Here are some links:
You can spot me in the first row near the left-hand size — the guy who was so underdressed.
On Saturday, September 23, I attend my first “Meet and Greet” at the Mysterious Galaxy book store in San Diego. I had heard about it at the LA Times Festival of Books in April. There, my wife, Joan, had introduced me to one of the bookstore owners.
The store itself is in a shopping mall and of medium size – larger than a mom-and-pop but smaller than a Barnes and Noble. It specialized in Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Mystery. If you are a fan of one of these genres, Mysterious Galaxy is a place to go.
Twenty-one authors attended. I think that any author who asked was accepted. About half of us brought along family and friends. In addition there were approximately ten or so customers. In retrospect, it definitely was a “coals to Newcastle” selling opportunity.
One floor to ceiling bookcase was stocked with books from all of the participating authors and a there was a swag table near the entrance on which one could put bookmarks and book displays. It felt great to strut around wearing a badge indicating that I indeed was an author and to see evidence of what I had accomplished displayed.
The agenda had two alternating formats. One was for, well, meeting and greeting. Like at a cocktail party, everyone milled around and engaged in conversations. There was no real alternative to doing this. There were no, (well perhaps one or two) chairs available for sitting. Later I complained to female author about having to stand on my feet for three hours straight. She had no sympathy. All she said was “Try it sometime in four inch heels.”
Chatting with other authors was fun and easy. It was natural to spot one another and open with “So, what is you are writing?” or some such. The first half hour of meeting and greeting passed quickly.
Then after a half hour of this the mingling stopped. Half of the authors took turns going to the dais and giving a three minute talk hawing their book. The event manager had warned us that we were not to overrun. Everyone who did would be cut off in mid-sentence if necessary to keep everything on track.
Everyone but the speaker stood in an informal circle, listened to the talks, and then applauded each author when they finished. When the last one was done, we reverted to more meeting and greeting.
Later there was another break, and the remaining authors gave their spiels. Then we reverted back to yet more meeting and greeting. My wife came up to me and pointed out that perhaps my time might be better spent talking to potential customers rather than other authors, as fun as that might be.
So, I decided to give it a try, focusing on people without badges rather than those who had them. This turned out to be, for me at least, a much harder thing to do. A poor trapped onlooker could see someone approaching who was wearing a badge and depending on where they were standing might not have an avenue for escape. Like a deer with eyes caught in a searchlight, they awaited the onslaught.
And I did not really have a zinger opening remark to start the conversation. I decided to try “So, what kind of books do you like to read?” Unfortunately, there were very few targets. And of the ones I managed to talk to, not a single one said that they read fantasy.
In the end, I did end up selling two copies of Master of the Five Magics –based on what I said in my talk, I guess.
Certainly in terms of time, books bought to sell that eventually will be returned and 250 miles of gas coming and going to San Diego, this was not a profit making exercise.
But number of sales perhaps is not the way to look at things. It was an interesting and learning experience. I learned firsthand what a “meet and greet” such as this was actually like. I developed a minute and a half sales pitch that may come in handy at some later time. I enjoyed meeting and talking to other authors, especially Rusty Trimble who bombarded facebook with daily “breaking news” posts about each attending author He also hand crafted a memento for each of us – a domino adorned with the cover of our book. And it gave Joan and me, over a dinner afterwards, to catch up with family friends we had not seen in quite some time.
The Mysterious Galaxy book store is hosting a “Local Authors Meet and Greet” event. Over twenty writers, including myself, will be there.
September 23rd, starting at noon.
5943 Balboa Avenue, Suite 100, San Diego, CA 92111.
For more info, go to: Mysterious Galaxy
There has been a lot of publicity about the recent eclipse. This post records my personal experiences. The preamble is quite long, but for me, very much part of the adventure.
My wife, Joan, has a cousin who participates in a multi-site timeshare program. A dozen or so of the extended family decided that we would gather at the venue in Bend, Oregon and travel by car from there the forty or so miles north on US 97 to the little town of Madras to view the eclipse. It was almost dead center on the line of maximum totality.
In February, Joan, and I made our airplane and car rental reservations for the big event.
Unfortunately, an estimated 100,000 people also had the same idea.
As the date approached, postings on the internet became more and more bothersome. It would take 10 hours to travel from Bend to Madras. To ensure that one got to the little town in time, depart by 10 PM the night before. A total stoppage due to breakdowns was a distinct possibility. One may not even get to Madras in time.
The National Guard would be maintaining order. Signs on the restroom facilities in Bend city parks proclaimed “Closed Because Of Eclipse”, and tens of portapotties stationed in their place. Citizens were to stock up a two weeks supply of food. On the Wednesday before the big event, the entire city ran out of gas.
Prices began to soar. Renting one of the remaining cars rose to one hundred dollars a day. It was rumored that Motel Six was aptly named – six hundred dollars for a single night’s stay.
So, it started to sound like the idea of simply bopping up to Madras might not be the best idea. Where else in the area could we go? Even though the band of totality was tens of miles across, the duration becomes less and less the farther you are from the centerline. In Madras, it is a little more than two minutes. A few miles south of Redmond – where the regional airport is – it is only a few seconds.
Joan’s cousins purchased USGS maps and scoured them for alternatives. They weren’t many. Central Oregon is not densely populated. Few roads are there. They ended up selecting a place in the middle of what is called the National Grasslands – west of the route to Madras. By traveling on two lane country roads, some unpaved, we could get far enough north to have more than a minute of totality.
A dry run was in order, and so a few days before we set out in a caravan. The early going was easy – uncrowded, no signs of a swelling influx of people. We came to our first unpaved road and it looked quite decent – smooth gravel and oiled. There was no civilization in sight – no houses, ranches, cattle, nothing, just the flora of high desert.
As we traveled northward, the conditions of the road deteriorated. First, the oiled surface gave out. Then the gravel transitioned to larger rocks. We reached a sign that said the road was not maintained further north. We pressed on and the rocks became boulders. Navigating between them became tricky.
Finally, (duh!), we realized that we were in ATV terrain. Only a hint of a ‘road’ lay ahead. We consulted our maps. After retracing our steps to paved roads, we could go several miles west on State 126 to link up with another unpaved road heading even farther north. Rationalizing that we would be going in the opposite direction on 126 than the influx of watchers from the coast, we pressed onward.
The second unpaved road was also oiled and we traveled along it until it ended at a gate to private property. Farmland on all sides. Except for a haze from uncontrolled forest fires in the area hugging the ground, the sky straight up shown blue and uncluttered. Maybe we had found a place that no one else would think of.
