Chapter 13: Wares

The Annals of Ghalensa: The Power to Remake

Chapter 13: Wares

         The Amyrdon market sprawled in every direction for what seemed miles. Road after road of wooden and brick storefronts. One open area was full of tents and booths. Gnor roamed around the market expecting to run into Farther Lane. Why should he ask? It would just point him out as a stranger. Being urlani was hard enough.

         The sun beat hot. He ditched into a variety shop called First Necessity for a respite from the heat. There he found some ox jerky and dried bean soup to add a little zest to his fare of mealcakes and grain wafers. He was surprised everyone ignored him unless he spoke first, which was a good thing. No one was going out of their way to sneer at him and tell him to go home.

         He found two locksmiths and checked to see if either knew the maker of the locks on the trunks at the Great River Inn. Neither did. For all his roaming, he finally turned down a dusty road on the outskirts of the market called Far Lane, which ended, for all its irony, at another path called Farther Lane. There was one shop on the lane. A grand, wooden sign, clean and well painted, hung over the shop front. Deerhead Gourdware. He entered.

         “Interested in some cups, scoops, bowls, or plates, sir? We have it all. The finest gourdware you’ll find in all the land. Made by the most skilled craftwerkers in the Deerhead Valley, imported directly from Ear.” The agile looking Evinfolk trader hardly paused for breath as he went on. “Or perhaps you’re looking for something a bit more attractive. We specialize in encased gourdware, not available anywhere else near here for a thousand miles. We ship it straight up the Great River directly to Kethel Mitredon. Made by the Boor smithies, the best you know.”

         Gnor inspected some bowls on display, looking them over in fine detail, checking the work. The green and orange zig zag patterns were intriguing.

         “Where’s the encased wares?” He asked.

         “These four shelves here have our silver wares.”

         “That’s fine,” he said, “but I’m interested in gold wares.”

         “I’m sorry sir, we keep those in the back, under guard, you know, invitation to traders only. Do you have a Certificate of Trade I might see?”

         Gnor pulled a slender bone tube from a breast pocket in his tunic, snapped the metal cap open, and dumped a tiny vellum scroll into his hand. The scroll had the trade seal of Rudivia in the upper right corner and a statement to the effect that he was a manufacturer authorized to trade in all goods, all gold, and all precious commodities. It bore the signet of the Mag Proficum of the Parcel of Sammishone along with his own signet, which he produced with the scroll for validation.

         “Very well, would you like to see our gold wares, sir.”

         “I thought I needed an invitation?”

         The lines on the trader’s forehead stood rigid. “I’m inviting you, sir.”

         Gnor grinned. “Well then, lead on,” he said.

         The trader nodded, “Follow me.”

         Gnor thought it strange that the shop would sell its gold wares to traders only. He stuffed his hard earned credentials back into his pocket as he tagged along to a back room where a slender Ahnjin stood guard with a long curved blade at his side. The Evinfolk trader escorted Gnor past the guard into the room. The shelves on every wall were filled with highly polished, gleaming silver and gold encased gourdware. Most of it was gold.

         The gourds were only used for their unique shapes, with their natural bumps and curves. The real value was in the layers of gold or silver plated over the gourd, a painstaking process no one but the Boors had mastered. They were the absolute best metalwerkers in all Aralon.

         A wrinkled old jen sat in a rocking chair against one wall next to a workbench. Gnor couldn’t tell if he was Evinfolk or Ahnjin, age having blended his features and shrunk his figure. He wore a thick charcoal gray cloak with dark maroon zig zags down the front. He hid his hands beneath the folds of fabric as he rocked, smiling at Gnor.

         “What particular wares are you interested in?” The trader asked.

         “Would you happen to have a gilded water drawing cup?”

         “Indeed we do,” he said. “The old jen brought it just yesterdawn from Kethel Mitredon. He can show it to you.” Turning he said, “Orak, this is Guh-nor, trader from Sammishone of Rudivia, he’s interested in the gilded water draw.”

         “Excuse me,” Gnor cut in, “my name is Nor, Nor, that’s how you say it.”

         The old jen drew his right hand out from under the cloak and presented the gold drawing cup. Its handle flared out in an intricate ivy leaf pattern. The cup was fashioned out of a fist sized gourd, cut lengthwise so that the thin neck made a natural spout from which to pour the drawn water. The front of the cup bore the face of one of the forest tree cats set with sapphire eyes. Inside, the cup was glazed in a brilliant azure to match the sapphire eyes. It was a spectacular and valuable piece of work indeed.

