Date: Wed, 02 Apr 2003 22:54:04 -0500
From: Bookwyrm6@yahoo.com
Subject: SongSpell-1

This story is a work of fiction. It contains references to violent behavior
between adults, and expressions of physical affection between consenting
adult males. If you find this type of story offensive, or if you are
underage and it is illegal for you to read it, please exit now. All
characters are fictional and in no way related to any persons living or
deceased. Any such similarity is purely coincidental.

This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be reproduced in any
form without the specific written consent of the author. It is assigned to
the Nifty Archives under the provisions of their submission guidelines but
it may not be copied or archived on any other site without the consent of
the author.

Copyright 2003 Kristopher R. Gibbons All rights reserved by the author.

		1 Stand & Unfold Yourself

		Bernardo: Who's there?
		Francisco: Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself!
			Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 1, Line 1

     He awoke to a clammy heat.  Warm, shifting red turned to amber when he
opened his eyes. Fire. Its nearness stifled any waking thought.  A rough
surface at his back propped him up; and stymied retreat.  Darkness skulked
around him, threatened obscurely, yet he sat ensorcelled by the vigour and
rhythm of the fire before him.  The steady flow to the flame promised pain,
destruction.  He knew nothing and saw nothing but a framing night and the
fire, which, in ebb and flare, enticed and beckoned him even while
whispering danger.
    He caught himself straining for sounds of warfare - echoes of metal
clashing or cries of pain.  Only the creak of swaying tree limbs, the
occasional snapping of the blaze, and the low drone of insects taxed his
ears.
    A firm, tangible weight on his shoulder startled his gaze up into
another man's lean, grim, face, formed suddenly out of darkness.
Punctuating his alarm with a raspy whimper, he slid from the chill grasp.
Panic launched him into forest shadow.
    A too-brief sensation of relief doddered after him as he sought escape,
stumbling weakly from tree to tree.  Doubly blind with fear and the fire's
green after-image, his flight ended when he jolted over unseen mischief and
fell.
    Rhythmic crackling and shifting of autumn litter gave out a pointless
alert of the other man's triumphal and so, neck bared; he waited for the
finishing stroke.  His wait dragged on.  At last, feeling baited, he dared
a glance upward and saw a thin-faced young man, weaponless and ashiver in
the chill night.
    "Come," the lean face spoke.  "It is safer, and warmer, by the
fire. Come." Instead of a sword or dagger, he held out a small and
calloused hand.
    Dismayed, the prone man hesitated, sweating to recall such a face, to
imbue it with menace, to give himself a reason for his flight.  Torn
between suspicion and embarrassment, he accepted the offered arm and an
assist back to a small camp.
    When he sat back against the tree he had fled, his lean-faced pursuer
asked him.  "How do you feel?  Do you ache anywhere?"
    Breathing heavily, he did a quick assessment.  "My head hurts a bit,
and my ribs bothered me when I stood. I smell of.... I don't know what! I
feel like a fool, haring off mindlessly."  He gazed deliberately around.
"Where am I?"
    "We are in the Verge, just past the Wastelands.  Nothing but forest and
purlieu to confront now.  If your sides ache, it is because you have spent
the last day and a half slung over my horse.  Hence, the odour.  That may
account for your headache also.  I found you two days ago in the Kul
Wastes, insensible, draped over a shallow wooden crate.  It took me half a
day to get up the nerve, as well as the means, to take you with me."
    The questioner raised an eyebrow in surprise and query.
    "On the one hand, I am likely the last traveler from Kwo-eda until
winter passes.  But to find a man senseless and callously discarded in the
midst of such desolation suggests mayhem and danger.  A ruthlessness I
would not wish to run afoul of."
    "Or an indifference..." The castaway murmured.
    "I am called Aldul mek Alinda, late of Kwo-eda and bound for the
Archate Temple.  How do I address you?"
    The stranger opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came.  His mind
blanked, more thoroughly than any effort could have accomplished.  Before
manners drove him to improvise, he heard someone answer.
    "m'Alismogh. I am m'Alismogh."
    Aldul merely nodded.
    Dismayed, the derelict looked away, baffled by his involuntary
response.  Under threat of burgeoning hysteria he realised that he had
answered with a title, rather than a personal name: m'Alismogh.  The
Songmaster.
