Goodmonth 11, CY 593
59: If a good dream terrifies you, does that make it a nightmare?
Jespo Crim and Dabus both pledge ten thousand gold pieces to the treasury of Tenh, helping to secure the bundles and bushels of foodstuffs purchased for the upcoming winter. Word begins to spread around Southern Tenh that there is a new Duke (although Heydricus has only taken the title of ‘Lord Regent’) sitting the capital, and that there will be food for all, and protection from bandits and warlords.
Refugees begin to flock into Nevond Nevnend by the tens and hundreds, and Jespo Crim is hard-pressed to mass teleport enough for the short-term, nevertheless the entire winter’s store, but given time, the task is complete.
“You know, Heydricus,” Jespo says. “I probably should have spent the time crafting magical items as did Gwendolyn, Prisantha and Dabus, but I felt that at least one of your spell-casting companions should aid the refugees.”
“Yeah, great job, Crim,” Heydricus says. The two men are strolling through the dilapidated Ducal palace, taking an inventory of what hasn’t been looted (very little), defaced (even less), or destroyed. “I’m thinking about having this molding done in darkwood. Extravagant, I know, but if we’re to receive royal guests . . .”
“Darkwood will look very elegant,” Jespo agrees. “You’re not considering gilding it, are you?”
“F-ck, no!” Heydricus snaps. “What do I look like, an Almorian prince? Over here we’ll put the musicians. I’m thinking you and Regda can get married here.”
“Ah,” Jespo says. “Well, it had occurred to me, as we were making our invitation list, that I have only four friends. Five, since we must invite Lucius out of professional courtesy.”
“Uh, huh,” Heydricus says, lifting some crumbled statuary to examine a baseboard.
“Whereas, Regda, you see, comes from a large family, and is very prominent in Willip.”
“Right, prominent,” Heydricus says. “Can you make me etheric a little later? I want to have a look at these foundations before we invest too much time.”
“Well, gladly. But you see, doesn’t it make more sense to hold the wedding in Willip, and teleport my guests there, rather than her entire community here?”
Heydricus smiles at him. “Sure, Jepso—it’s your day.”
“And if I may, I’d like to speak to an issue that, well. . . it’s like I said, I’ve only really four friends, disregarding Fräs of course, who is both a female cat and dislikes speaking out loud, you know. So . . . well, there are certain customs to follow after all, and wouldyoubemybestman?” Jespo is cringing.
Heydricus smiles again and claps him on the shoulders. “Me? Really? Well, hell yes I will, and with pride! It’ll be great, Jespo, you’ll see.”
“Really?” Jespo says. Fräs purrs. “There is one other thing, Heydricus. I was hoping that in light of my recent efforts for the people of Tenh you might let me be the first Liberator to pick his room?”
“Sure,” Heydricus says smiling at his companion.
Jespo nudges Fräs. “It’s all about the room,” he whispers sagely.
Life is good, and it just keeps getting better.
-----
Prisantha and Gwendolyn are having an argument. It’s not their first, admittedly, since the caustic wizardess said the words of her geas—but this time, Prisantha is loosing.
“There is no moral distinction,” Gwendolyn reiterates. “You are equating cowardice with high-sentiment.”
“There are enemies and there are friends,” Prisantha says again.
“And in love, one can never tell the difference. Trust me on this, Prisantha. If you want to know something, how do you find out? You scry, you divine, you vision. Don’t play silly schoolgirl guessing games with this man, he’s a killer. Cast the damn spell, and be done with it. Either he loves you, in which case we make him show it, or he doesn’t, in which case we look for somebody with more money.”
The argument had begun when Gwendolyn announced that she had been scrying Heydrcius on his “fund raising expedition”, and was pleasantly surprised to find the Liberator actually raising funds (and sleeping alone). Prisantha objected to such a use of magical power, but in so doing opened the door for an debate that was inching her ever nearer to this vision result:
Ignorant to their own eyes, some men fumble about clumsily, and assume that others do the same. When Love is a stranger to the heart of one who has drank so often in its name, can the gods fault him for finding only terror in it?
-----
Prisantha and Jespo Crim bury the Headsman’s Whore up to the tip of its aftcastle using repeated castings of transmute rock to mud. When the juggernaut is nearly entirely obscured, and the rock to mud spells have been dispelled, they teleport back to Cur’ruth and gleefully cross the ‘f-cking construct’ off the List.
-----
Heydricus and Pris are sharing a private word in one of Cur’ruth’s many dungeon corridors.
“. . . and only then do we tell Thrommel,” Heydricus whispers.
Pris frowns. “Do you really think he will simply say, ‘why, you are right Heydricus, I accept this marriage to a woman I’ve never met, who most likely looks like her father?’”
“I don’t know,” Heydricus admits. “But I’m not trying to force a decision on the man, simply put the suggestion out there.”
“I can do that from here,” Pris wryly observes.
-----
Heydricus does not usually remember his dreams, retaining some small sense of their general bent, but no specifics. This night, however, his dream is extremely lucid and clear.
In it, Prisantha sits at a table with Gwendolyn. The two women sit closely, as if sharing a secret, but Prisantha is completely naked, her body glittering in the candle-light as if oiled, or still damp from some recent bath.
“Who do you think is the handsomest?” Prisantha asks. “Dabus?”