         “Come,” Orak said, “sit, and feel the balance, the precision, the beauty of this most excellent piece, and you will be unable to part with it.” His voice was too brisk for his age.

         The trader escort did an about face and left the room as Gnor sat on the low stool next to Orak. The old jen said nothing. He stared forward as if he completely forgot what he was doing. Gnor shifted uneasily. The awkward moment lingered. Was he okay? Gnor had to say something.

         “Does the gold make the water in the cup more valuable?”

         Orak smiled, “It depends on the situation, as you shall see. It’s no ordinary gilded water draw. It took me years to fashion it, years of working with ghalensa sap and ghalister pollen, years of ferreting out some of the secret skills of Orbwrights, years of patient work to get it to do what it does. If you are worthy, Gnor, you may yet bear the cup. It must not be wasted in the wrong hands. Hold it for now and come downstairs with me if you would learn more.”

         Only then did Gnor realize that this old jen must be none other than the great Kurdevon himself. The dispatch, after all, bore his seal. He felt weak. His knees ached as he stood.

         “Your Excellency, I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was you.”

         “It’s not, I’m Orak. Now hold your tongue and follow me.”

         Orak shoved the rocking chair aside, tipped a plank with his foot, and lifted a trapdoor panel over a narrow laddered stairway that led into a cellar. After they descended, Orak reached back up and pulled the trapdoor shut. He slid another plank aside, reached up through the floor, and slid the rocking chair back over the trapdoor on the floor above.

         Gnor felt foolish for blurting out Kurdevon’s name in an open place. He should have known better.

         “I’m sorry for speaking up there,” he said.

         “Hold your tongue, I told you. Now follow me.”

         Again he spoke too soon. It’s a wonder Kurdevon would trust him with any mission. If he didn’t just shut up, he might yet stick his foot in so deep that he couldn’t get it out. Kurdevon, or Orak, as he called himself, scowled and led on.

         “This way,” he said, leading him down a dimly lit narrow corridor lined with old wine bottles. Gnor stepped precisely to avoid crashing into them. An intruder might not be so precise in the dark, causing quite the tumult in these brick corridors. An effective warning device, like his tin cups.

         The air was surprisingly crisp and clean for a cellar. They stopped along one of the walls. Orak pulled a loose brick out and reached into the hole. The heavy sound of stone scraping stone filled the corridor and shook the floor. A section of the wall rotated open far enough to allow them to enter another dimly lit corridor. Orak pushed another brick to close the wall and they moved on.

         Down the corridor, beyond Orak, Gnor beheld one of the most exquisitely crafted marble archways he had ever seen. He marveled how such a magnificent archway came to be in some old, musty shop cellar. He was riveted on the intricate bas relief carvings which lined the archway. A plethora of ancient battle scenes and heroic struggles, of jennah and urlani heroes fighting each other and fighting strange creatures, came to life as they approached. There were other figures and places of the past, including some very accurate carvings of Providers without their protective shimmering cloaks. He knew. He’d seen them himself.

         He respected the Providers. Not that he agreed with all their ways, but they always treated him and his urlani brethren with the greatest honor and dignity. They gave them free reign in all of open Ghalensa, the part of the Tree above ground, and gave them magnificent spire cities to dwell in. There was nothing quite like the marvelous sight of a spire city with its brilliantly colored, gleaming skyline of spiral towers set against a twilight sky of emerald green. Occasionally he longed for such a sight, and to once again dwell near a people who held him in esteem rather than in derision.

         Why had he left? It was that independent, wayfaring streak in him. He wanted to explore the world, to lead a different life. Not that being a Tender was bad in any way. Generation after generation of urlani were Tenders. He wanted to expand into other realms of opportunity, to find new ideas and discover new things, to find commodities he might introduce back into urlani society. He knew the prejudice that awaited him in Aralon and he went anyway. He was willing to take that chance.

         It paid off. He liked his life despite the fact that it hadn’t turned out as he saw it. Rather than bring new commodities into urlani society, he ended up bringing Tree commodities to the jennah. Then he met the magnhemists. They were not proper, recognized magnhemists, but revoked magnhemists, misfits, exiled from their Bowers. They needed orbs, black market orbs he could get through his old Tender connections. He was reluctant at first, but soon learned to trust them. They were the first and only jennah to ever treat him with any respect. Through them he met others like himself, displaced urlani looking for more than just being Tenders or salt traders. They all joined the exiles in their cause, and so became members of the Order of at Bar Vylar, the Unseen Bower.