However, one of the owners of the farms surrounding the road then appeared. He was not happy at all about our presence. Even though both sides of the road were fenced off and showing No Trespassing signs, we pointed out that the road itself was not marked private and therefore open to the public.
There were bad vibes all around and we left, wondering what we would see when we returned on eclipse day. Would our route be congested by late comers? At the site, would we see farmers with pitchforks and dogs? Police cars blocking the road? We were not sure.
Of course, the fleeting nature of the event made us all anxious. Only one shot at this. No return the next day to do things better. All it would take was a single wrong turn, slightly more cars than the roads could handle, and the chance would be over.
Not satisfied, we decided to return to Bend. Not along the route we came — that would be an hour and a half even with no traffic. Instead, we drove east to 97 and then south from there. When we came close to 97, we discovered a large park near a gorge spanned by the highway – one with the “Closed Because Of Eclipse” signs. We used the portapotties and as we were returning to our cars, one of Joan’s cousins called out to a couple, husband and wife, passing by, “Say, do you know somewhere around here good for watching the eclipse?”
They were quite friendly. Pointed out that they lived north of where we were standing, in an area near the Crooked River. Gave us their address and said we were welcome to come to their house to watch the eclipse. And, by the way, at the end of the street where they lived – as far north as you could go by car — was Panorama Park – a small public park with parking for about ten cars, restroom facilities, and even playground equipment for kiddies.
We raced back to our cars and followed the directions given to us up to the park. It was perfect – just as described. This became Plan A. If the parking lot for the park were full when we got there then we would use Plan B – the address of the local. The National Grasslands relegated to Plan C.
So, on the day of the eclipse, a couple of the cousins left the Bend area at 3 AM. They traveled up US 97 and there was no traffic. The rush starting at 10 PM had not materialized or was already over. (In the aftermath, the conclusion was that there were only 60,000 in Madras, not over 100,000.) In an hour or so, our advanced party staked out three parking spaces with tables and chairs set out for the rest of us.
Eight others left at 5:30 AM. We traveled the back roads as we had before. No traffic. When we arrived at the park, there were only three cars there. As the time passed, it gradually filled up, but never became over crowded.
At shortly after 9 AM, we whipped out our eclipse glasses, settled back into our lawn chairs, and watched the progress. Totality was about an hour away, so it became a pleasant outing for all concerned. Check on the latest progress. Yes, by golly, the bite out of the sun was getting bigger. Then walk around a bit and chat with the others who had come. A bonding that we as humans do when we are having a shared experience.
A few people used index cards to make pinhole cameras with index cards to view what was happening without using the glasses. Even neater was to examine the trees scattered in the park. As the sunlight filtered through the leaves, many pin hole cameras were formed. Place a large piece of cardboard near the ground and you could see scads of partial eclipses shining through.
As the transit of the moon continued, we could feel it gradually getting colder – not much maybe twenty degrees at the most but nevertheless one of the subtle clues about what was happening.
Finally, the big event itself. Though our glasses we could see that only a thin crescent remained of the sun – even though the sky around us was not significantly diminished from what it was before the eclipse started. The power of the sun was so great that having most of its rays blocked made no difference.
The last sliver began to grow shorter at both ends finally just a single dot at the edge of the moon. As the last dot vanished, I whipped off my glasses and saw the diamond ring, a brilliant burst of sunlight on the edge of the black disk caused by the last of the sun’s rays coming through a valley between two lunar craters.
And then totality.
For me, seeing a total eclipse was quite different from watching a partial one. A partial eclipse is an intellectual experience; a total one is emotional. I felt as if I were a primitive homonid, looking up startled at the sudden loss of sunlight to see a sight never witnessed before. The sun was gone. In its place was a black disk surrounded by the wispy corona.
What an impact that was! After years of getting up each and every morning of my life, no longer reflecting at all the usual events of the day – dawn, midday, and dusk. All taken for granted. Samo, samo. Now this! It hammered home a truth long forgotten. How insignificant is humankind in the glory of the cosmos.
I think Joan summed it up the best when she said, “This is the most spectacular thing I have ever seen in my entire life.”
Angus, the exile, reached behind his head and smoothed down his long, flowing hair. It would reach his waist soon and he would have to have it sheared. A daily ritual of shaving kept his face bare. Black eyes like machined spheres of hematite marked him as cunning to the other Heretics; one to be dealt with only when necessary and then with caution. Only the tips of his fangs showed when his mouth was closed. Nor did his tunic cover his arms as it did most of the others. Rather, he bared them proudly, the thick fur as sufficient as sleeves. When he stood to full height rather than slumped, he was as tall as the natives roaming freely above.
He ran his fingers over the polished wood grain of the orange-brown table, but its beauty gave him little satisfaction. Neither did the expanse of the rocky alcove about him, though it was larger than all but two others. More than three times his height, its smooth walls rippled like waves on a placid sea, a wrinkled bubble of air far beneath the ocean’s surface.
Small flakes of gold shimmered in a narrow vein snaking above Angus’ head. Flickering candles standing in indentations chiseled into the walls gave only enough light so that the objects on the tabletop could be seen, but the rest of the alcove was in shadow. The wax was too precious to waste on reminding one of the crushing reality of confinement.
Untold hours had been spent by the Heretics chipping away at the alcove floor to create the flat space on which the table stood and a pathway to a small oval opening leading to more caverns and twisty passageways beyond. Caverns and passageways—the entire world of the vanquished, the exiles, the Heretics Who Proclaim the Truth.
Angus looked at the small clock on the tabletop, its pendulum swinging back and forth in frantic haste, far faster than the glacial slowness the humans used to mark their time.
The humans. The puny, primitive humans. If they knew of his true status and that of the others of his kind, they would be laughing. He was a powerful alchemist. His brothers were potent practitioners of the crafts as well. Unfettered, subjugations of the surface dwellers would be easy. Yet despite this power, they hopelessly were confined in underground caverns. And so fearful that any use of the magics would alert the so-called Faithful, the oppressors who put them here, his brothers insisted no craft be practiced at all.
The Faithful. Faithful to what? What an ill-fitting label. Sheep that move from one fad to the next with only the slightest prodding. The merest hint that something new was going to be more popular than what had come before. The idiots did not think, did not consider, did not engage with exercises of the mind.