“Or Elenthal?” Gwendolyn offers.
“Thrommel?”
“Or Heydricus?”
And with that the Liberator awakens. For the remainder of the morning, he finds his mind going back over the dream, and Prisantha’s visage. He travels to Nevond Nevnend, where Dabus is casting walls of stone to shore up the palace.
“Dabus, I’ve had a dream.”
“Ah, a dream. I too, have them,” Dabus says.
“But in this one, Prisantha was naked, and she was discussing who was the handsomest.”
“The handsomest?”
“They named me last Dabus.”
“Ah, last. That is troubling?”
“And Pris was naked.”
“Ah, did you . . .”
“No, no. But I’ve been thinking about her all morning. You know, in that way.”
“Well,” Dabus says, laying a consoling hand on Heydricus’ shoulder. “Dreams never actually mean what they seem to mean, my friend. Prisantha in your dream represents some larger symbol of your life. Were there any snakes, serpents, swords or spears in your dream?”
“Wuh, no,” Heydricus says quizically.
“Then we know it was not a dream from our Lord Tritherion. Our Lord always gives some sign by which we might know his Voice.” Dabus cocks his head, regarding Heydricus intently. “Tell me,” he begins sagely, “were you close with your mother?”
-----
“Are we sure it’s working?” Prisantha and Gwendolyn stand shoulder-to-shoulder at the alchemy station in Martak’s former laboratory, pretending to mix potions as they conspire together. “He looks so . . . tormented.”
“They get that look,” Gwendolyn says.
“What look?” Lucius asks.
Both women jump, as neither of them had noticed Lucius standing next to them. Gwendolyn reaches for her spell components with one hand, and puts the other palm-first in front of Lucius. “I’m going to pretend that never happened,” she growls, “because everyone here knows that I will not be spied upon.”
Lucius stares blankly at her, tilting his head slightly, as if regarding something curious.
“In fact, if I ever catch you sneaking around me again, you’d better hope that Heydricus has some other lackey to bring back from the dead because there will not be enough of you left to resurrect.”
Lucius looks over Gwendolyn’s shoulder at the empty alchemical retorts and beakers, then looks at Pris. He places one finger to the tip of his nose, and turns to leave.
-----
High Hadley is the mid-sized community that forms the mid-point between the mines of Cur’ruth and Calibut, the Northeastern mining capital of the former Duchy. In more prosperous times, High Hadley was a bustling trade center, home to a wealthy mercantile class as well as many Tenha nobility. As things stand, the residents of High Hadley are without question the most prosperous Tenha left in Tenh. In the wake of the Greyhawk Wars, they turned to sustenance agriculture, and have maintained a relatively peaceful life. Due to its proximity to Calibut (and the terrifying entity that rules there), High Hadley has not been subject to the endless sacking and raiding that has plagued the rest of the nation.
Thus, it is not surprising that Heydricus is welcomed politely, but without the usual fanfare that accompanies a conquering hero. He has arrived in an official capacity, informing the town’s leaders of the new Tenh state. They promise that they should be glad to restore any and all trade that might someday flow, but show no eagerness to kneel before the new Lord Regent.
Still, the trip must be considered a success, and Heydricus returns to Cur’ruth in order to examine more closely his maps of the region, and wonder what might happen should the Platinum mines at Calibut resume their flow of ore for the benefit of the Nation.
“Goddamnit,” he mutters to himself. “It has to go through Stoink.”
-----
Prisantha leans against Heydricus, in the foyer of his childhood home. She is very tall, while he is short, but he can feel her breasts pressed against his back as she reaches over his shoulder to point out a chapter in the book he is reading. “On matters of initiative, one must seize the importance,” it says. Heydricus can feel her breath, and smell the dusky spice scent of her hair.
------
“I’m loosing sleep, Dabus,” Heydricus complains. The two companions are in Nevond Nevnend taking inventory of the weaponry and armor accumulated for the conscripts that Thrommel has promised to draw from Central Tenh. The prince has been sent out again, hoping to duplicate his success in rallying the Northern Tenha to the Liberator’s banner.
“It just keeps coming back to me. Everytime I look at her, I see her naked. I never used to see her naked, you know.”
“Well,” Dabus says, noting a number on a scroll. “It is normal for a young man to have certain . . . fantasies about his companions. We spill blood together, and after all, fighting and love are often linked in parable.”
“You think so?” Heydricus asks, cheered by the thought. “Do you think the others have fantasies, too?”
“I am sure of it,” Dabus says. “Don’t be troubled, it is perfectly normal.”
“Who do you think Crim fantasizes about,” Heydricus asks. “Other than Regda, I mean.”
“I shudder to think,” Dabus says, dismissing the topic. “We are well provisioned for another hundred soldiers, and could support twice that many should Thrommel get them. Beyond that, we will need to reach out to our allies, but I think it can wait until the Springtime.”
-----
Prisantha is sitting at her desk, except the room she is in seems impossibly narrow. Heydricus is regarding her from a position near the celiling. The room looks like a Nyrondeese court, although he is sure that it is her study in Chendl. She tries to study her spellbook, but the Liberator knows she cannot concentrate, as she has missed his presence at the mines the last few days. As he watches, a lone tear trickles down her cheek, and his heart goes out to her.