    "Where do you hail from, m'Alismogh?"
    As before, his mind turned coat.  "Name the nearest towns for me." He
asked, uneasy.
    His request drew a look of confusion, then a smile.  "Towns near each
other?  What an idea!  What would be the purpose in having a town, then?
My home, Kwo-eda, is ten days constant walk south. Alta-edda is a good four
to five weeks north and east.  Donnath-lwin is two weeks north north-east.
Osedys, my destination, lies between three to four weeks north and west.
Arkedda, still further north from there."
    One name Aldul gave echoed in m'Alismogh's ear with a different voice.
"Osedys.  I come from Osedys. I believe."
    "Good."  Aldul said tersely, looking far from surprised at the
coincidence.  Without either having to say so, both understood m'Alismogh
struggled with an insubordinate memory.  "How did you come to be in the
Wastes?"
    m'Alismogh refused to accept the silence this question elicited.  After
reflecting a moment, he tendered.  "When I woke just now, I thought myself
imperiled in some way.  In immediate and certain danger.  When you bent
over me, in the wood, I had expected to see an enemy... and a sword in your
hands.  I had expected death."
    "That sounds like battle."
    m'Alismogh pondered a moment, then nodded.
    "I have not heard even rumour of one in nine years.  Since the debacle
of Mausna-now-lost."
    "This was battle, nothing less.  Though at the moment I cannot say
where or who we fought."
    Grim-faced, the Kwo-edan waved the argument aside.  "I concede.  But
the Kul Wastes are a strange choice for recouping.  How many years do you
have, m'Alismogh?"
    Again, the man took time before answering uncertainly.  "More than
fourteen years."  By which he asserted that he had achieved manhood.
    To this grave claim Aldul could only laugh; a soft wheeze of amusement.
m'Alismogh's face must have betrayed annoyance, for the Kwo-edan quickly
explained.  "That, chel'lismok(2) , is certain.  If I had to hazard a guess
at your age, I would say you had at least twenty, maybe twenty-four,
years."  The man made no response, as if he could not trust his voice any
more than his mind.
    Having been as inquisitive as he felt appropriate for one night, Aldul
proffered.  "We will have many days of travel for such riddles and
questions.  I am just glad you're awake, and can now clean and bed
yourself."  He responded to m'Alismogh's startled gaze with a roguish grin
and a set of blankets and cleaning rags.
    For a long time Aldul watched m'Alismogh, through deceptively lowered
eyelids.  m'Alismogh saw a glint from their fire reflect off the Kwo-edan's
narrowed eyes.  His own mind wrestled in too much weary confusion for
m'Alismogh to take umbrage, and he soon began snoring with shameless verve.
    m'Alismogh's dreams soured by dawn, and he awoke wailing through a dry
throat, a single dread image seared in his mind.
    Though trembling uncontrollably, m'Alismogh said nothing through the
morning meal and the loading of the horse.  Aldul, likewise, said little,
apart from occasional directions and suggestions.  m'Alismogh appreciated
the Kwo-edan's restraint and his quiet, solid, presence.  Only after they
had walked away the morning, only as time, activity, and the little
commonplaces of the journey muted the dream's effect, did m'Alismogh feel
inclined to talk.
    "Did I make any noise last night?"
    Aldul huffed a brief laugh, but kept his attention on the direction
they needed to keep traveling in.  "You snored. Most of the night, I think.
At dawn you let out a great shriek."
    "I hope I did not wake you with my noise. My mind traveled down a
dreadful road this morning."
    Aldul nodded, still facing forward.  "I've ridden a few nightmares
myself.  Do you recall what made you cry out?"
    "One image. Macabre, but not horrible in itself."  Trusting Aldul's
guidance, m'Alismogh stared at the ground passing under his feet.  "It was
of a man, lying prone, his head twisted about and facing me.  He rested
partially on the edge of this step or platform.  It. The face was pale.
Bloodless.  He was dead, of course. He lay dressed in battle gear... and he
was sopping blood!  But my waking mind wants to drape him in purple.
That's what had me screaming."
    "And his face?"
    "If I had a stylus I could do a limning.  I could etch it. I see it too
clearly even now."