But then, it was no better here. Dinton, his eldest brother, how could he be so stubborn, so unseeing, so afraid? Whenever he had possession of the baton, the depression of the flock members always increased. There was always the risk one or more would remove their rings and surrender—unable to accept who knows how much longer—more centuries encased in rock before they might possibly be free.
Dinton and Thaling would be here shortly, so Angus shoved the thoughts away. As always, Dinton would arrive first; Thaling would be the last to appear—the diplomat, his middle brother with the glib words to douse the rising anger boiling between Dinton and himself. Never venturing opinions of his own so they too could be attacked. His two, so unalike brothers. He wondered how much longer he could keep his secret from them.
Without preamble, Dinton entered the alcove, breaking through Angus’ reverie. He was shorter but broader like an over ripe gourd. His hair also cascaded to his waist behind, but rather than the uniform dull brown of Angus, the roots showed silver. Even in the dimness, his eyes squinted nearly shut, as if he were afraid to let anything from the outside accost his senses. His fangs did not protrude. A long rod of polished wood hung from his waist on one side and a short dagger from the other. He carried a colored cardboard box in his hand.
“You have gone above again, haven’t you?” Dinton said without preamble. He slapped the staff at his side. “Even when I explicitly forbade it while the baton is mine.”
Angus glanced up at Dinton, but did not rise. His brother’s time as agreed upon absolute leader was almost over. Let him feel a little more aggravation before it was finished.
“We have been over this many times before,” Angus said. “A grandfather over a hundred native years ago, and then his grandson when his elder was soon to pass. They are the only two of which I have interacted. There is no way any other of these primitives would find out about the trades I have made.”
“It is not the natives I worry about,” Dinton thundered as if were orating to everyone in the caverns at once. “It is the oppressive ones, the Faithful, the ones who overwhelmed us and cast us out. If they discover there is traffic with those who call themselves humans, or that the charm placed upon us has worn off, or if any new exercise of craft is detected, their next punishment will be even worse than this. We all would be given to the tigerwasps. All of us. Continual pain with no release.”
Angus prided himself on how he carried himself in the caverns—back straight as a sheer cliff, untroubled by any threat unless directly challenged to a duel one-to-one. But every time he thought of the wasps, he could not help but wince.
His eyes closed nearly shut and his cheeks stretched high on his face. “We should have destroyed the colony of the loathsome pests long ago,” he shuddered. “The Faithful left those huge beasts with us so we would come to use them on ourselves—even when there was the most petty bickering.”
Dinton nodded slowly. He cleared his throat before speaking as he often did. “What the feeling would be, I, too, find it hard to think about. Boring into one’s stomach and then consuming the organs from the inside—slowly and carefully, leaving only enough of each to continue functioning until the very last.”
“But it is the ultimate deterrent,” Dinton continued before Angus could reply. “No one dares to commit a capital crime. The punishment would be too great. For the thousand years we have been here, the tigerwasps have been employed only twice.”
“Count the rings in your alcove,” Angus ignored Dinton’s words. His brother had a tendency to run on and on. “How many do they number now? Haven’t more than three hundred already taken their own lives, from their loss in either a half-heartedly fought duel or an overwhelming sadness they can no longer put away? What good does it do to wait any longer? Soon there will be none of us left, and then it will not matter.”
“We must have patience,” Dinton answered. Now his eyes were totally shut. “The primitives are accelerating the destruction of their world. In a few hundred more orbits about their star, they all will be gone and this entire planet will be ours.”
“This entire hell-hole, you mean,” Angus snapped back. “Of what use is it to us, if we must remain below the surface even after the humans are gone?”
Angus waved his arm around his alcove. “And while we wait, what do we have to bring us joy? A meandering collection of lava tubes and gas bubbles. Small cracks in the surface to let in sunlight for our crops, a trickle of water from the rains above. No sky overhead, no wind. Once every nook had been explored two or three times over, only numbness is left.”
“Back on the home world,” Dinton put a tone of considered reasoning into his voice, “our so-called heresies were a matter of debate— the beliefs of one flock against those of another. But here, the risk of discovery is unforgiveable. Your dabbling, the skirting on the edge of safety must stop.” The sound of the orator resumed. “I have commanded it. Stop or else.”
“Or else, what?”
“Or else the wasps.”
“Yet, you enjoy an even bigger table than this one in your alcove,” Angus said. “Without what I have done, how could these little tastes of beauty even have been possible? The monotony would indeed be complete.”
“Mere shadows,” Dinton scoffed. “Native trinkets with no depth of meaning.”
“Trinkets!” Angus shouted. “The objects I have obtained at great peril, mere trinkets?” With a snarl, he withdrew the dagger from his waist. “I’ll show you a trinket. But first, you will have to remove it from your gut!”
“You are the youngest, Angus,” Dinton growled. The box he was carrying dropped to the floor and flew open. Cards and tokens scattered about. Ignoring the mess, he drew his knife in reply, his eyes now wide open and glaring. “You are the youngest, Angus, if only for a few moments more.”
“Stop!” a third voice interrupted the argument. “What is it this time?” Thaling rushed in and placed restraining hands on his brothers’ arms. “We have made the agreement that we will not succumb to our baser emotions when we meet. We are to decide who will possess the baton for the next turn of the wheel of time. Nothing more. Why is that so hard to remember?”
Thaling was the shortest of the three, hunched over like a rat trying to walk on only its hind legs. Long fangs protruding from his lips interfered with his speech, but his brothers had grown used to his slurs. As adults, they no longer jeered when he tried to mouth human words.
For a few heartbeats, Angus and Dinton stared at each other. Like two feuding children, they played at who would resheath his weapon first. Finally, Angus sighed in exasperation and plunged his into its scabbard. Dinton waited a moment longer, smiled, and put his away as well.
“If only father had publically chosen one of us before he gave into the monotony and took his own life,” Thaling said. He straightened up as best he could. “We would have no need for the periodic bickering and waste of time.”
“Yes, certainly,” Angus said. “Our daily schedules are so very busy, that we can hardly find a few moments for this stupid ceremony.”
“We have agreed,” Thaling said, his slur more noticeable when he became excited. “It is the only thing that has kept us from destroying all of ourselves in a struggle to determine who was to rule.”
“I am the eldest,” Dinton said. “By rights, it should have been me.”
“We made an agreement,” Thaling pleaded. “Why do we have to go through with this each and every time?”
“If Dinton would only stop harping about being the oldest—” Angus began.
