[Mkguild] Midnight

[Michael Olson]

This is a story I wrote a long time ago, that I'm pretty certain never
made it out onto the list.  It was meant to be a prologue of sorts for
a much longer tale that I never got around to writing.  Maybe actually
taking the step of putting this together and tossing it out will help
me to change that.  It is largely unrelated to the other stories I've
sent out, so it should be comprehensible on its own.  The title is
admittedly out of place by itself.  I was supposed to write the
stories "Dusk", "Midnight", "Dawn", and "Noon" highlighting major
progressions in the lives of my characters.  Only Dusk ever made it
out though :)

Anyway, apologies for my typos and lapses in editing, and my gratitude
to Thaeus for reminding me about this story.  Comments and corrections
are always appreciated as well :)

Michael Olson
AKA Mystic

The winter of WA

Davydd looked at his image in the family's full-length mirror and
picked a few hairs from the front of his yellow doublet.  "There," he
thought to himself.  "Perfect."  Attired in the finest clothes he
owned, things still felt far from ideal, however.  He adjusted the
flat hat on his head, trying to dispel the unease in vain.

His father's voice bounded off the walls of the stairwell leading to
the ground floor, "Davydd!  Stop your lollygagging and get down here.
If you don't leave now you'll be late."  Unable to disobey the
command, the young man took a final glance at the looking glass and
then hurried to answer the call, feeling no more reassured than when
he'd begun preparing for the night.

Upon completing his descent he found his father's stern face waiting,
poised as always to display disapproval at the slightest mistake.  The
older man appraised him carefully, but apparently could find nothing
to fault in his appearance.  "Stay sharp, and don't embarrass our
name," the man admonished unnecessarily.

Davydd nodded and gave a perfunctory, "Yes, sir," as he was escorted
to the door.  One of the family's servants handed the youth his cloak
and opened the door.  Davydd stepped out onto the powdered porch in
the snow swirled night.   He looked at his father, waiting for the
final dismissal to attend to the night's work.

The older man's eyes seemed to waver as if he wanted to say something,
but all he managed to get past his lips was, "Be confident, and your
blood will see you through."  He ended the statement with an
abbreviated nod and then left to attend to other matters, the door
shut for him without need for verbal request.

Davydd walked off alone into the winter's night, making his way along
the cobbled streets toward the site of the evening's party.  The
street lamps were lit only intermittently, the lighters shirking their
duty in exchange for a warm fire.

The wind pulled at the young man's cloak and cut into his face,
attempting to keep him from his destination.  He clutched at the front
of the garment, trying to keep it closed and attempting to ignore the
increasing numbness in his fingers.  Such attempts inevitably lead him
to consider his situation.

He was on his way to the merchant's ball, a grand event attended by
all the most prominent families in the region.  His own ranked fairly
near the bottom of the list in terms of wealth, and they had no
pedigree of nobility to compensate.

His grandfather had established the first glimmerings of status for
them, and his father had taken great strides in building upon that
foundation.  By all reckoning, it looked like his elder brother would
do well by the family name too, having already proven himself
competent in managing the local warehouses.

Davydd wished he could also find satisfaction, pride, or happiness in
the counting of coin and haggling of prices.  He would certainly be
less of a disappointment to his father if it were so.  Thus far,
however, the only thing that had ever truly felt right to him was
playing the family harpsichord.  However, he knew his father wouldn't
have anything so ridiculous and shameful as a minstrel in the family.
So, when it came time to begin carving his place in the world, he had
announced his intent to start a network of caravans.  It was
commercial enough to earn his father's consent, and also would give
him the opportunity to see the world.  The itch to travel had been
becoming steadily stronger of late, but he attributed it as simply
another way he was being told that it was time to grow up.

If only the pit of his stomach didn't beg to differ with all of those
signs.  It told him that he was wholly unprepared for the den of
wolves he'd be entering, and that he would be eaten alive.  The idea
continued to wear away at his resolve until he was ready to turn
around and go home.  Something suddenly balked in him though,
disgusted with his own cowardice.  He recalled the parting words his
father had given him, 'Be confident, and your blood will see you
through.'.

