The chair went flying across the
room and crashed loudly against the far wall. Splinters and
boards exploded in the air, until the room reeked of dust and
varnish. Vacot Soss froze in the doorway,
very much aware of how close he’d come to being in the path of
that chair, and glad he had been tardy in answering the
costell’s summons. The man’s mood swings were becoming more
erratic, sometimes to the point where he feared for his friend’s
mental health. “Vacot!” Egan Pri stood in the middle of
the room. His face dripped sweat, and he was breathing heavily,
making it obvious he was responsible for the broken pieces of
wood and pottery that littered the room. “Yes, Egan? I’m here. You can
cease your little temper tantrum now.” He gave the man his best
I’m-not-in-the-mood-for-your-nonsense glare. As usual, it had
little effect on the big man. He watched the costell stumble
toward the door before turning to head down the hallway toward
his personal chambers. Vacot sighed loudly, not caring if the
man heard him, and dutifully followed. Once they were back in
the costell’s bedroom, he stood to one side as Egan slumped
wearily on a tufted footstool by the fire. When he was certain
the man was finished with his little show, Vacot took the chair
across from him. “Shall I call for something to
drink?” Egan glanced at him. “Call for
yourself, if you wish.” Vacot nodded. He knew that tone
of voice all too well, but he knew his friend better. Getting up
from his seat, he walked over to the bell pull near the door and
tugged twice on the elaborately sewn length of cloth. Seconds
later, a maiden opened the door. “A pottle of prine, and two
mugs.” She bobbed her head and
disappeared. Vacot resumed his seat near the fire. By this time
Egan had wiped his face, and his breathing had slowed. Which
meant he was ready to be civil again. “What’s wrong?” Egan gave a slight shake of his
head. “Grain count is off. We won’t have the harvest this winter
the farmers had been praying for.” Vacot frowned. More bad news, on
top of all the other bad news they had been experiencing for the
last six years. Would it ever end? No wonder his friend was
throwing a fit. “How short do you think we’ll be
this season?” “At least two bushels per
person,” Egan snapped. Digging his fingers through his thick,
black hair, he stared dejectedly at the fire. “The crops have
been off for far too long. There’s no avoiding the fact that my
people are going to starve this winter if something isn’t done.” “Egan, listen. You didn’t cause
the flood that washed away half of the storage bins. Neither did
you bring about the drought that caused the grain shortage,”
Vacot pointed out. “Hunting is poor. The fish are scarce.
There’s very little to look forward to.” Egan clenched his hands in
front of him. The man’s anger was again rising, borne of frustration,
fear, and the overwhelming sense of impotence. He couldn’t help his
people, and knowing many would die this winter under his rule was
tearing him apart. Vacot tried to hide his own
disappointment. “What did you need to see me for?” He reminded the man
why he was here. The costell gave a sound that was part
grunt, part growl. “I need a clear head to give me suggestions.” “I’m not a miracle worker, Egan. I
can’t make crops appear out of thin air. I have no more control
over...” He stopped, suddenly speechless, as an idea crossed his mind. Egan buried his face in his hands,
unaware of his friend and advisor’s moment of epiphany. “I don’t expect you to pull a miracle
out of your ass, Vacot. But I was hoping for some sound advice.
Perhaps a suggestion or two. If nothing else, a hard lecture on my
piss-poor job performance.” He glanced up to see the half-smile on
Vacot’s face. Immediately, he sat up a little straighter. “What?” No. No way will
he go for it.
“Forget it,” Vacot said. “What?” “Forget it,” Vacot repeated. “You said
yourself you’re the last person who believes in the mystic arts.” That frigid look he knew so well
settled over Egan’s features. “I have said all the prayers I can
muster,” the man began. “No. Not
prayers. Something else. Or rather, someone
else.” “What are you talking about?” the
costell demanded. “Quit with the riddles!” Vacot swallowed hard. “A Charm. I’m
talking about a Charm.” Egan looked as
if Vacot had swatted him across the face with a wet fish. “A Charm?
You’re talking about one of those, those
gypsies?” “Egan, listen to me—” “You want me to
take one of those vagrants and let them have free reign of my home and
my lands because you believe they can bring us
luck?”
The man got to his feet. He was clearly incensed by Vacot’s
suggestion. “You want me to risk the lives of my people on the chance
this Charm could actually—” “Egan, for the
gods’ sake, listen
to me!” Vacot got to
his feet to meet the man face to face. “Go take your precious gem
coins over to the next province. It won’t do you any good, and you
know that! They’re hurting for every scrap of food they can find, as
much as we are! And if they do have a meager portion to share, they
damn well won’t share it with
you,
no matter how much you try to barter!” Rather than risk having the man take a
punch at him, Vacot turned and strode over to the opposite wall, near
the bed. “Egan, I’ve been racking my brain, trying to find some kind
of solution, whether it be temporary or permanent. But the truth is,
we have run out of options. We have no chance, no hope...nothing that
will keep us from slowly starving to death. And I...I’m willing to do
anything now to prevent that from happening...even if it means putting
my faith in the mystical arts.” “But...a
Charm?”
Egan gasped. His anger had diffused itself again, to the point where
he was near tears. “What next? Writing the stars in our own blood?” “Listen, I recently received word that a
gypsy camp will be landing in Goddenslau in eight days. That may be your
only chance to procure a Charm, since they don’t show but every few years.
If you don’t take the risk then, Egan, you will never have another
opportunity.” Vacot took a deep breath. “We may not be alive the next time
the camp comes around.” He watched as Egan wearily rubbed his face.
“How will my people react when they discover I’ve foolishly spent their
taxes on a gypsy Charm? Huh?” “If the Charm works, you know how they’ll
react.” “And if it doesn’t?” “Will any of us be around much longer if
you don’t try?” Vacot held out his hands in supplication. “We have no
chance but this one, as slim as it appears, and as much as you don’t
believe in the mystical arts. But we have to try every option, every
possibility, no matter how it appears to be. Egan?” “What?” “You know my beliefs. You know where I
stand on this.” “Yes, I do,” Egan nodded, then paused to
think. “Eight days?” “Yes.” “Only in Goddenslau?” “It’s the only port that’s gotten a notice,
so far as we know. Roh Torom is a bit off the regular trade routes. You
know that.” Egan nodded in answer. “All right. Let me think on it.” Vacot held his breath, afraid to show his
joy. Giving a slight bow, he turned to leave when his friend stopped him. “Vacot? Have you ever witnessed one of
these Charms yourself? Up close?” “No. I’ve only heard of them.” “Same here. I’ve heard of what they can
do...of what they’ve done in the past. It almost sounds...it’s almost...” “Too good to be true?” For the first time in days, Vacot heard a
soft laugh come from the costell. “Yeah. Very much.” “People swear by them. Have been for as
long as I can remember. But one rule is very clear, or else the Charm will
not work.” “I know,” Egan told him. “They must be kept
happy.” “Yes. Think you can manage that, my
friend?” “Whatever it takes to save my people,” the
costell vowed. “I’ll do whatever it takes.” As the man lapsed into silence, Vacot bowed
again and finally left the bedroom. Egan Pri had not been a happy man for the
past six years, but he promised he would do whatever it took to keep those
under his rule healthy and safe. He was known as a man of his word. Vacot prayed the man would also be able to
find a little happiness of his own.
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