“I choose my words carefully each time I speak,” Dinton cut in. “You are the one who pollutes the air with your hot-headed outbursts.”
“Enough,” Thaling shouted. “To the business at hand.”
“You are not yet the holder of the baton,” Dinton turned his attention to Thaling and withdrew his dagger again. “You cannot give me commands. I demand the respect that is my due.”
“I do not cower to words that are merely loud,” Angus said as he brandished his stiletto as well.
Thaling took a step backward and bared his own knife. “So this is the way of cowards? Rather than duel properly, instead, gang up two against one?” He showed his teeth, and a drool of foam began to drip from the side of his mouth.
The three brothers stood facing one another in a tight circle, first threatening the one on the left and then the right. After a few dozen heartbeats, a gentle chime from the small clock on Angus’ table broke through the tension. Like the uncoiling of intertwined springs, all three men relaxed.
“Yes, it is time to choose,” Thaling said, lowering his blade and resuming his usual slump.
“If it is my turn again,” Dinton said, “my edicts remain the same. No contact with the natives. Reduce the frivolous use of water. Store it instead against when there will be drought. And above all, patience. Wait for what eventually is going to happen—for when the humans will be gone.”
“Action now,” Angus said. “If it becomes my turn, then there will be tasks that I will command what you and your flocks are to do.” He turned and looked at Thaling. “And you, brother. Every time, you are always silent. “Have you even thought about what would be your commands if the baton were to pass to you?”
“No thoughts, my brothers.” Thaling’s slump grew even deeper. “Not until such time as they are needed. Let us continue as we have done before.”
Dinton grunted. He stooped and began retrieving the box and its scattered contents. Thaling and Angus bent to help. Soon a flat board, the tokens, and the cards were in their proper places.
“Before we begin, the oath,” Dinton said. Angus and Thaling nodded.
In unison, they orated, “I agree that the winner of the game gets the baton for the next cycle. For so long as he holds it, his word is absolute, and I shall obey.”
“And regardless of who holds the baton, I shall practice no craft. But if I transgress, the tigerwasps shall do what they will with me.” Dinton then continued alone.
“And regardless of who holds the baton, I shall practice no craft. But if I transgress, the tigerwasps shall do what they will with me,” Thaling repeated.
“And regardless of who holds the baton, I shall practice no craft. But if I transgress, the tigerwasps shall do what they will with me.” Angus spoke as the last.
Angus held his thoughts to himself. He pushed away the images of the wasp depositing an egg in his stomach bulges. There was high risk in what he was doing. He could not deny it. But then, neither could he continue with things as they were.
The three turned their attention to Angus’ tabletop. Dice rolled and the tokens moved. No one spoke until Thaling said, “I suggest it was done by Miss Scarlet with the revolver in the lounge.”
A Typical Street
Briana waited until dawn started to break rather than explore any further in the dark. She was near a gently sloping path paved with large flat and smooth stones. Next to it and a bit lower was a wider surface, dark, and laced with black repairs that looked like giant wandering worms.
Lined up on both sides of the dark surface were rows of what must be carriages for the wealthy. Through glass windows, one could see plush interiors, elegant enough even for a queen. The surrounding shells were smooth steel and painted in bright colors, although some appeared much fresher than did others. For all of them, there was neither purchase for a driver on top nor any means of connecting horses or oxen in the front. And so many! It could not be possible there were so much affluence in one place.
Briana looked downslope, southward if this orb rotated the same way on its axis as did Murdina, in the direction of strange whishing noises that sounded as if a hundred scullery maids were sweeping in unison. In the distance, one of the coaches sped by from left to right, faster than any team of horses could possibly pull. Shortly thereafter came another from the other direction, and then two more from the left.
On top of posts near where they raced were circular lamps gleaming an angry dragon-breath red. After a few moments, they blinked out, and green ones below them began to shine. A screech filled the air, and two more carriages came to a stop on the cross path below. A short time later, a third light beamed yellow and then the red one shown again. When they did, the wagons roared away.
Magic coaches, not one but several. And controlled by imp lamps. Magic and wizardry in blatant display. The exiles had escaped their prison! Not here more than moments, and already she was done. This first adventure was going to be easy!
For confirmation, Briana reached out and touched one of the carriages directly in front of her, but no tingle of magic caressed her fingertips. She shook her head. No, they were not magic after all, and besides, there were too many of them. Better not to conclude in haste. She needed to find out more before she returned home, and she had a day before she could anyway.
Briana started walking southward next to the broader path that she concluded should more properly be called a street or road—for carriages rather than travelers on foot. She touched each vehicle along the way to be sure, but none held any trace of magic.
When she reached the intersection, she noticed there were lamps above the larger avenue cycling on and off also. Although no coaches traveled north or south, the lamps shining there synchronized with those for the east and west. Looking at the signage on shorter poles near the glowing orbs, she mouthed out what must be the name of the larger street.
“Hollywood,” she said, and then the much harder to pronounce, “Blvd.”
The yellow lamp came on and then the red. One of the carriages pulled to the side near where she stood. A door into the interior swung open. A gaunt man who had not shaved in what must have been several days and wearing shabby clothes like those of a beggar leaned across from where he sat and pushed the opening wider.
“I will give you twenty bucks for a quicky,” he said. “How about it?”
A man, Briana thought. Not shrouded like the visitor to the council chamber. Dressed properly, he could pass without notice back on Murdina. And he was speaking in the native tongue. A man. Not an exile.
She felt a moment’s hesitation, even though she had told herself when preparing for the adventure that at some point she would have to speak to the natives. This barter probably was a good a test as any for a first try.
“I. . . do not have a quicky,” she said as she struggled for the meaning of the words. “But I am wondering—”
“Bitch!” The man slammed the door. A loud growl escaped from the front of the carriage as the lamps changed, and it bolted away.
The possibilities expanded. The growl could be that of a demon hiding in the front compartment of the carriage. Maybe the native had been enchanted by the exiles’ sorcery. Maybe the thought about imps in the lamps was still valid.
As the sun began its climb into the sky, the road traffic increased in both directions. Briana remained at the street corner, trying to understand what she was seeing. Although still early morning, the number of carriages was far greater than what would be seen in Ambrosia, the capital of Procolon, at midday. She looked both ways down the street. There was no royal palace in either direction that would explain why there was so much rushing about with no apparent purpose.
Her stomach began to growl. The initial excitement of adventure waned, and her energy began to sag. After all, she had been up the entire night.
