We don’t know how to use it.”

The man studied Garander for a moment, and was about to say something else, when the door behind him opened and Landin looked out.

“Who are you talking… Oh, Garander! What are you doing back here?”

“You know this man, sir?” the guard asked.

“Met him yesterday. Well, Garander?”

“I came to get Ishta’s…the thing Ishta found. I hoped that Lord Dakkar might have tired of it, or thought better of keeping it.”

Landin shook his head. “That won’t happen, Garander. The baron is still asleep, and will be for another hour, but it doesn’t matter. Lord Dakkar does not part with his acquisitions, most particularly magical ones. Go home. There’s nothing you can do here; the baron won’t give you back your talisman.”

“But I…I really…” His voice trailed off as he saw the unyielding expressions on both guards’ faces. “It’s my sister’s,” he finished weakly.

“Not any more. Go home.”

Reluctantly, Garander turned away, and went home. He trudged down the hill through the town, and out the city gate with his pack on his shoulder, ignoring the guard who leaned against the tower wall.

He had no reason to hurry now; in fact, the longer he could put off telling his sister what had become of her prize, the better. He also hoped that if he thought hard enough while walking he might eventually think of something to tell her other than admitting that the baron simply stole it. He devised wild tales about Northern sorcerers traveling through time from the past, or dragons with a taste for sorcery, but he knew none of them would do-they wouldn’t fool Ishta for a moment, and he did not think he could bring himself to tell them in the first place.

He ate the last crumbs of his provisions and drained the last of his water before he had gone two leagues. He knew that would leave the remaining three leagues a hungry, thirsty, journey, but he was so disconsolate he simply didn’t care.

He hadn’t wanted to go to Varag in the first place, he told himself; it had been his father’s idea. He hadn’t wanted to take Ishta’s magical toy away. He knew, though, that none of that would matter. He had taken the talisman to Varag and given it to the baron, and he was quite sure that Ishta wouldn’t acknowledge why he had done it. It had been Garander who first said they should tell their father about the glowing thing, and that was quite enough for Ishta to blame him for everything that had happened since.

He wasn’t even sure he would disagree with her. He plodded on, past farms and fences.

The sky was overcast, and a cool breeze blew against his back, but no rain fell, and the long walk kept him more than warm; he would definitely want to give his clothes a thorough washing once he got home.

He finally stepped into the family house an hour after noon, to be greeted by a worried mother who had wondered why he was gone so long and feared he had been kidnapped by bandits or eaten by a dragon, and an angry father who was certain he had dawdled intentionally, to enjoy his freedom and avoid his chores.

Shella the Younger was neither worried nor angry; her entire response to her brother’s return was, “Oh, you’re back.”

And Ishta, as he had expected, was furious once she learned that her discovery had been confiscated. “It was mine ,” she said, once he had told the entire tale over dinner. “I found it! They had no right to keep it!”

“I know,” Garander said miserably. “I’m sorry, Ishta.”

“He’s the baron,” their mother said. “He can do what he pleases.”

“It was Northern sorcery,” their father agreed. “It was probably dangerous.”

“The sorcerer said it wasn’t dangerous,” Garander objected. “Lord Dakkar took it anyway.”

“If it was Northerner military equipment, it’s tainted with evil,” Grondar persisted. “It may not be explosive or poisonous, but it isn’t anything I want in my house.”

“It’s too bad we couldn’t sell it, though,” their mother said. “We could use the money.”

“We’re getting a year’s taxes, if that wizard can be trusted,” her husband said. “That’s good enough for me.”

“But it was mine ,” Ishta repeated.

“So go find another one,” her sister told her. “The woods are probably littered with them.”

“The woods are not littered with them,” Grondar said, with surprising forcefulness. “We never found any talismans when we were clearing this land. Besides, you know I don’t want you girls going in the woods in any case. There may not be any Northern magic to worry about, but there still could be mizagars.”

“Mizagars are Northern magic,” his wife corrected him.

“They were created by Northern magic,” Grondar argued. “That doesn’t mean they’re magic themselves.”

“ I think it does.”

“That only shows…” Grondar stopped in mid-sentence, catching himself before he could say something he would regret.

Ishta ignored her parents and muttered to Garander, “This is all your fault.” She kicked his shin under the table-not hard, just enough to demonstrate her anger.

“I’m really sorry, Ishta,” Garander replied. He knew better than to try to argue, even though he didn’t think it was entirely his fault. Or even mostly.

Enough of it was his fault that he was not going to try to convince Ishta of anything, though, at least not until she had gotten over her initial outrage.

By the end of the meal Ishta had subsided into sullen silence, her arms folded across her chest, no longer speaking to anyone. Her parents did not seem to notice-or perhaps, Garander thought, they were humoring her, pretending to be unaware of her distress. Sometimes, he knew, that was the best way to deal with this sort of thing. He could remember when Ishta was very young and prone to tantrums; back then, simply ignoring her outbursts had been the best way to cope with them, since what she had really wanted was attention.