    "Describe the face."
    "Black hair, peppered with white.  Not gray, white.  A high forehead,
blue-gray eyes, and clean-shaven. An oddly bulbous nose."
    "Eyebrows? Nose?  No.  No need to answer.  Do you know who this man
was?"  When m'Alismogh shook his head, Aldul went on.  "He was kin to you.
Close kin. Your shriek this morning was not from fear.  It was a keen of
grief."
    m'Alismogh halted, incredulous.  "Grief?"  He repeated the thought a
few times in his head, and then nodded as some instinct celebrated its
truth.  He resumed walking.
    "Yes."  Aldul confirmed.  "It unearthed my memories of nine years past.
Such cries resounded through every home in Kwo-eda, as we got the war-tolls
from Mausna-now-lost."
    "Mausna?"  m'Alismogh queried.  "Oh, yes.  You mentioned Mausna last
night.  So a great war got fought there?"
    Aldul stopped pulling the horse, stunned wordless.
    "What? Don't look at me so!"  m'Alismogh barked, loud with
frustration. "I cannot remember! I don't remember any 'Mausna'."
Uncertainty imbued his voice.
    Tripping occasionally from his distraction, Aldul resumed pulling the
packhorse where it didn't want to go.  He kept his thoughts to himself, his
gaze fixed forward.  The land stretched out flat to the south - the
direction from which they had come - likewise to the west and the east.
Scattered here and there, clusters of trees broke up the monotony of
grassland.  Off to the north - their destination - huddled the first of a
series of hills, like a foggy rift between the earth and the skies.
    After a bell's-length of silent trampling, Aldul spoke.
    "Do you remember learning of the Nikraan invasion?"
    "Yes.  A confederacy of islanders who led a synchronous attack on all
our settlements.  Their tyranny lasted over one hundred years.  But that
was long ago."
    "Yes. I am encouraged that you do remember your lore.  Did you know
that Kwo-eda and Osedys had kept a... a web.... of hidden observers in the
islands ever since our emancipation?  So, when islanders formed yet another
alliance and concentrated their cutthroats on one province, Mausna, Osedys
rallied the other towns to Mausna's defense. Only Arkedda refused.  Even
Alta, the City of Peace(3), mustered legions of combat-innocent citizens.
With the regions assembled, and with the island confederacy nowhere near
the need or numbers of the Nikraan Advent, everyone anticipated a bloody
but inevitable victory.  Our elders did not reckon the land itself would
rebel."
    Aldul halted, tightened his grip on the reins, and rapped the horse
near the nose with his staff for trying to bite at him.
    "One month after the provinces had assembled at the battlefield, the
Kul spat fumes and lava, and the plains of Mausna disappeared in quake,
aftershock, and flood.  In less than twelve days, both the barbarians and
the flower of our manhood were destroyed."
    "None survived?"  m'Alismogh could not grasp the scope of the havoc
Aldul described.
    The Kwo-edan shrugged.  "Only fighters with disabling wounds: Those
carted to Kwo-eda for healing. The messengers going to and from the field
with reports for the provinces.  And those turned coward."
    "And this happened nine years ago?"
    "Yes.  What little is left of Mausna is swamp and straits.  Does any of
what I've said seem familiar?"
    For many steps m'Alismogh kept silent, stumbling a bit over the burrows
of moles and grassland detritus in his concentration.
    "The banner of Osedys, is it a willow with a small harp hanging from a
branch?"
    "No, that's Alta. Azure background.  Argent harp.  Vert willow."
    The Alismok halted in midstride and promptly sat in the low grass to
cradle his head in his hands.  He could feel Aldul's presence beside him
almost immediately; quiet, willing to help without intruding. After a
moment spent breathing deep and swallowing repeatedly, m'Alismogh lifted
his head and assured his companion.  "I am recovering.  This sharp pain hit
me just behind the eyes and made me nauseous.  But it has passed."
    "And you have no idea why it arose?"
    "It happened as a tableau came to mind.  Of hundreds, maybe thousands,
of men and women.  Armed in different ways; spears, swords, slings... All
standing in rows, and garbed in brown, gray, and green.  One in the
foreground held a pennant with the Altan blazon and a slogan(4) below it.