         The Order of Vylar helped him to start a cart and crate manufacturing and trading business as a cover for his new role as an operative or functionary of the order. His real work as a functionary was to harbor revoked and exiled magnhemists, and to trade in contraband Tree goods. These were not stolen contraband, but illicit goods manufactured by dissident Orbwrights concealed in the darker recesses of Ghalensa.

         Orbwrights were the only Providers skilled at crafting the orbs and other objects that worked by the Power of the Tree. The loyal Orbwrights, functioning among the Providers, guarded their ancient art in a secretive guild that enjoyed the protection of the Ring of Elders. Word had it that the Ancients taught the Providers the art of the Orbwright in a pledge of secrecy, lest it be taken from them. The Ancients charged the Ring of Elders to provide for, protect, and oversee the guild. No orb or Tree goods were made for any purpose without the Ring’s approval.

         The dissenters, however, banded together to form an organization of hidden wrightshops where they could craft Tree goods and pass them on to Aralon at premium prices via the black-market. The network of these wrightshops was so well concealed that its secrecy rivaled even that of the guild. The Ring of Elders, embarrassed by the existence of this network, pretended it didn’t exist. Even so, they authorized a covert arm of Sifters to find and eliminate these renegade Orbwrights and their shops.

         The Providers were not as perfect as most jennah believed. They had their own squabbles and disputes like any normal people. Their society suffered the bane of thieves, thugs, and other dissenters. Differences of opinion regarding the Tree, the jennah, magnhemistry, and other issues were common. But as a whole, their society functioned well and most backed the Ring of Elders, even if out of duty, rather than eagerness.

         The Ancients appointed the Providers to oversee the gift of the Tree to Urlana, and then returned to their realm, Maghra, in the Otherworld. Some said the Ancients never existed, a myth to keep the Tenders and jennah in respect and awe of the Providers. Whether true or not, the jennah regarded Maghra as that sacred place in the Otherworld, existing in another time and place, where the Tree originated, and where the Ancients, the revered elder race that spawned them, now resided.

         The Tenders also respected Maghra, but did not revere it like the jennah. After all, they were the original people of Urlana, not spawned by any mythical elder race. They were here before the Tree ever was. Nonetheless, the history of their world now revolved around the Tree. Indeed, it was their home, their safe asylum from the jennah, and the place that gave them identity as a people. The whole matter with Maghra, the Tree, its power, the jennah, Aralon, and the Tenders was very complicated. Throw into that Vikzyrn, land of the taint, and it was no wonder no one could really sort it all out. The Order of Vylar was trying.

         The order knew, for instance, that it was not the fault of the urlani, but the out-of-control use of the power of the Tree by the jennah of old, which led to the calamities that nearly destroyed Urlana. They knew that the Order of Magnhemistry was instituted to bring stability and control to their use of the power of the Tree. They knew that the Providers gave the urlani asylum on Ghalensa as Tenders to protect them from the jennah of old. They believed that the Ancients set all this in motion to preserve the power of the Tree and all of Urlana, and they vowed to do what was necessary to uphold that balance.

         Most Tenders considered groups like the Vylar to be nothing but rebellious jennah working to undermine the foundations of magnhemistry and destroy the world. They would disapprove of Gnor’s participation in such a dissident group. They regarded all such activity as opposition to the Providers and dangerous to the preservation of society. They didn’t understand the state of affairs in Aralon.

         Magnhemistry was in disorder. The legalistic interpretations of the Writings had engendered an oppressive environment in which rampant politicking and power struggles were tearing it apart from within. If it failed, the power of the Tree would be unleashed without control or balance. The Dark Heart of Morbidity would rise again and thrust all Urlana into utter ruin. There would be another Dire Age and perhaps the urlani would not survive this one. He shuddered.

         The Providers were too embroiled in their own problems to see how frail the system of magnhemistry had become. The Ring of Elders turned their attention to the growing discontent among their own people. They maintained that magnhemistry was in good order, self-regulating and self-adjusting to the jennah way of life. Their apathy was dangerous.

         That’s why he joined the cause, to do something about it himself. The magnhemists of Vylar, and, for the most part, all the Galamandyrs, were on a noble mission to keep magnhemistry strong and to support the proper balance of power. True, they were derided as Progressionists, accused of dismantling the Order of Magnhemistry with their unorthodox views, but this was untrue. They used logic and practical sense in their approach to progress toward a better magnhemistry, and to preserve the balance.

         The Preservationists, on the other hand, were not really interested in preserving magnhemistry, but in preserving their own systems of power and their policies of domination and control. They did not respect and use the power of the Tree in service to society, but rather used their positions of authority to lord the power of the Tree over people, to keep them in obeisance. Contrary to this it was the Progressionists who were truly the ones working to restore the proper order to magnhemistry.