'I am Davydd Bach' the young man began, only to stop and decide that
Bach was not a last name suiting such a rising star in the social
circles.  The family deserved something more fitting, like Rising.
Davydd Rising?  No that sounded a bit silly.  Perhaps he could give it
a bit of a twist, like Riesan.  That sounded better, and it needed a
noble flair; VonRiesan!

The wind gusted powerfully ripping the edges of his cloak from his
numbed grasp billowing it out behind him.  The fine clothes underneath
did little to hold off the cold, but what was an insignificant thing
like temperature to the likes of Davydd VonRiesan?  He strode
confidently into the arctic breath, cloak snapping violently behind
him.

He was more than a match for any wolves he'd find, dressed as sharply
as he was and surely radiating potential.  In fact, such would be
beneath him to deal with.  Bear would be more fitting sport.  He was
Davydd VonRiesan, and he was prepared to hunt bear!

The palatial structure at which the event was being held loomed up
before him, and the youth found himself mounting the stairs to the
entrance before he knew it.  As the number of remaining stone steps
dwindled beneath his feet a string of panic tried to snake out from
deep inside, but VonRiesan smothered the remnant of Bach with more
mentally voiced bravado.

He walked up to the guards at the door and announced himself, "Davydd
Bach".  For a half moment he had been prepared to say 'Davydd
VonRiesan', but managed to catch himself in time.  He presented the
Bach family invitation to the miserably cold looking man at arms, and
was waved inside.

Outside had been a cold bleak scene of stark black night, white snow,
and the grey stone of the building's face.  Just inside the door,
however, Davydd was greeted by a vast open room painted in warm
yellows and creams. A stinging assailed his cheeks as they were coaxed
back to life by warmth of no less than three massive fireplaces.
Golden chandeliers illuminated the space with candles numbering in the
thousands and the wind's howl was now replaced by the buzz of
conversation and the tinkle of polite laughter.  Guests glittered with
gold and jewelry, the ladies in great voluminous dresses and the men
in suits that cost more than a commoner would make in a lifetime;
almost all finer than what the boy himself was wearing, but the fact
went unnoticed for a moment.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there gawking before finally taking
note of the servant who was trying to take his cloak.  Flush with
embarrassment, he handed the piece of cloth over.  Suddenly, he became
aware of how comparatively coarse his own garb was.  A little gold
thread in his cap and a simple agate broach were all that added to the
silk of which it was composed.

Clinging to the last remnants of hope, Davydd stepped down the handful
of steps leading to the shallow depression in the floor where most of
the attendees were mingling.  His jaw clenched tightly in an effort to
avoid the open mouthed stare that had marked his entrance.  Unable to
surpass the lost feeling by this time, VonRiesan did what he could to
ignore it, and tried to figure out where to begin.

With little experience in these matters, he simply targeted a small
cluster of people and attached himself to the edge.  From within the
center came a sound that he well knew, and its presence gave him
reason to hope.  It was the metallic vibration of a harpsichord.  The
crowd had its attention focused upon the man playing it.  Surely
people who could appreciate the instrument were not altogether
different from himself.

Davydd, too, focused his attention on the man playing.  There was such
a look of deep concentration on his face, eyes closed and shoulders
set dramatically while playing the simple melody, that surely the
instrument had been poorly serviced by one of the servants.  That
would also account for the frequent errors and occasional hesitation.
He felt pity for the richly dressed man, to have his playing
handicapped in such a manner, but the youth need not have worried.
The audience appeared aware of the instrument's defect, for they
applauded enthusiastically after the piece had finished, despite the
poor quality of the music.  A few people said loudly, "Well done,
Garret, well done!"

