Emerald Isle.
It was third watch, Paris' watch, in this green island country. In this land it was clear at dusk, but the clouds gathered during the night. Somewhere around midnight it got thick enough to obscure the stars and the lamp; by dawn, the fog was so thick one could barely see forty feet. Hobbes was invisible without even being invisible. Paris gazed out over the darkened countryside, peering through the mists, trying to discern the low-hanging star that Anton had stated was the lantern of the Hermit of the Tarot. In her heart, Paris had thought the same even before Anton had spoken so authoritatively. But what would it be, really? The lamp of knowledge? Diogenes seeking an honest man? A beacon of hope burning in the wilderness of monsters? or of the human heart? Unfortunately, the lamp wasn't visible in third watch
Paris thought about it. Hermits don't tend to seek others or offer either knowledge or understanding for others. Hermits were hermits because they choose to be away from people, because they have a need to find out something in their own hearts or minds. Yes, she'd read lais about the occasional prisoner who was commonly mistaken to be a hermit and needed rescue for the truth to be revealed. And lais about wild men or noble knights gone insane and become wild men -- also taken for hermits. But that was due to fear, more or less, on both sides. Wild-looking strangers are feared by common peasants and, if unarmed, threatened with violence and chased away -- because the ordinary peasant fears violence from the outré and strange. A pattern that could feed on itself. Which made it understandable that a wild person would tend to avoid repetition of such treatment. Paris sighed. Stories. Just stories. The Hermit of the Tarot was not likely to be either a prisoner or a sufferer of insanity. But it would be wise to respect his hermitage and to try to get an invitation before they all barged in on his solitude.
What would they ask him? How to find Justice. How to find the Scepter and the Orb. How to find the Emperor. Fortitude had indicated that they would find answers to all of that with the Hermit. It certainly sounded like his would be the Lamp of Knowledge. What else, then? How to avoid the Warlord? How to rescue the Emperor? How to get back to Tara without having to fight the 'dwarves'? How to get back to Westmore in time for the Harvest Festival?
Her thoughts wandered. The Harvest Festival. No matter how fast they traveled now, they might not be able to travel fast enough. They might not make it. There was still a margin of a week or two. But.... The journey here had been relatively unobstructed. That wouldn't be the case on the return, given the armies between here and Dungeon, between Dungeon and the capital, between Pelier and Carcassonne, between the fort and Westmore. There might be armies even, if she'd gotten anything out of what Rhori had said about the orc city he and Baron Ruby had visited -- between here and Westmore. Just in case it had crossed anyone else's mind besides hers that they could consider not retracing their steps, but try to move through the uncharted territory of northwest Tara. The northwest. Where the orc armies came from originally. Where we'd hypothesized the Warlord would be found. Where the Emperor was, possibly, held captive.
Would the Hermit tell her how to make the right decisions? What if it came down to doing one of these Tarot-tasks instead of getting back to Westmore by Harvest Festival? The 'when' might be one of those impossible decisions. If they could rescue the Emperor, they must. That was going to be part of saving the world, she was sure. All the Tarot must survive -- or be restored -- if the Party was to learn enough to make whatever decision would be theirs to make at the end. At the end. The magi had said that the last card of the Tarot was the World. And before that, the Judgment. The Minor Arcana would have the opportunity to choose, to use the keys, to determine what the World would be like. According to Mia and Anton, she and the others were part of the Minor Arcana -- those who could make decisions. And choosing for the world, Paris felt cold at the responsibility, could only be done well if they learned enough, if they asked the right questions, if they understood all the ramifications. 'Understanding is key.'
The Hermit might be able to tell where to find the Keys. He might even tell what the ramifications of using them would be. Maybe not. That seemed to be one of the subjects on which all these people of the Tarot had to be obscure. 'Understanding is key.' It would be nice to be pointed towards something that would make it easier to Understand. Paris sighed again.