         After getting set up in the carts and crates business, Gnor became discontent with sitting still, “Rotting in Catharfa,” he called it. He yearned to roam the world. He asked again and again to be sent on missions but was told that he was not qualified. They tried to keep him happy by sending him on various business trips for the company. He enjoyed the travel but it still wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what he wanted. Now, without warning or preparation, he was called upon for an important mission to Ghalensa. Why?

         He had nearly finished viewing all the bas relief carvings in the green marble archway when Orak finally pushed the door open and beckoned him to follow. He expected another small, brick room, but this one was large and well crafted in white marble throughout. Intricate tapestries hung on all the walls, and a plush, deep red rug, the type made in Pelaroon, covered more than half the floor. There were lightsticks along the walls between the tapestries, and one large light orb hanging from the ceiling, to keep the room awash in a steady glow.

         A whole quarter of the rectangular room was lined with free-standing shelves bearing numerous books, scrolls, and parchments. It was one of the largest libraries he’d ever seen. Another quarter, next to the library, was a meeting area with four large tables surrounded by at least twenty carved wooden chairs. The opposite half of the room was for reclining and leisure, complete with a roaring fireplace, and steaming tea kettle. Doors led to other rooms, probably some bedrooms, a kitchen, and a dining area. Perhaps even a spa, he thought, catching a hint of a wisp of boiling eucalyptus. He wasn’t sure.

         “Come this way,” Orak ordered, more terse than before. In fact, he was being downright disrespectful. Oh, he’d been ever so friendly when they first met upstairs, giving him the golden water draw and all. Was it some sort of trick? A test? How could he have ever thought this was Kurdevon? It couldn’t be. Not the way this jennah was acting. There was no dignity in his demeanor. Not that Gnor was a good judge of dignity, but he expected better treatment than being barked at like a dog. Gnor scowled as they headed for the meeting area.

         “We’ll meet here this dawn to discuss your worthiness for this mission. This is your seat. Do you want some tea?”

         Gnor plunked the gilded drawing cup down onto the large table near his seat as he swung toward Orak, one hand on his hip and the other waving.

         “Would you mind telling me a little more about what’s going on around here. You lured me down into this slaggin chamber with your precious water cup and treated me like dirt ever since without so much as— ”

         “Hold your tongue, Gnor, and be seated.”

         “No. That’s all you’ve told me to do since I got here. Hold your tongue, hold your tongue. Well I’m done holding my tongue. I want to know what’s going on since I’m a part of it.”

         Orak turned and faced a shelf of books nearby. “Did I not tell you the Catharfa geome reported that he was impetuous and obstinate. He is not fit to be an Active. He will endanger himself and the Order.”

         “Hold your peace, Orak,” a voice came from the library, ”these decisions are not yours to make. The council will decide.”

         A small Evinfolk jen with remarkable amber eyes emerged from behind the books. He was garbed in flowing robes and he bore an incredible staff. Not just any staff. It was a sceptre, a Ruling Sceptre. Not one of the original nine given to the jennah by the Ancients, but a Ruling Sceptre nonetheless. The heat of the previous moment dissipated in the awe he felt beholding this staff of power.

         Mounted at its top was not one orb, as with the other Ruling Sceptres, but nine smaller orbs, each no larger than an inch across. These were mounted in a circle at the end of nine tines. The color of each orb corresponded to the colors of the nine Bowers of the jennah. The ruling Yellow Orb of the Prime Bower of Ghalensa was not represented. Carved into the sceptre just below where the tines branched out from the staff, was an archway replicating in miniature the one he had just entered.

         The Ruling Sceptres of each province bore the carved image of their Bower. At the apex of each was a fist sized orb of the color of that province. Thus, each sceptre was a miniature copy of the Bower itself. Only the Magna of each province, chosen by the Bower orb in an Occasion of Magnanimity, could wield the Ruling Sceptre. It would sting and incapacitate all others.

         The immensity of the moment hit him all at once. The Ruling Sceptre, the Unseen Bower, Kurdevon, the impending mission, a meeting of the Order of Vylar, his worthiness.

         “Your Excellency,” Gnor bowed, “I’m glad to be of service and honored by your summons. I’m willing to do whatever it takes, I’ll get the job done. Send me on this mission, I will prove myself.”

         “The council will decide that, Gnor. For now,” he motioned to a chair, “let’s sit and talk.”

         Gnor sat.

         Kurdevon requested Orak to bring tea for the both of them then sat himself. “We have much to discuss.”

 Next  "Chapter 14: The Empty Places"