The man smiled and accepted the claps and verbal praise graciously,
waiting for it to quiet before proclaiming, "I do not deserve such a
response.  After all, I merely have put to use the talent with which I
was born."  There were exclamations over his excess of humility and
how he underestimated his gifts.  After that was done, Garret asked,
"Would anyone else care to play?  I have no wish to monopolize the
instrument."

No one spoke at first, prompting someone in the crowd to say, "A man
would have to be a fool to embarrass himself trying to follow one of
your performances."

There were a few nods of ascent, and the noble at the harpsichord
seemed about to concede the point himself and begin the next piece
when all of a sudden Davydd said from the back, "I will make an
attempt."

The group as one turned to inspect the merchant's son, seeming to
notice his presence for the first time.  There were several arched
eyebrows and a few looks of disdain.  Garrett stood to see more
clearly who had accepted his invitation.  "What is your name, good
fellow?  Have you ever played the harpsichord before?"  he asked.

"Davydd Bach, second son of Richard Bach, and yes, my family does
maintain an instrument that I have dabbled with," the young man
answered respectfully.  In truth he had done much more than dabble,
but having never been tutored, he felt it best not to exaggerate his
experience.

The name seemed to find recognition within Garret's eyes after a few
moments.  "Well, Davydd, if you feel up to it, by all means play
something for us."  The aristocrat made a gesture toward the seat, and
as surely as if it had been a key to a locked door, the clump of
peopled parted, making a path for the newcomer.  When Davydd had
finished passing through the living barrier, he was rewarded by a clap
on the shoulder and the assurance, "I am sure you'll give it an
admirable effort."   A few smiles bloomed in the crowd at that
comment, and then the former player left the open circle to stand with
the other listeners.

Davydd sat down on the well-padded bench and adjusted it for distance
from the keys in front of him.  Hesitantly, he reached out and pressed
a few of the ivory bars, trying to feel out just how serious the
misalignment of the device was.  To his surprise the notes sounded
clear and true, responsively answering the press of the keys.

The look of shock at the sounds produced by his tentative testing of
the keys brought a broad smile of satisfaction to Garret's face, and
several ill-concealed giggles and snickers from the rest of audience.
Feeling his face color with embarrassment, a chagrined Davydd Bach
threw himself into the instrument.

His fingers flew nimbly across the rectangles, the rapid strikes
eliciting a cascade of sounds from the box.  Though each was only a
blink in time, the individual strokes blended together as generations
of notes came and went.  The continuous alternations began to drift
beneath Davydd's masterful touch.  Dynasties rose and fell within the
music.  He warped and distorted Clan lineages, until it seemed no
remnant of true blood remained, but somehow one knew it was still the
same.  The march of human relations was reduced to simple metallic
notes, and played out before the of ears the audience.

When the last lonely note had been given its infinitesimal moment upon
the earth he simply removed his fingers from the keys and sat there
waiting for a reaction.  There was silence; no polite claps, remarks
of approval, or even mocking comments.  He looked up at the others for
the first time since he had begun to find the stunned eyes of those
who had truly heard music for the first time.  There was awe in the
eyes that looked at him; with the exception of Garrett.

Though he wore a tight smile, the noble's eyes glinted with a
dangerous concoction of embarrassment, anger, and jealously.  "Well
done, Davydd," he said softly.  He clapped a few times, and as if the
spell had been broken, the others came out of their trance and heaped
praise and applause upon the young man at the harpsichord.  When it
had died down, Garret, asked, "The Bachs are a family of commerce, are
they not, Davydd?  Do you plan on following the family tradition?"

Davydd VonRiesan saw his opportunity approaching in the same manner a
moth sees the flame.  He enthusiastically affirmed, "Yes, and yes.
I've just recently been putting together plans for some caravans I
plan to head up."  Looking around at the others with a smile he said,
"All that remains is to find a backer who wishes to share in the
wealth."

Garret chuckled politely as he wandered out into the 'stage' in the
center of the group.  "A true loss to music, but I suppose we cannot
have important families of the Midlands engaging in such as more than
a hobby.  Why don't you share some of the details of your trade plans
with the rest of us?"

