"...and that's how I wound up as the Baron of Threehills," Di'Fier finished, picking his mug up to drain it.
"An amazing story, my friend," said Egil. "Or should that be 'my Lord' now?"
Both of the former Watchmen laughed, but then Di'Fier's face turned serious. "The worst part about it is, I don't even know
that. Uncle Jardek wasn't one for keeping records...not about the Barony, at least. I've got no idea what I'm going to do. I don't even know any Barons I could ask..."
"What you need is a seneschal," Egil said. "But a good one is hard to find."
"I guess I'll add that to the list," Di'Fier said. "Tomas and Gina have agreed to stay on, but neither of them can oversee the house, so I need a butler - and apparently I have to provide a force of men-at-arms when the Emperor wants them." He picked up the pitcher and poured himself another mug of ale. "I don't know how to do that either. I guess it can't be /that/ different from training Watchmen..." His voice was none too certain.
Dru finally leaned forward, the candlelight glittering off of her unblinking eyes. "Actually, Di'Fier, I think I might have met the man you're looking for on that account."
The interior of the Rosewood Inn was quite unlike the murky establishments of Freeport: freshly whitewashed walls, tables lovingly polished, brightly lit by oil lamps - except for the corner. That corner pulled Dru's eyes to its occupant like a magnet.
Humans aged so strangely, she couldn't tell how old he was - perhaps the age of Di'Fier's father. He was grizzled and battered, but she could see the remnants of a fighting man in him.
The auburn-haired woman behind the bar clucked her tongue as she saw Dru looking. "My brother-in-law, Jakob," she said in a low voice. "Went off t'join the army years ago. Fought until he lost his hand, and then they sent him back." She stood with one fist on her hip, head cocked as she regarded Dru. "You'll be that friend of the new baron's, then."
Bemused, Dru nodded. "Word travels fast."
"Well, even if it oversteps my bounds, good riddance to the last one. Let's hope your friend does better by the town. Chessa Kirk," she said, passing her cleaning cloth her left hand and extending the right.
"Dru N-" The elf paused, shaking the hand. "Just Dru."
Chessa gave her a look that said this wasn't the first time she'd met someone unwilling to give their full name. She appraised Dru for a while longer before speaking again. "If you're here for lunch, Fallar's brought us some hares. They'll be ready in a few minutes."
Hairs? Dru wondered.
It must be some kind of animal... "Sounds fine," she said, already moving across the tavern, her eyes on the old man.
"...so he's a veteran of the wars out west," Dru finished. "And a 'hare' is like an
anhlaraukadal, except bigger. I'd have told you about him before, but...you know."
"I wasn't in any shape to hear it," Di'Fier agreed. "Taking the ring off stopped my uncle, but it nearly cost me my mind," he explained for Egil's benefit. "Fortunately, Sister Mistwarden at the chapel was able to put me back together. As near as we can tell, the rings were made to project the wearer's mind to the wearer of the other ring, so when I took the ring off of the Baron's finger, his mind tried to return to his body while mine was still in it." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Sometimes I even feel like he left pieces lying around. I've got memories that aren't exactly my own."
Egil's face grew serious. "What have you done with the rings?"
"They won't be bothering anyone anymore," Di'Fier said with a smile. "I watched the goldsmith melt them down. My new signet should be done before I return to Threehills."
"Speaking of your return," the priest said, "have you spoken to Falthar? I believe that some of his research is on your behalf. A dagger of some sort?"
"Falthar's here?"
"Here, and lamenting the departure of the Temple from Freeport," Egil affirmed. "I'm sure that it makes life far more difficult for him, that is for certain."
"I'll have to stop by and see what he has to say..." mused the young mage.
"This is an amazing piece, and I would give much to know how its previous owner came across it," Falthat said. "The dagger itself is absolutely ancient, and made of a curious metal that I was unable to identify, although there are traces of both mithral and adamant in its makeup. It appears to be extremely conductive of electricity, however."
At the nods from Dru and Di'Fier, he continued. "What is even more interesting to me is the maker’s mark, visible here just above the hilt. While it does not seem to match the mark of any of the smiths that I know would be able to produce such work, it bears a curious resemblance to the ones used by
dwarkar Dormarkhergos, the Clan of the Traveling Anvil."
"So what does that mean?" asked Dru.
"I would expect it to be used by a related line, perhaps a cadet branch of the family," answered the sage. "That in and of itself would not be so surprising if this blade did not also bear a striking resemblance to another piece that passed through my hands quite some time ago, an adamantine blade that definitely bore signs of
elven workmanship. The gentleman who brought it told me that the person he had it from swore that it came from the mythical city of Silathenial, but until seeing this piece, I was certain it was a hoax."
Di'Fier's mind whirled.
Silathenial? That can't be a coincidence. "What was it doing on the island, then?"
"The earliest — in fact, the only — record I can find of this blade places it in the recent possession of a magus of the Sixth Circle known as Tralwyn Miras, also known as Tralwyn the Seeker," Falthar said. "Miras vanished about a half-century ago, reputedly on a quest for the lost city of Silathenial. The pages that you left seem to confirm this suspicion, as they bear distinctive marks of Tralwyn’s hand."
He must have guessed - or known - about the inability to divine Silathenial, Dru thought.
When he discovered the island, he probably assumed that it was the location of the lost city. She looked to her partner, and it didn't take their years together to know that his thoughts were much the same.
"Accounts from his contemporaries do not bear any record of how he acquired the blade, but there are several references to the fact that it served Tralwyn in much the same way as a familiar. It was reputedly intelligent and able to communicate, although," here, the sage sighed ruefully, "I have had no luck in causing it to do so. If indeed it was Tralwyn’s familiar, then the shock of his death and the blade’s imprisonment for so many decades may have driven it into an unresponsive state. It may be possible to awaken the sentience inside the blade, but I am not certain how one would go about it. Tralwyn’s notes, if they could be found, might provide some clue."
"As for its abilities: like all weapons, it bears a dweomer of enhanced sharpness and durability, surpassing even a masterwork piece. It seems to store an electric charge, although this may be a property of the alloy and not the magic placed upon it. When held and concentrated upon, it allows its wielder to see those protected by invisibility, although one’s regular vision suffers while doing so. The blade definitely bears other magics upon it — powerful ones — but at present I could not unlock their mysteries. It may be that they could be awakened along with the dagger’s mind."
"Thank you, Falthar. You've been most enlightening."
"We need to figure out what to do next," said Dru, looking around the common room of Brocail's. The inn certianly lived up to its reputation of being able to house
anything - a pair of sooty-skinned, red-haired giants sat at an oversize table near the back. "But not here."
"All right. My room?" Di'Fier pushed the trencher away and swallowed the remnants of his ale as he stood. The pair climbed the stairs to the second floor, and Di'Fier carefully unlocked the door.
"Hang on, there's a lantern in here somewhere," Di'Fier said, moving into the darkened room. Dru shrugged, the light spilling in from the corridor being more than sufficient for her needs. She saw Di'Fier reach for the lamp - and then movement beside him.
"Amateurs," said a voice, rough and scornful.