It was all so kinetic, the scene so. . . so enormous, she thought. Yes, that was the word for it, enormous. She began to feel small, insignificant as a gnat on the back of a djinn. Like a small pebble in a boot that could not be moved out of the way, the thought began to ferment and trouble.
To shake off the feeling, she decided to walk east, hoping a different venue might be more understandable, more representative of the native culture, something she would be able to comprehend.
After Briana had travelled for some while along Hollywood Blvd., she began encountering natives coming from side streets and passing her by—more and more, the farther east she went. She felt some apprehension as the first had drawn near, but he did not pay her any heed, nor did any other as they approached.
None of the men were threatening; they displayed neither sword nor dagger. Their clothing was much more colorful and varied than back at home, and thinner rather than practical, the sort of thing young lordlings would strut in order to show off their wealth in the safety of a noble’s court.
The women were the amazing ones. She studied them more intently as they passed. They walked in twos and threes and sometimes alone, all unescorted. And some showed the swell of their breasts for anyone to see. Ladies of the court also did this, Briana knew, but only after the blush of youth had faded as it had for the queen. The younger women on Murdina had no such need.
And their legs! They were bare, some brazenly to above their knees. More astonishing was that they were clean-shaven, as smooth as the face of a man! Those lords who maintained such appearances paid skilled barbers to keep their skins fresh, but certainly, no woman would permit such intimacy by a stranger. That was impossible to understand.
As Briana continued, the structures on either side of the street became taller, some of three stories or more. Not all were simple boxes, but instead looked as if built by drunken masons with tilted and uneven walls. Subdued browns were replaced by a rainbow of colors, sunburst yellows, scarlet-reds, and deep-ocean blues. Large panels of imp lamps danced in intricate repeating patterns, drawing attention to themselves almost as if they were the result of a sorcerer’s charm. Signs were bounded by what looked like alchemists’ glowsticks, but longer and brighter, able to shine fiercely in the daylight. The lamps pulsed on and off in deliriums conveying a mania even more manic than that of the rushing carriages.
Storefronts? Briana puzzled. But far grander than any she had ever seen before. And for none could she recognize what wares were sold. There were signs enough but most with words she did not recognize from her dictionary. And those that she did made little sense. ‘Hard rock’? Of course, they were hard. Why would anyone have to pay for one?
The path on which she walked became grander—wider, darker, and containing an embedded series of white stars blazing the path even though such an aid was not needed. Like a line of marching warriors, tall trees with long naked trunks and plumed with branches at the top sprung out of the smooth stone.
She continued to marvel why no one spoke to her. With her thick tunic, leggings, and pack, she was the one who stood out from the others. But still no one gave her any notice, edging around her, or even jostling her, without a word.
After traversing two more cross streets up ahead, she glimpsed the reason why. There were others dressed the same as she! Some even wore cloaks or capes. Some had masks. Other women in wore sequenced costumes, so short as not to be believed.
They rapidly twirled metal cylinders with white bulbs on the both ends and occasionally tossed them high into the air. Around them clustered others, garbed like the ones who had already hurried past her.
One structure was impressively higher than the two to either side—an entryway built like a helmet worn by a general in a victory parade. It stood at the rear of a large courtyard bare of greenery and underfoot completely covered with a random array of indentations looking like the prints of hands or boots.
Larger carriages came into view, some with seats on the top as well as inside. They pulled to the edge of the street and disgorged their content into the courtyard. The natives that had been discharged ran from one set of indentations to another, obviously delighted, and yelling to others what they had found. It reminded Briana of the rituals of magicians, but here it was too disorganized to have any such a meaning.
As Briana pondered, two young women suddenly surrounded her on both sides. “Selfie!” yelled one and extended a small mirror-like object on the end of a stick.
“What movie?” asked the other. “I don’t recognize your costume. Is it not out yet? Are you one of the stars or only an extra?”
“You are supposed to smile,” the first thrust the mirror in Briana’s face. “Like us. See. Instead, you look like a blank faced idiot.”
“She’s in character, Hester,” the other said. “Don’t you get it? She is playing the role of an idiot.”
The second woman thrust a small book into Briana’s hand along with what looked like some sort of writing quill.
“Well, autograph it,” she said. “Your name, your real name. Who knows? Some day you may be famous, and this will be worth a fortune.”
Briana thought for a moment how her name would be composed in the native’s lettering system and slowly began to make the marks across the page.
“Look at that,” Hester said. “Look what she scribbled. Worse than a kindergartener”.
“That precisely is my point. Like I said. She is in character. Go ahead and give her the tip.”
“This is not worth even a buck,” Hester said. She thought for a moment. “Okay, if you are playing the idiot, you would probably like a nice silver coin, right?”
She reached into a purse, extracted one, thrust it in Briana’s palm.
Briana bristled. Idiot indeed! This was not the way to treat a daughter of Alodar the Archimage. She should. . .
The coin was silver! Maybe. . .
She examined the disk more closely. Her anger had subsided for a moment, but then it returned. Counterfeit! Counterfeit and a bad example at that. It was silver all right, silver overlaid over a copper core. She could see that the baser metal had worn through around the entire circumference.
Briana turned to confront the two women, but they were already moving on through the crowd, looking for additional targets to accost.
It took a while for the heat to dissolve away, but Briana found she could not return to a complete calm. The noise and flashing lights on the storefronts were becoming too much to process all at once.
She needed something to focus on, but the visual bombardment continued its relentless onslaught. Closing her eyes did not help. If she did, the unfamiliar sounds intruded even more. She decided to continue in the direction of a tall tower farther to the east. There, in the distance, the furor of activity seemed to be much less.
But as she did, her discomfort grew. She needed to relieve herself, but no convenient bush or tree was in sight. Her shoulders slumped under the now heavy weight of her pack.
When she reached the tower, Briana looked at the sign across the street. ‘Ripley’s Believe It or Not’, it said. What could that possibly mean? Believe it? Believe what? And if not, then what happened? Her thoughts reeled. Even here, where relatively it was quieter, everything was still too kinetic, too vast, too frenzied, and complex.
The experience was so unlike those recorded in the sagas. When heroes went to an unchronicled land, they coped almost immediately. That would not be possible here. Her original plan of taking a few days to sample the culture was not going to work. It could take a lifetime to figure it all out.
This adventure could be a big mistake. When the portal reappeared tomorrow morning, perhaps she should go home. For a moment, the thought surprised her, but then it rooted, and she had to consider what to do.