But if there were going to be all these other things -- plus huge orc armies -- to take up time on the way home.... Paris refused to close her eyes. She was on watch. But her eyes stung and she could still see in her mind, hanging between her and the stars, His face. Prince William. Worried. Tired. Upset with her lack of understanding. He would be even more pressed, more tired by this time. She had so wanted to be of help to Him. To truly be one of His soldiers. To ease some of the strain, to make him proud, to see him smile. He had a good smile, she realized. Did He smile at all now? The Duke would be recovered by now. Undoubtedly they both would be driven, using all their brain and energy, to protect Westmore. And the Prince would be wild to win through back to Pelier. Back to his home, his people. The same lines of strain she'd seen in Baron Emerald and Count Dungeon would be drawn on her Prince and Duke. Perhaps worse. Were the 'human monsters' still in Prince William's entourage? Was he at risk from treachery within as well as orcs without? Dungeon didn't have that worry, as far as she could tell. And Dungeon had a source of training and of cards. Would the Duke's box be enough? Would all the foreign magi and adventurers who had poured into Westmore be willing to help the Prince and the Duke defend? Dungeon's guilds were loyal Dungeoneers. What did Westmore have? Refugees, most of whom were not able-bodied fighters. Those had gone down, Paris swallowed painfully, as most of the men of Jouet had. Did the Court now believe, now that orc armies spread across Westmore's plains? Was the Court now all on the Prince's side? Had enough understood in time? Or were the outlying manors now smoking ruins and Westmore home to even more refugees? Was -- was the deLacey land now being tramped by orc feet? Paris felt a pang. She'd never found out just where Ewen's home was. She hadn't been able to go the one time he'd asked her. Had the Empress' vines and beans gone to waste under orcish hordes?
Had her classmates tasted real battle yet? The Prince sent her out on missions before she was ready for knighthood. It did not seem likely that her noble peers would take well to pretending to fight orcs when there were real ones in need of defeat -- whether or no they were ready for a knight's oaths. Would any of them survive to be knighted at Harvest Festival? Would there even be a Harvest Festival?
Real Girl's whisper resolved itself out of the general train of thought. "But it's a good thing Ewen isn't able to see our thoughts -- he didn't show up anywhere."
Serious responded, "Not true. She won't let herself wonder about specifics. After all, if Ewen gets himself killed defending Westmore, Paris is going to feel terribly guilty about not trying harder to fall in love with him and at least making him a little happy before she had to leave. Are you ready to shoulder that sort of guilt yet?"
Real Girl: "If she isn't in love, why would we feel guilty?"
Serious: "You could answer that."
Real Girl whimpered. "'I loved not yet... but loved to love... in love with loving?'"
Serious nodded. "Perhaps. That's your field. It's hard enough being 'safe' out here in the wilds, when we know the kinds of atrocities the orc armies are inflicting down south. All of our words to Lorraine are like ashes. We've not been able to save anyone, so far.
A dozen faces swim into view. After each of the battles at Dungeon, she had prayed over wounded soldiers, the power and the light had flowed through her, and these dozen stood up again. A scattered orc army. Even those of her own party that she had schooled in riding a horse, well enough to race through the ghost town of Calais fast enough to escape. Some few, saved.
Paris felt a contrite prayer form. A joyful thanksgiving for having been given the power to do so much. Repentance for wanting power to do more. She tried to school herself to be submissive. If that was all she could do, then that was what she should be content doing. But -- all that needed doing gnawed at her.
Paris had to grit her teeth, to resist the urge to be up and moving, to be a step nearer to the end of this quest. There was so much need back in Tara. In Westmore. In poor, poor, unprepared Pelier. Had Sir Givance and his men been ambushed by the new orc infestation as they headed out to relieve Fort Carcassonne? Was there anything she could have, should have said to that gallant knight before she left? Anything that could have prepared him better? Had she allowed one of her Prince's most trusted supporters and friends to ride blindly to his death? She could only pray that Prince William's reports had prepared Pelier as much as anything she could have said. And she had to pray that the Librarian had found even more books. Books on magic. So that Pelier could, like Dungeon, start up magical defenses.
The Librarian. Her eyes stung again. If she had let the others go back and try to read the books, the Librarian would even now know how to read them. And there might already be priests like Mia who could wield the combat healing magic that Dungeon had found so amazing. If only! How many deaths at Pelier even now were her responsibility and no other -- for that poor decision. No one would forgive her that. It wasn't forgivable. It had been stupid.
Would not sending Rhori back with his book end up being a stupid decision too? Could Rhori and Hobbes have made it back -- all the way back -- through Pelier and through Ft. Carcassonne to Westmore and Baron Ruby? Or would sending him back have been to send him on a suicide mission? Yes, Hobbes could stay invisible. And, yes, Rhori was quieter, more stealthy than he'd been once upon a time. But.... neither was really clever. And there were so many armies to be gotten past. But the Prince needed more rangers and more guardsmen. That was the whole purpose for this current quest. He needed -- and she had denied His need by fearing more for Rhori than for the innocents under siege in southern Tara. Another silent prayer went up into the night sky. Wordless anguish at having no guide other than her heart. If she was important -- and He had said she was, He had said she must come back -- then so was Rhori important. And she had to see that they both -- that they all -- made it back. In time.