And I.... I think the sight had made me cry.  A feeling of great
excitement, but great sadness also.  Then the pain tore anything else from
my mind. I had to sit or I would fall."
    Neither man spoke for a time. m'Alismogh, at first, appreciated the
rest; it let the sweat, which had soaked him after the crisis, cool.  Yet
as Aldul continued to glance back in the direction they had come, the
Alismok grew restive, uneasy.
    "What are you thinking, Aldul?"
    The Kwo-edan turned and smiled uncertainly at the Alismok.  "I am
thinking I shall not push you for memories not ready to emerge."
    They resumed their march, and Aldul refrained from a mention of battle.
He proceeded to point out various plants and trees, native to the region,
which he used for medicine and cooking.
    "So you've been this way before?"
    "This far? Only once, long ago.  Some plants I use can be found only in
the Verge - the border between the Wastes and the grasslands.  But I've
escorted travelers to the Verge, and its traditional stopping-points."
    "Will we get to one before night?"
    Aldul shrugged.
    Feeling weary, m'Alismogh fell silent.
    As the day's end approached, m'Alismogh's halts for rest became more
frequent: the toll of a walking convalescent, recovering from an
undeterminable time in the Wastes.  Near evening the Alismok found and
stripped a dried bay-tree branch and used it for a walking stick.
    "So, are we getting close?"  He asked after supper, sated and relaxing
by their evening fire.
    Again, Aldul shrugged.  "I couldn't say for certain.  The
stopping-points are only well-marked clearings with their own fire-pits,
locations used out of habit. Not necessary destinations."
    "Oh." m'Alismogh blinked rapidly, as if to clear his sight.
    Aldul noted the hair matting to his companion's forehead, along with an
occasional shiver. "I've been pushing the pace, I think. Since I had to
leave Kwo-eda I wanted to do so quickly, as if it would hurt less. Get
another blanket and cover yourself up more. It may take a bit of time
before you recover from Wasteland exposure. Tonight you know what you need
to do; sweat it out. Some tea, a little oak bark with chamomile, will help
that.  In the morning we will find a spring or river nearby for you to wash
the sweat away."
    With a groan, m'Alismogh obeyed. "Sometime soon, I would like to stop
being a burden."
    Aldul actually smiled, startling m'Alismogh. "You are not a burden,
m'Alismogh. You are a riddle."

    The next morning, Aldul laid down a basic rationale for their time
en route:
    "You are in poor shape from the debilitation that the Wastes
imposed. So I refuse to rush. Do not try. Also, for all intents, with your
memory.... crippled, this is your first long trek. Let me explain what you
should know: Any such venture is a paradigm, a symbol, and an opportunity
for recapitulation. As such, you may find yourself feeling ill once you
reach your destination. Or feeling ill just before."
    "Why do you expect that?"
    "Look at me. I have uprooted, left all I knew. Left the habits and
world I built around myself, for an unknown. Even though I have left all
that, it has not yet left me. Whether I am aware of it at the time,
building my caulta(5) again will disorient. And rough or traumatic
experiences etch themselves on the body. So, you may come down ill later,
as the body adjusts to its new challenges."
    True to his word, Aldul took his time over the next few days. He
introduced m'Alismogh to the aromatic value of pennyroyal oil for keeping
certain vermin at bay. He proved to be a trove of knowledge regarding both
herbs found in the Verge and those growing further north, beyond his actual
cordon of experience.
    "Indeed, if I had wanted, I could have made a tidy sum in preserving
such wild roses as can be found throughout the Verge."
    "Then what stopped you?"
    "You may think it silly, but there was no challenge in it. I did
retrieve some, quite a number. But mostly for those who knew too little of
beauty, and were not likely to see or smell such a wonder otherwise. And
any success in preserving them still could not compare to the living,
thriving rose itself. Many people wanted the roses, but not the trouble it
takes to keep them alive. I have no time for such, people either lazy in
heart or in body. So I preserved a few, for those who were too old or
infirm to garden, and for others I carted home the live plants and their
soil."
    For his part, m'Alismogh never showed signs of boredom or surfeit.
When Aldul chose to rest his voice, m'Alismogh demonstrated a capacity for
peace.
    "So many people cannot abide their own thoughts, their own company."