Go home? But what would happen then? Be carted off to a grubby fortress in the west? No, she could not do that. She would not do that. Not yet. Not even if many days had to pass. Whatever it took. No return until she had something of value to report.
Her stomach rumbled again. Her tongue was thick in her mouth. She had brought enough sustenance for a few days, but not for how long this was going to take. In addition to puzzling about the existence of the crafts, she would have to take care of the basics too—food, water and a place to sleep. How was that to come about? Could she even eat the food, drink the water? There was nothing familiar here, nothing she understood—nothing she could understand in any reasonable time.
With a sudden jab of fear, Briana realized the predicament in which she had placed herself. The last of her energy ebbed away. She did not want to return, but neither could she stay. She leaned against the wall of the tall building. No one noticed or offered to help as she sagged to the ground. In all of her life, no situation ever had been this bad. There was nothing worse than this.
And as she did, she felt a twinge that rapidly grew into a cramp. She was wrong. It could be even worse. Her time of the month was starting—starting a week early. She had brought nothing for it. And something had to be done now, sooner rather than later. Otherwise, her leggings would have a stain for everyone to see, one that would set and could not be removed.
But by now, she could do nothing. Briana folded her arms over her knees, lowered her head onto them, and quietly began to weep. If the exiles could see her now, she thought, they certainly would be laughing.
The door closed silently behind her as Briana entered the portal. A soft light illuminated a narrow white corridor perhaps ten paces long and ending in another door like the one now behind her. The wall on her left was featureless as a perfectly calm sea. On the right, near each door was an array of controls arranged in rows. Each row looked the same—a selection button, some illuminated text, and a long sequence of counting wheels. Halfway between the two entrances, an array of small, ornate drawer pulls, no two alike, budded forth from the wall. There were no loose artifacts to be seen: no papers, quills, charts, or discarded swathing. There was none of the elaborate scrollwork and decorations like those in vogue with the magicians of her own world. The whole effect was one of sterile efficiency.
Briana retrieved from her backpack the instructions left by the shrouded stranger. Inside were translations into her own tongue what the writing and symbols meant. The top-most inscription in the panel at her side said ‘location’ and immediately below, two more, ‘Murdina’ and ‘Nowhere.’ All the counting wheels showed zeros.
She hesitated a moment. This portal is magic, she thought. Nothing can go wrong. Nothing can fail. Get on with it. With a last bit of reluctance, she pressed the button next to ‘Nowhere.’ Almost instantly, a sharp click of a bolt sliding into place came from the door. The entire structure began to shimmer. A wave of nausea washed over her, sending her to her knees. Her eyes watered, and she could not keep them in focus.
After a short while, the vibrations stopped. The nausea went away. A warning disk of angry red shown in the middle of the door. She rose and tried the handle, but it did not budge. Evidently, the portal had moved the gateway from Murdina, from the council room to Nowhere, and it was not safe to see what lay outside.
Next, she dialed the right most counting wheels adjacent to ‘Murdina’ to one hundred and then again pressed the selection. As she expected, the vibrations did not start immediately. Instead, the numbers in the wheels began to decrease—ninety-nine, ninety-eight. . .
When the count returned to zero, she braced herself, and the shimmering began again. Better prepared, the upset stomach did not feel quite so bad, and when the vibrations finished, the latch clicked a second time. Now, the handle turned easily. She opened the door and glanced out into the dimly lit council chamber. A pleasing comfort like that from sliding into familiar slippers washed over her. She was back to where she had started.
With gathering confidence, Briana shut the door and selected ‘Nowhere’ from the list of locations a second time. After the vibrations had ceased again, she smiled. Things were working as she had expected. Each listed location was a place the door could be positioned to open upon. And the corresponding countdown determined when the translation would start to take place.
She decided to leave the door through which she had entered parked at Nowhere. It would do no good to use the portal and then have some minion of her father immediately follow.
And the second door. It must open to the shrouded stranger’s world. How else could he have gotten home? A peek there before she returned would be an added bonus to report about to her father. When she did, he would maintain a gruff exterior of course, but inside, he would be proud. Thinking about it gave her a warm glow.
She moved to the other end of the portal. The only choices on the wall there were ‘Nowhere’ and ‘The Vanquished’—nothing that would indicate Randor’s home. He must have wanted to keep his location secret, but, if so, how did he manage to get there after he had visited Murdina?
Briana pushed the thought away. Something to figure out later. There was no time for that now. She shouldered her pack, selected ‘The Vanquished,’ waited for the vibration and nausea to go away and opened the door.
It was dark, not as dark as a moonless sky, but dim enough that she could make out nothing. She snapped one of her glow sticks and cautiously looked outside. The air was tainted with a strange odor she could not identify, something stale and heavy like that of a room unopened in years, but evidently not toxic. She felt no ill effects from what she had inhaled.
Reassured, she studied what she saw more carefully. In the near distance in front of her were what looked like the bars of a cage! She whirled about. The bars gently curved off into the gloom on both sides, hinting at a giant circle of confinement.
Randor had said the natives did not practice any of the crafts. So she had naturally assumed they were primitive as well—living in simple huts, perhaps with plowed fields and tethered animals nearby. But metal bars. . .
Maybe when Randor’s people last visited here, there was no cage. It would make sense to put the portal in an uninhabited location. But the circular barrier now changed things. The first thing she would have to do was. . . escape.
Holding the glow stick in front of her, Briana stepped out of the portal, paced to the line of vertical bars, and started walking the perimeter of the confining wall. After a few dozen steps, she gasped aloud at what she saw—a narrow opening through which she easily could walk!
She started to step through the opening and then stopped. The reality of what she was getting into started to rumble in her head. Her confidence began to falter. Things were not going to be simple; already there was a complication. The enclosing cage was here for a reason. Come the dawn, perhaps natives would arrive to inspect its contents. Even if she were not here, they would see the portal door. She would not be able to leave it unguarded and wander about.
For a few moments, she thought about what to do. The setter, she finally remembered from the instructions. Yes, that was what was needed! She returned into the portal, found the correct drawer in the wall now on the left, and extracted a small, slender device that she could hold easily.
She ran her free hand over the bottom of the container but felt only smooth metal. There should have been a tracker in addition to a setter, she remembered from the instructions. But there was none. On the controller she held, the selection choices near the two doors were reproduced along with their nearby selection buttons and counters. She exited the portal, and back outside, carefully read the instructions for the setter’s use. She studied them a second time to be sure. Even the smallest mistake here could maroon her forever.