It would be good -- if there was time -- if they could retrace their steps. At the very least, if they could leave Claire off at Pelier, that would provide the communication link that the commanders needed. In the Tomb of the Lost King, Claire had said, she could talk both with her Pierre and the Dungeon mage. Rune. That had been the name. The Tomb in the middle of the plain. A plain full of orcs. How, how, how could this be managed? Paris found herself wishing that her original impression -- that the Tomb had been part of the mountain of Pelier -- had been the truth. In Pelier there would be access to the King's command staff -- and protection from armies of orcs for one young mage. Perhaps there was one of her -- what was the term? -- telluric currents at Pelier. That would make it possible. Claire was brave, but -- there was no way she could simply be left in the Tomb if the orcs held the plains. No way. And no way to find out if Dungeon and Westmore could not get tidings from Pelier.
If they could make it back to Pelier, perhaps it would be best to leave most of the companions there. Pelier would have need of experienced magi. And Mia could prove her worth there as well and win more respect for her church. And Brillig's skills... yes, just as they had been of worth in Dungeon, would they be of yet more worth in Pelier where no one else had three months of experience wielding magics. Getting to Pelier would be valuable. Then she and Rhori would try to make it back to Westmore where the Prince and Baron Ruby waited. Perhaps Rhori could teach her something about being stealthy and quiet. Two might be able to sneak through from Pelier to Westmore, especially with an invisible lion to scout and watch. Two -- with the books needed by her Prince.
It was hard to not give in to the excitement that picture generated. Being able to give Him the books He wanted in time to do some good. Her breath caught and it seemed strange that her heart didn't leap up and choke her. "To imagine victory is to prepare yourself to win it; to give in to excitement is to cloud your judgment and become fodder for someone else's victory," Serious' voice moved out of the uniformity of Paris' previous thinking.
"There is much you won't imagine and won't prepare for," Real Girl grumbled.
Serious: "There is much over which I have no control. To wish to control such is to invite heartbreak and despair. I thought you had had enough of that."
RG: "We could at least dwell more often on the lovely things that makes life worthwhile. Calais' laugh. The Prince's smile. Rhori's friendship. The kindnesses of our other friends. The strange and beautiful landscapes we've traveled within."
Serious nodded. "You are free to do so. I still have steps to consider before we even have our book and the ability to return home. Remember what it took to reach Fortitude? A mountain maze. A bear. A blocked tunnel and a water-filled tunnel. A puzzle riddle. And those near-fatal battles with those hellish vanishing hounds. If those were tests of Strength, what more testing must we endured to reach Justice? We -- Paris and company -- understand Strength. We all have it in one way or another. Even Anton found the inner strength to come through Claire's tunneling." Paris shook her head. "But Justice. Do any of us really understand what is Just and what is Unjust?"
RG, quietly: "Justice is the Law tempered with mercy."
Serious: "Is it? Or is that just Paris' idea? Whose Law? The King's? The Crown Prince's? Prince William's? The Arch Priest's? Count Dungeon's? The Elves'? Have we not caught indications that the laws differs depending on who and where? What, then, are the Laws of Tarot?"
RG: "Paris has studied hard and well at the book of the Laws of Tara that He gave her. Will that not suffice?"
Serious: "In Westmore, yes. In Pelier, yes, probably. In Dungeon, yes, probably. But those are not in Tarot; they are of Torat. Justice is of the Major Arcana of Tarot. Justice has no choice. Like the others, Justice -- is. So -- what tests should we prepare for?"
RG, softly: "Think on our Prince. You prepared to die at the hands of His justice and He did not call you fool but showed a mercy that did not display your foolishness for the world. If He can show you the ways of His justice, why will not Justice show you its ways? Perhaps each of the company will learn truly what justice means to them. We learned we had the strength to ask for help of a guide up the mountain. We had to strengthen our trust in Rhori to deal with the bear, and he had to test his strength in his powers of dealing with the bear. Claire needed to test the strength of her tunneling and Anton his strength of will to be enclosed. We trusted to the strength of cleverness to create riddles. We trusted the strength of Mia's water spell -- and her courage to see us all safe in it. Some of the others had experienced it before, but not Paris. The strength of trust is a powerful thing. And we each learned how much we could endure of the hell dogs' torches. It was not Rhori alone who had to endure with strength."
Silence reigned as Paris continued her vigilance and rejoiced -- for various reasons -- when dawn's tints beautifully coloured the sky. Her morning prayers would, as always, be a plea for God to strengthen and keep safe His people while she and her comrades did the work assigned them.
"Low Star" copyright 1999 S.Knowles & P.Shea. The contents of this site are copyright 2004 Sheryl A. Knowles unless otherwise specified. All rights reserved.