Aldul remarked once. "But your silence has no strain to it."
    m'Alismogh shrugged. "Perhaps it is simply from my having no memory,
and therefore little personality...."
    Aldul winced. "You hardly lack personality, m'Alismogh. Which leads me
to suspect that your memory is not dissipated, merely submerged or asleep
for a time."
    Troubled by such a hope, m'Alismogh returned to silence.

     At the third day's greeting, Aldul reminded his companion of the
baggage which had served as his Wasteland bed.
    It looked like a patchwork box, narrow slats of some light-toned wood,
three hands wide and three feet long. The lid sported a leather strap
securing it. For additional precaution, purple wax had been liberally
poured over a section of the join where it opened, and an impression in
gold leaf set therein: A roundel, with a sword pointing upward, broken at
mid-blade. No inscription. The box could not be opened without destroying
the seal.
     "I don't know which bothers me more, the ensign itself, or my having
to destroy it."
     "What do you mean?" Aldul murmured.
     m'Alismogh pointed to the join. "I look at that simple design,
and... Nevermind."
     "No, m'Alismogh," Aldul insisted, and reached out to stop the opening
of the box. Aldul just refrained from touching a tense and stiff-limbed
m'Alismogh, sensing that such contact would not be welcome in that
moment. "What do you think? What do you... guess?"
     m'Alismogh released a hard breath and stared at the wax. "Well," he
drawled out, uncertain of his rescuer's indulgence. "Suppose I had, indeed,
come from battle, or had been part of a militant guild." Aldul nodded,
accepting the premise. "Were we an ambitious family or guild, can you think
of a more pathetic symbol to sport? A broken sword!" The Kwo-edan, raised
in a province rife with military symbols belonging to a surfeit of miltant
disciplines, blinked and huffed out a self-mocking laugh. He had become
inured to weapon-images, so much so that he had failed to see the obvious.
     "Also. The very simplicity of the siglum tells me that this image's
absurdity is intentional, and meant."
     "Meant to provoke, you mean?"
     "Yes!" m'Alismogh all but shouted, relieved to be both understood and
taken seriously.
     "There's more, isn't there?"
     m'Alismogh nodded. "It's a bare broken blade. No sheath, no
peace-tie. And set in a placement that signifies 'defense position' or a
salute."
     "So the bearer stands ready to protect, or is saluting his adversary
before or after engaging him?"
     "Yes." m'Alismogh stared down at his trembling bare hands. "I feel
strange to be telling you this. You would know more of this imagery than
I."
     Aldul grinned. "Now there's the oddity, m'Alismogh. I grew up
surrounded by it, so I paid it no mind. My father cared only for music, so
I never learned anything about the militant disciplines until I joined the
Temple. All the emblems, slogans and blazons littering the buildings were
simply ways of identifying those buildings. Like you would tell someone you
would meet them under the 'burning hand' at the tenth hour... And so
on. What you tell me is new to me, and has the ring of truth."
     "Thank you. Who ever wears this must have a supreme confidence in
their... discipline. To make its' initiates sport an ensign that seems to
glorify a weakness."
     "You're assuming, then, that it is not a badge for a specific cadre
within an army?"
     "There would be accompanying marks identifying the kingdom."
     "So the thought of opening this? Of breaking the seal?"
     For several breaths, m'Alismogh did not answer. When he finally
replied, m'Alismogh stared at Aldul like a desolate child. Tree shadow and
glare conspired to make m'Alismogh's eyes appear colourless but for the
black of the pupils. "I don't know. No. That's not true. Its a message, an
obligation, to me. I guess I should know the ensign, the sender, but I
don't."
     The lid lifted easily. The insides looked to be nothing but a thick
rectangle of navy cloth, until m'Alismogh pulled at it and heard the tinkle
of metal from within its folds.  Flipping back a corner of the material,
m'Alismogh pulled out a helmet of polished blue-gray metal, fashioned in
the likeness of a swan: two lozenges of silvery metal curved out from the
temples, sweeping back and down to the back of the skullcap in the shape of
wings, covering the ears. A cylinder of metal, painted white, looped up
above the brow, and back down to a teardrop-shaped jewel that centered
above the nose-guard and served as the swan's beak.