When Briana was satisfied that she understood thoroughly, she began pressing tiny button-like objects protruding from the setter. She set the counter for the ‘Nowhere’ location near the door she had exited to one hundred, then set the counter for ‘The Vanquished’ to an additional hundred more.
Next, she started the countdown for the ‘Nowhere’ location to begin— to move the portal door to Nowhere when the count reached zero. Before it completed, however, she started ‘The Vanquished’ countdown as well. The counters for both choices began spinning down.
Just as Briana was beginning to fear something had gone wrong, the portal vanished. Briana twisted her loose curl into a tight spiral. Waiting for another fifty was agonizing, but finally, the magic transport again reappeared. It had gone to Nowhere and then returned.
The instructions said a day on this, the exile’s planet, was forty-three thousand three hundred and twenty heartbeats. Using that number for the length of time before retrieving the portal from Nowhere meant she could hide it for an entire day. And she could set things so that she was present when it appeared and none of the natives was about.
Briana quickly browsed through more of the instructions. How to add and delete location choices was complicated. More complex still were explanations of how the portal worked. It was not a simple matter to have a door stay in one place. A planet spun on its axis and also hurtled through the cosmos. While on the outside, it might look that a door was standing still, it was in fact continually in motion.
Briana made the necessary portal control setting and felt her confidence return, although not quite as high as it had been at first. But no matter. Now for the adventure to begin.
She scrambled through the opening. On the other side, she looked up at a wooden placard attached to the wall written in the script of the natives. With the help of the language guide, she spoke aloud what she read.
“Wattles Mansion and Garden. City of Los Angeles.”
Preparation for Adventure
Briana placed the small disk over the keyhole. Its magic gently tingled her fingertips. With a satisfying click, the bolt in the door retracted. She grabbed the handle, thrust her backpack into the opening, and then buried the disk into the potted plant standing beside the doorway. The page would retrieve it later, and the only mystery would be how the council room had somehow been left unlocked.
Briana entered the chamber and let the door swing shut. The heavy drapes had been pulled back earlier, but because it was a moonless night, the blackness was deep. Perhaps the two rows of chairs were gone, and the council table returned as well. She reached into her pack in order to snap a glowstick, but then halted. Now she only had five left, and to waste one here would not be wise. She had to start thinking like an adventurer, not some pampered doxy wondering about dinner the next day.
Feeling along the wall, she felt a sconce and found the indentation nearby containing matches. The flickering glow of a single candle was enough. Yes, the chairs were gone, and the large round table had returned to its usual place. The door into the portal still stood on the other side of the room, beckoning like a seductive siren.
Briana set her equipment on the ground for one last check before proceeding. She would have to hurry. Dawn was not far away, and she needed to be gone before anyone else would come—before anyone would stop her from what she was going to do.
She smiled with satisfaction. Her cloak would be cover if the climate turned out to be cold. The surface of a goatsack of water filled almost to bursting was completely dry; there were no leaks. A dagger for the left side of her belt and a stout baton of ironwood for the right. Two loaves of hard bread and a change in underwear completed her essentials. She would wear her tunic, leggings, and boots for the entire journey. There was no need for anything more.
Briana looked over the provisions a final time. She replaced one loaf of bread with a sack of sweetmeats. After all, she was only to be gone for a few days.
The instructions for the portal, native dictionary, and the language guide left by the visitor joined a coil of string, a slim journal, some quills, and a small bottle of ink. How her father had managed to keep everything in his head on his own saga, she could hardly imagine.
Her father, Briana thought. What would he do if she were caught? He was widely regarded as just and level-headed, but when it came to his own family. . .
She turned her attention to her small trove of precious objects—toys from her childhood, things long since put away. None was powerful of course—those were too rare, too expensive. But what she did have might come in handy in dealing with the primitives. She had one for each of the five crafts: Thaumaturgy, Alchemy, Magic, Sorcery, and Wizardry.
From a thaumaturge, a short metal cylinder, shorter than the width of a hand, cut into two pieces lengthwise—one piece named the ‘king’ and the other the ‘queen.’ It was a teaching tool for youngsters for ‘once together, always together’ and ‘like produces like.’ Briana remembered hiding one-half under something like a handkerchief and then manipulated its twin so the first would soar and scare her older sisters
Next, her collection of glowsticks from an alchemist. She had bought a batch of two dozen when she was twelve, and she had wasted most of them over the years until she realized that those remaining should be saved until there was a real need rather than an imagined one. Snap one apart and there would be a soft glowing light lasting for many minutes.
She grasped the dark crystal of columbite, its color an unusual deep brown-black. It was a source of niobium, the magician had explained at the bazaar. Used in rituals producing strange forces that never faded. Useless unless the iron was stripped away first, but it was all a child needed in order to pretend.
The sorcerer’s telescope came next. Yes, a telescope, but somehow rendered the size of her hand, sights for both of her eyes rather than only one. The light bent back and forth inside, the sorcerer had said, so that the telescope need not be long and cumbersome. The best part was that the chant one had to say in order to make the device work was short and simple. Despite what everyone knew—how difficult it was to recite correctly three times through, and the headache that would occur when there was a miscasting—each time she had used the strange telescope, she had not faltered. Each time she saw clearly images from many paces away—a charm of far-seeing, as potent as any in the sagas.
Finally, five mitematches bound in string, their tips coated in alchemical preparation that caused the shafts of ironwood to burst into flame when rubbed against a coarse surface. The imps from the demon realm on the other side of the fire were almost the smallest of all. Although they had surprising strength, they were as tiny as baby moths and their wills feeble and easy to dominate. Briana remembered how her sister had swatted helplessly as one whined around her head as it had been commanded.
riana brushed the direction of her thoughts away. Yes, these were juvenile things, most likely cheap diversions to keep children occupied while parents bargained for items of true craft at the bazaar. That did not matter. The important thing would be the reaction of the natives to them if the situation arose.
She reassembled her pack, attached the bedroll, and shouldered its straps. The sky outside was growing lighter. Soon, someone would come to the chamber. There was still the workings of the portal to be mastered. She started to drop a note saying she was going, but then thought better of it and crumpled the parchment into her pack. She toyed with a loose strand of hair for a second and then slowly walked over to the waiting door. Its handle tingled to the touch—yes, true magic.
Father and Daughter
Briana took a seat next to her father, and the page ushered in Slammert. “May I approach my betrothed to bestow a kiss of greeting, mighty Archimage?” he said.
