Oddly, considering the fact that this was Drasnia, the strict morality of Darion and Selana raised them in the eyes of their neighbors far more than any amount of scheming, swindling, or spiteful gossip possibly could have. Despite their behavior, it seems that Drasnians do respect decency.
That line of thought raises an interesting notion. Could it possibly be that our itinerant Prince Kheldar, the thief who always has a well-planned escape route out of every town in the world firmly in mind, is secretly ashamed of his outrageous behavior and that a hidden yearning for honesty and decency lurks somewhere deep down in his grubby little soul?
On second thought, though, probably not.
Got you that time, didn’t I, Silk?
At any rate, Darion and Selana lived out their lives in Kotu, respected and secure in the good opinion of their neighbors. Khelan, their son, was raised as a Drasnian, but after our obligatory ‘little talk’ on his eighteenth birthday, he knew who he really was and why it was necessary for him to keep that information to himself. To his credit, Khelan didn’t ask that almost inevitable question, ‘Why didn’t you tell me before, Aunt Pol?’ Since he was culturally a Drasnian, he realized that I hadn’t told him before because he hadn’t needed to know before.
We apprenticed him to a ship-builder, and he did very well in that line. Drasnian vessels of the forty-fifth century were little more than coastal freighters that plied the trade routes in the Gulf of Cherek. They were broad of beam so that they could carry more cargo, and they wallowed along like pregnant whales. They resembled Cherek war-boats only insofar as both kinds of vessels were propelled by sails and both floated. The Cherek war-boats almost flew before the wind, but anything beyond a healthy sneeze tended to capsize a Drasnian freighter. Khelan was intelligent enough to pinpoint the reason for this distressing tendency, and he promoted the idea that a deeper keel might help to keep Drasnian ships right-side up. I’m sure that Drasnian seacaptains understood what he was driving at, but they resisted all the same – probably because they were so fond of shallow, hidden coves in secluded spots along various coasts. Far be it from me to suggest that all Drasnian seacaptains are smugglers. There almost have to be at least a few law-abiding Drasnians, and just because I’ve never met one doesn’t prove that there aren’t any.
My line of proteges – if that’s the proper term – lived and prospered in Kotu until the end of the forty-fifth century, and then I relocated them to Boktor. I usually avoided national capitals over those long centuries. Ctuchik was relying heavily on the Dagashi, and the Dagashi aren’t visibly Murgo. They could move around in the west without being readily identifiable, and the logical place to start looking for something in any kingdom is the capital. The problem with Drasnia is the fact that there aren’t really that many towns there. Oh, there are a few fishing villages in the fens to the west of Boktor, but I absolutely refused to live in that stinking swamp. Silk once referred to the western part of his homeland as ‘dear old mucky Drasnia’, and that more or less sums it up.
The moors of eastern Drasnia are almost as bad. The moors are a vast emptiness where winter comes early and stays late. It’s a region suitable only for the raising of reindeer, the primary occupation of prehistoric Drasnians. It wasn’t the weather that kept me out of eastern Drasnia, however. That region butts up against Gar og Nadrak, and I didn’t think it prudent to live that close to an Angarak kingdom. Moreover, eastern Drasnia is the natural home of the Bear-Cult in that kingdom. The combination of isolation and miserable weather insulates the minds of eastern Drasnian Cultists from such dangerous outside innovations as fire and the wheel.
My little family lived in Boktor for about seventy years, and then I uprooted them and took them to Cherek, where we resided in a village some distance to the west of Val Alorn. The growing season is short that far to the north, and the local men-folk devoted their winters to logging. A sea-faring nation such as Cherek always needs more timber than even the most industrious peasantry can provide. One of Iron-grip’s heirs, Dariel, turned out to be an inventor, and after looking rather closely at the local mill, where a water-wheel provided power to grind wheat into flour, he devised a way to make a water-wheel power a saw that converted raw logs into beams and planks. Dariel made a fortune with that idea, and his saw-mill was the family business for well over two centuries. I felt safe in Cherek because Chereks, the most elemental Alorns, automatically killed any Angarak they came across. There were plenty of taverns in Cherek, but there weren’t any Murgos asking questions in any of them. Even the Dagashi avoided Cherek.
Eventually, however, mother suggested that it was time to move on, more to prevent the line from becoming so totally Cherek that it’d be impossible to erase certain inborn Cherekish traits. The ultimate product of the Rivan line was to be ‘the Godslayer’, and mother thought it might be best if he knew which God he was supposed to slay. The notion of a berserker wielding Iron-grip’s sword and hacking his way through the entire pantheon didn’t sit too well with mother.
Strangely, given my prejudices, I rather enjoyed our stay in Cherek. The long succession of busty, blonde Cherek ladies who married my assorted nephews all shared the legendary Cherek fertility, and I often found myself literally awash with blonde children. I always had babies to play with while we were in Cherek.
In the year 4750, however, mother grew insistent, and after a long talk with the boy’s parents I took the most recent heir, Gariel, to Algaria. Back in the forty-first century, Prince Geran of Riva had married the daughter of Hattan, the younger brother of a clan-chief, and so Gariel was a hereditary member of Hattan’s clan. I pointed this out to Hurtal, the then-current clan-chief, and Gariel and I were accepted into the extended family of the clan.
I don’t enjoy the nomadic life of the Algar clans. It probably has to do with my upbringing. I like permanence and stability, and I find the notion of having a cow decide where I’m going to live slightly offensive. About the best thing you can say about the life of a nomad is the fact that he doesn’t stay in one place long enough for his garbage pile to overwhelm him.
Gariel learned how to ride horses and herd cows, and I fell back on my sometime occupation as a physician. I delivered babies by the score and aided mares in difficult foaling. I wasn’t really offended when I was called from my bed to help a pregnant horse. I noticed almost immediately that a mare in foal doesn’t ask silly questions during the birth the way my human patients did.