     Aldul took up a position opposite m'Alismogh so as to see his
reactions. m'Alismogh's face betrayed nothing; his hands, however, trembled
furiously until he had the helm settled on the ground.
     Dragging back another fold of the cloth, revealed two items: a latched
book, intricately damascened front and back, and a small felt and leather
writing satchel. m'Alismogh smiled, but did not unlatch the book.
     m'Alismogh flipped another fold of the cloth back, and unveiled two
more items. He unknotted its drawstring and up-ended the dark-gray purse,
out of which tumbled four rings and two leather wrist-guards. One ring, of
silver set in an intricate interlace, fit on his fourth right-hand
finger. One ring, a milky-red band with an onyx or obsidian crown the size
of his thumbnail, fit best on his left forefinger. The third ring was of
grime-rimmed gold, set with a black incised stone; the pattern seemed to be
of a cat or ralur guardant. That ring did not fit any of m'Alismogh's
fingers, likewise the fourth, which was gold and patterned like the first
ring.
     Aldul looked over the third ring and realised its discolouration was
due to use as a signet. Having understood, without verbal agreement, that
both of them would look over what were ostensibly m'Alismogh's possessions,
Aldul made no comment when m'Alismogh failed to yield up the fourth ring
for examination.
     Next from the crate came a scabbarded sword, clearly the reason for
the box's length. The scabbard consisted of bleached leather with blue silk
and a splattering of dried blood. The blade looked to be of some blue-toned
alloy with an undulating shimmer in the sunlight. m'Alismogh simply
examined the scabbard, then set the whole thing aside, disinterest plain in
his manner.
     Flipping back yet another fold revealed three more items: An ivory
whistle with seven finger-holes.  A silver-backed oval on a chain, a
portrait limned on one side and the figure of a man riding a dolphin on the
other. And a second book - a folio.
     The folio pages were filled with lines and small squares: musical
notation. m'Alismogh looked through the book, shook his head, and tied it
back up. He slid the trinket over his neck. He picked up the pipe with a
frown, then quickly set it on the ground untried. Aldul moved to pick the
whistle up, when m'Alismogh intercepted his hand.
     "Please," he whispered. "Don't."
     "As you will. Why?"
     Obviously uneasy, m'Alismogh shrugged. "I do not know, but I do not
like the thing."
     m'Alismogh pulled back a fold to reveal the bottom of the box, then,
gripping a cloth seam, stood and let the material unfold into a
ankle-length hooded cape.
     "Do any of these things seem familiar?"
     "All of them except the pipe, the music-book and the last ring. The
signet was my father's. Blast me if I know how I know this."  m'Alismogh
lifted the miniature to peruse. "And I know this man from somewhere." He
looked away for a moment, ensnared in some reverie. "I loved him, I think."
     Aldul stood and joined in the examination. A square face stared out,
long black hair, dark skin, mustachioed, young with the corners of his
mouth upturned in a smirk. The portrait left one hawk-winged eyebrow
raised, as if the subject mocked the vanity behind even making such a
miniature. Aldul glanced from the trinket to catch a slightly glazed
expression and a happy grin on m'Alismogh's face.
     "That will serve you well from this point of the journey on." Aldul
observed, pointing to the cape.
     "As well as add further hazard for an already clumsy walker."
m'Alismogh added.

    The idea of traveling stirred romantic images in m'Alismogh's mind, the
reality destroyed them utterly. Every moderate to loud night-noise
unsettled him, sending messages of flight through his weakened nerves. The
first time he volunteered to roast their supper, he burned the back of his
left hand and the fingertips of his right. Foraging for another meal, he
inadvertently gathered foxglove with the ruffage, rendering both he and
Aldul jittery, high-strung, fluxed, and nearly helpless for a day and a
half.
     Came a day Aldul decided to add to their diet and went afield to
hunt. He insisted m'Alismogh remain at campsite to rest, after m'Alismogh
had begun trembling and sweating during the walk that morning. Listless,
discontented with his own weakness, m'Alismogh thought to gather deadwood
for the evening fire.
     Midway in picking up a limb, his own limbs failed him completely.