“No, you may not,” Alodar answered through gritted teeth. “Words of your deeds precede you. What is this about?”
“From the tone of your greeting, I infer your daughter has thought it better for me to announce the wonderful news. Here, look at the document I bring. I am sure you will find it in proper order.”
Alodar quickly read the contract, looked at Briana, then back to Slammert, and scowled.
“I have not consented to this,” he said.
“But consent was given, venerable Archimage. Perhaps with the distractions of state, you have lost track of the time. Your youngest daughter is of age.” He smiled at Briana. “She has been for some time.”
“I will abrogate the agreement,” Alodar thundered. Briana had never seen him like this. Usually, he exhibited complete control.
“But you cannot.” Slammert smiled. “You know that very well. The Archimage is not a despot holding sway over all of Murdina. Your decisions are accepted by those who rule because of the respect given to you — accepted only because of that respect. You cannot arbitrarily reverse something freely agreed to by another. The matter is concluded. It is done. Time for you to move on to your next crisis.”
“Decisions are altered all the time,” Briana burst out. “New information is not ignored.”
“It has taken years of reasoned logic and gentle prodding,” Alodar said, “but even the kingdoms to the south have seen the value of what I have espoused — the value of open borders, free trade, the expansion of commerce. Even the Iron Fist is now an inn for tourists.
“Except for the ceremonial palace guards,” the Archimage continued, “standing armies have been disbanded throughout the world. There is no longer any need for the expense. Everyone abides by what I decree. For that to work, I must be beyond reproach. I, more than all others, must abide by the law.
“This crawling slug is right, Briana.” He sighed. “You have been most foolish, but you have agreed. You are bound.”
There was a moment of silence, then Alodar said “Slammert, why exactly are you here?”
The lord glowered at Alodar. “Perhaps to remind everyone why the wedding must go forward as planned.” He smiled at Briana. “And to inform you, my beloved, that in your honor, I will be replacing one of the posts of our wedding bed with a new one. The old lumber is almost already notched from top to bottom. Yours will be the first on the new. Then every time we spend the evening together, you can count for yourself how many other notches have been added for those days we are apart.”
Slammert’s tone hardened. “Make no doubt about it, wench. I always get whatever woman I want. Always!”
Rage contorted Alodar’s face. He curled his fists in frustration. “Get out,” he managed to command through clinched teeth. “Somehow… somehow, I will find a way to get this undone.”
“That we shall see.” Slammert bowed. “As you wish, mighty Archimage, I now will leave. I have other kings and lords to visit and extend invitation to the wedding — and remind them also about the agreement you must honor.”
After Slammert had left, the silence hung like a dark raincloud over the two who remained.
“Am I not worth something more to you than a mere pawn in the world of politics, Father?” Briana asked.
“Of course you are,” Alodar said. “But in that world, you are only a beloved daughter, not a wielder of power.”
“You do not command armies either.”
“Yes, but it is my knowledge, my experience, my reputation that serves instead.”
The decision rushed into Briana’s thoughts and solidified. She twirled a loose strand of her hair in her fingers while she decided what to say. “Let me be the one who ascertains the situation with the exiles, Father. And after that, there are other tasks you could give me, too. Then, the royalty and their lieges could understand why you broke the betrothal, why I have value more important than the desires of a border baron, value of importance to all of Murdina.”
“What? The exiles? No, that is impossible. No one knows if what this cloaked visitor says is even true. A proven champion is needed.” Alodar brow folded in a fatherly frown, and then he managed a weak smile. “Someone who has a very good chance of returning unscathed.”
“But wouldn’t that be the proof you needed? An example of what my worth to everyone would be? Reason enough to nullify the agreement made with Slammert. Everyone would understand.”
Briana continued without thinking which words were tumbling out of her mouth, words she did not even know were there. “I want to go on an adventure, Father, as you did before becoming the Archimage, before checking off all the steps in the same boring ritual: courtship, marriage, children, and then old age. I want my name to be added to those in the sagas, triumphing over adversity, righting great wrongs, saving the world… or at least a little part of it.”
She smiled, “Tales like those recorded of the deeds of my famous father. You were scarcely older then than I am now.”
Alodar startled at the words. “Aeriel warned me it might come to this — that is, if we had had sons as well as daughters.”
“How can you say that?” Briana exploded. “What difference does the gender make? Was not your final victory as much because of what mother did as you?”
Alodar was silent for a while and then answered softly. “No, you are right. Of course, I would not be here today. The world would not be as it is now if not for her. And to this day she completes me still.”
“And so, I want to be the one who goes through the portal and visits this other orb. The natives look almost the same as ourselves. It could be a woman’s task as well as a man’s.”
Alodar started to answer, but then frowned. “Wait a moment. You said, ‘One traveler at a time.’ How do you even know that?”
“From the writings given to us by the shrouded one on his first visit last year.” Briana shrugged, trying to make light of it. “A library page has been kind enough to gain me access.”
“I have studied the tome well,” she continued. “There is a dictionary, a tutorial on one of the dominant languages, what the alphabetical symbols look like, and a pronunciation guide.”
“Yes, yes, you are an apt student, able to discover secrets from even the most ancient of texts. Few of your age are your equal. But — ”
“And most important of all, the natives are primitive.” Briana rushed on. “They have no knowledge of the five crafts. Even if they did, the laws would be the same as they are here. I would not be going to another realm. It will be easy to explore a world that is like ours. How hard could that be? I will be back in a few days.
“Unlike other magical items, this portal has controls, settings for where and when to go and such,” she continued at a slower pace. “I have studied that also. After all, we have had these parchments for a year.”
The Archimage shook his head, “We have only the shrouded stranger’s word that the natives do not use the crafts. I do not trust him… at least not yet. Not until whomever makes the journey reports back what he has learned. Trust me. I will somehow find another way to correct the error you have made.”
He placed his hands on Briana’s shoulders, paused for a moment more, and then said softly, “The answer is no.”
“You can’t do that!” Briana yelled back. “Even the Archimage has limits to his power. You admitted as much yourself. You cannot order me around like some serf of an Arcadian lord.”
“I do not order you to stay because I am the Archimage,” Alodar said. “I do so because I am your father.”
Briana felt the anger well within her like a brush fire suddenly out of control. She clinched her teeth so as not to say more. The library page had a key to this council chamber, she thought fiercely. It might take more than a single kiss to get it, but that is what she would have to do.