iii

I have a terrible habit of neglecting duties such as this recording when our party encounters such difficulties as a ghr-landinger raid. Lord Otto and Commodoress Lavenranica are no doubt on the hunt for one or another of us. I should mention that we managed to reunite, and followeing the ghr-landinger incident are now sheltering in another decripit cavern. (There was also sufficient drama occurring upon the reunion of Cor and Mer.)

But I am getting ahead of myself. Readers will no doubt be anxious to know what has transpired between the last log and this; and if I recall correctly I have promised to relate some of the adventure behind the adventure, the reason we, a truly odd lot, are embarking on such a seemingly ill-advised quest. I may also throw in the story about the Dules' wild boar. It is odd; one goes so quickly from having no time at all, to having more time than one knows what to do with.

So I will do the best I can from this dank cave with the light from the mysterious fluorescent-lime aura that is emanating from further within. The others are now sleeping, except Cas, who is busy doing something magic for no real reason except that she can.

--

Flashback approximately thirteen weeks. I was a swordsmith in Toradun, working on a commission from patrons from the capital (none other than Lord Otto's brother-in-law's nephew's wife's stepsister's cousin's former apprentice, the esteemed Durin Kotske, and his wife), when the national announcement was made that Lord Otto's son Rodrigal was to be married to the princess of Flauir, Princess Flauir. I was in the shop when the townsphere burst out its gregarious news, alerting us all of the lovebirds' tidings with hideous, bombastic, imitation-string-and-woodwind music and effusive portrait-glimpses (through a lavender-scented spell, no less).

There was little rejoicing.

Our town is so far in the middle of nowhere that the Capital must have decided we needed constant entertainment through the townsphere; so we had been subjected to court gossip that nobody but the old hags ever lingered over -- so much so that this new news hardly turned a (non-gray) head. The only reason I remember this moment in such vivid detail is that precisely when the townsphere ceased the merry news we were treated to a true rarity: a spellcast from the Black Hills. More impressively, it was from Fra Gabor, the head witch herself. She laughed first to get everyone's attention as the townsphere glowed crimson and shadow, then coughed tremendously. Then she spoke, in a voice like thunder when it has been pressed and squeezed through the throat of a mallard.

"There will be no marriage," cackled the mallard. "For the Sun-Lord and the Moon-Witch have spoken; and the Time of Passing is at hand; and lo! the Ancient Prophecy shall be fulfilled, and -" More coughing commenced. "And there shall be weeping in the courts of the lands of Atlas when the New King ascends the throne to purge the earth of its hideous and its frail!"

It was difficult not to wonder if Fra Gabor counted herself among the last categories. With a loud duck cackle the townsphere bubbled. In a moment it resumed the endless loop of marriage gushings. We stood there, slack-jawed.

Then chaos ensued.

--

Or so I presumed. I am fairly certain that there were riots and other disturbances that evening as people scrambled to grasp what exactly was going on, what exactly would fulfill the prophecy, etc. I imagine the capital was fairly abuzz (we would find this to be true later).

But Toradun had no such excitement. The birds sang. The sun set. Trees blew in the wind, wine was pressed, cows were butchered, and the old hags worshipped the townsphere.

I for one finished my commission, fixed a brief meal, showered at my bathhouse, then returned to my bedchamber.

And found a young man sulking in my bed, my sheets over his head like a hood.

I shouted unrepeatable words and grabbed something to wear. Little will frighten one as much as encountering a stranger in one's bed, especially when a) it is a young man, b) said young man is wearing one's sheets like a hood, and c) one has been singing loudly whilst practically naked, assuming logically that nobody else is present.

I grabbed a sword instinctively but something gave me pause to simply, well, stare.

The young man didn't move, just stared, as well. We stared extensively. I scowled at him in my trousers, he at me in my sheets.

He had hair of a nondescript wheat color and bluish eyes and a youthful temperament: a truly generic young lad. He also had a scar at the right edge of his mouth. I made no note of these until afterward when I would fully realize their significance. It finally occurred to me that he was scrutinizing me (whereas I was merely shocked/angry).

Then he nodded and said, quite matter-of-factly, "You're the first."

That was how I met Cordry.