Noise assaulted him, overbearing. It resembled nothing so much as a
tin-whistle and a hunting horn, in argument with some deep-toned stringed
instrument, and competed in head-piercing and stomach-twisting
discord. Staccato notes trilled and shrilled in his ear, as though they
were crouched beside him, thrumming through his body in waves of
convulsions. For a dragging moment of terrifying length, with his will and
attention equally divided between the pain and the cacophony, m'Alismogh
could not breathe. The ear-splitting chaos of sound demanded what the
muscle-burning agony did not sap away. As the dissonance ended in
crescendo, perversely on a single, harmonious chord, m'Alismogh knew only a
dark, warm silence.
     He awoke to gray eyes staring at him from a tanned face, concern
creasing the skin around them. The texture against his back meant another
tree, and dampness chilled his buttocks.
     "Aldul?"
     "How is it with you, m'Alismogh?"
     It was a long moment before m'Alismogh could say. "I don't know."
After another moment, he added. "I had a brainstorm, I think."
     Aldul nodded. "That is uncommon, ch'Alismogh, though not unheard of.
What can I do?"
     "I don't know.  Aldul, I am afraid."
     "Let me check a trap I have over here, then pull out a change of
clothes for you. Stay put for a moment."
     "Alright." m'Alismogh agreed, not wanting to nod his aching head.
     Aldul looked him over, then rushed off to a tree cluster nearby. A few
shaky breaths later Aldul emerged with a squirming rabbit in his
grip. "That makes two. We are going to feel stuffed tonight."
     Aldul put his knife under the animal's nape and sliced diagonally. A
wave of sound and pain ambushed m'Alismogh, he gave a hoarse cry of
protest, and blackness reclaimed him.
     He awoke as before, with Aldul gazing at him in concern - and a little
fear. "Aldul?" he repeated, foggy with exhaustion.
     "How is it with you?"
     "I..." He could not answer, only turned his face to the ground and
wept his fear and dismay. After a moment, Aldul placed a hand on his
shoulder; the tentativeness of the gesture hurt.
     "What manner of man am I?" Weariness and emotion turned his question
into a cry.
     "Shhh..." The hand gripping him grew firmer.
     "Aldul... Don't you be afraid of me, too. Please?"
     "Forgive me, m'Alismogh. With a moment to think, I don't fear you at
all. But I fear for you."
     "What..." His throat spasmed. "What do you mean?"
     "Left in the Wastes, losing your memories, and now this... The only
person hurt by you has been you. Repeatedly."
     "I would understand if you wanted to go your own way. Gods, would I
understand!"
     "Shhh... Don't talk nonsense. Granted, we are companions by
necessity. Even so, I admire the man I see, m'Alismogh. Whatever else you
are, you have patience and courage. Rest here a moment. I do have one
proposal to make."
     m'Alismogh waited until his voice would serve him. He turned around to
face Aldul. "What is that?"
     "I think we should abstain from meat for the remainder of our
journey."
     m'Alismogh took a deep breath, untensing. "Maybe after tonight's
meal."
     "Are you sure?"
     m'Alismogh tried to smile. "I laboured over those rabbits as much as
you, it would seem." The smile fled. "You don't fear me?"
     Aldul huffed a brief laugh. "Do you mean me ill?"
     "Never."
     "Then I don't fear you. It is that simple. No need for you to
move. I'll build the fire nearby. Just rest."
     But I'm afraid of me, m'Alismogh thought. "What am I?"
     "A riddle. A man." Aldul shrugged.

     To their surprise, m'Alismogh's seizures did not further debilitate
him, after a night's untroubled sleep. After a week, m'Alismogh's wind and
endurance built up to equal Aldul's. They made enough noise in their
trammeling that any small predators that might be near became occupied with
concealment or flight, rather than stalking. So m'Alismogh traveled from
the Donnag to the Kerilawyn River almost unharried by a brainstorm. He had
one fall when, just as dusk settled, they happened upon an owl fleeing
their path with some rodent in its claws.
     As before, m'Alismogh heard a strident cacophony in his head, and pain
sufficient to knock him to his knees. When Aldul hurried to his side,
however, m'Alismogh had already tottered to his feet. "I don't understand."
m'Alismogh muttered. "It hurt abysmally, but I did not pass out this time."
     "You are not as weak or un-nerved as you were, then." Aldul guessed.
     "Good. I miss the venison."
     Aldul huffed out a laugh. They did indeed eat a trifle better through
the last leg of their journey.

     That same night Aldul came back from a wood-foraging trek to see
m'Alismogh, his own pile of faggots beside him, rummaging through his cache
of belongings. The priest said nothing, as he added his armload to his
companion's, then sat a pace away.
     "Some of these items trouble me." m'Alismogh confessed.
     "Which ones?"
     "It might be a shorter list if I say which ones do not." He waved
vaguely at the box behind him. "The war-helm. All I know of it is that such
was its purpose, and that I have never worn it. I hate the thing! The sword
and scabbard; all I can say about it is I don't like the blue silk, it
makes me feel like I would be a target if I bore it. And the wrist-guards."
     "What of your flute?"
     "Its not mine. Its... perilous, dangerous somehow. I wish it had not
been in the crate."
     Aldul accepted this. "And the rings?"
     m'Alismogh's brow smoothed. "The rings..." He stared down at his
be-ringed fingers. A smile flickered across his mouth. "The patterned
ring..."
     "Yes," Aldul prodded. "I have never seen that arrangement before."
     "He called it 'Love-lies-bleeding'," m'Alismogh muttered.
     "Who?"
     m'Alismogh made of fist of his hand and wrapped his body around it,
suddenly miserable. "I don't know!" he choked.
     "Why are you crying, m'Alismogh?"
     "I don't know!" he repeated. "But my chest hurts with it."
     "Could the person who named the knotwork be dead?"
     Aldul regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. m'Alismogh jerked
his head from side to side, as a strangled humming sound emanated from the
back of his throat.  m'Alismogh's shout rang in the Aldul's
head. "M'rnakh(6)!"
     The Kwo-edan did not know the word, but the meaning was unmistakable.
     After m'Alismogh recovered, he straightened and resumed his scrutiny
of the ring. "I fear you may be right. I am not certain. I do know he made
both this ring and the gold one like it. The gold one was his to wear."
     "And the pattern?"
     "Was my choice."
     The convalescent sat staring at the silver for a long time.
     "Anything else?"
     "Just the feeling that I am missing... something."
     "Give yourself time. It may emerge." Aldul bade.
     m'Alismogh shook his head. "No. You don't understand. I look at this
ring, and I know I am missing something, someone... I can almost
smell... salt. And feel... arms about me, holding me up..."
     "Holding you up?"
     "And... blood."
     Not surprised at the turn in m'Alismogh's recollections, Aldul waited.
     "Nothing more. I remember nothing more of this. The ring with the red
gem was, I think, a gift from an aging woman. I can see her as clear as
leaf-glow, but I cannot grasp her name! I think... she was a tutor. Its all
muddled with other things!"
     "Like?"
     "All in sadness. The man from my dream holds the ring out to me. But
then its her, instead. And she's crying."
     Without hesitation, m'Alismogh bagged the gold ring, then fingered the
pendant. "This is old."
     "How do you mean? Before you were born? Before your father had a
father?"
     "Yes. Older. But I can see the man in the portrait settle it over my
neck. I'm being fanciful, it seems."
     "Do you know any names, m'Alismogh?"
     The man scowled. "No. That's not right. That's not my name."
     "What is your name?"
     m'Alismogh shook his head again. "That is a great question. The answer
is playing hiding games inside me."
     "How do you feel?"
     "Angry. Frustrated..." The man known as m'Alismogh
whispered. "Lonely. And a... scared."
     "Is there ought I can do?"
     The beleaguered man nodded vigourously. "Tell me again. What you told
me earlier today."
     It took Aldul a moment to realise what m'Alismogh wanted. The Kwo-edan
looked his companion in the firelight-whitened eye.
     "I admire the man I see. I do not fear you. But I still fear for you."

--------------------------------------------
(2) chel'lismok - a light endearment affixed to his name.
(3) Formed as a sanctuary for Hramal slaves who had escaped the Nikraan.
(4) Slogan - sluagh-gairm (host call) battle cry.
(5) caulta - routines, habits; accepted, filtered, perceptions. Daily
points of reference & stability.
(6) Never (an obsolete term; lit. sun-draught - an impossibility)