If not for the elation that everything seemed to be falling into
place, Davydd might have picked up the edge buried beneath the
pleasant tone Garret was using.  Instead, he began to discuss the
ideas he had been working on, "For my first journey, I propose to make
a run from Ellcaran to Pyralis."

"That is a long journey for one's first attempt," Garret said.  "What
do you plan on trading across that great a distance?"

Davydd answered, "I know of a supply of cloth that I can obtain for a
decent price as a starting item, and I will trade as I go, buying my
next set of goods with the money made from my sales.  Makeing a little
profit on each stop both ways should yield a hefty sum of money."  He
hesitated a bit before adding, "As for the length, it seemed a good
way to see some of the world through my work.  It will also give me a
chance to establish some contacts in foreign lands for future
ventures."

Garret could barely contain his happiness behind the look of surprise
he assumed, "Is that all you know so far?  Why all you have done is
state the basic premise of a caravan.  Do you not know what you will
be trading between each town?  Are you so overconfident as to believe
that, in the depths of your inexperience, you will be able to make
consistently profitable trades across a stretch of land as vast as you
have proposed?  In lands foreign to you?"

Before Davydd could formulate an answer to any one question, his
inquisitor had already asked him about another aspect.  In the back of
his mind answers bubbled up as each query rolled past, for he had
indeed thought about many of the details, but intimidation slowed his
tongue, letting the brief windows of response roll past as
opportunities unseized.  He watched as the admiration over his music
was replaced by pity and contempt with regard to his supposedly poor
business sense.

"And, my word, have you even considered the number of guards you will
need for each of the stretches and the rates at which reliable service
can be obtained in those regions?  Undoubtedly not.   No, this seems a
poor investment indeed, and I pity any man who throws his coin upon
it."  Garret shook his head sadly, as if he had truly wished more
wisdom had accompanied the young man.  Then his face cleared, in an
instant wiping the matter from his mind and announcing, "However, this
does remind me that the hour grows late and that the true purpose of
this gathering is to conduct business.  If you will, excuse me
friends, I believe that the time for idle fancies such as music has
ended and the time for serious work is at hand."  The auburn-haired
aristocrat gave a short bow to the audience and then left the
instrument behind, striking a single key as he passed it.

It was another of the mysterious and abrupt changes of social current
that only Davydd seemed insensitive to, and the ring disintegrated
outward; seeds carrying his misrepresentation on the wind.  He watched
as, faster than he could have overtaken any element of the broken
circle, the poison spread throughout the room, assuredly ruining his
chances with any it touched.

He realized he was watching his career be stillborn before his eyes.
With the panicked lurch of someone in denial of a mortal injury, he
dove into part of the crowd to try and find a way to stitch displaced
organs back inside.

There was no miracle to be had, however.  He pitched his plan to
everyone he could get a word with, only to be left with flat
rejections or promises to discuss it some other time, which amounted
to the same thing.  Each proposal became delivered with greater
desperation, details coming out in a blur as he tried to dispel the
ghosts of Garret's judgment.

It was at some point, many hours later, that he caught himself in
mid-sentence forcing his outline for assured profit upon one of the
many servants who carried refreshment to the guests.  He mumbled a
hasty excuse of needing to use the privy to the bewildered caterer and
dashed up the nearby stairs of the indoor balcony that ran the inside
of the room.

He slumped down in an inset corner beneath a lamp that had gone out
unnoticed by the house staff.  He looked out from his niche upon the
world of wealth and social influence in all its glittering glory,
wondering how it all could have gone so wrong, so quickly.

Then rolling around the corner of the hall leading to the rest of the
second floor came the sound of approaching voices.  One of which he
recognized as Garret's.  Unable to stand to be seen in the depths of
his humiliation, Davydd looked for some method of escape but found his
only option was to press further into the shadow and pray.

He saw the nobleman come into view, conversing with another guest.
The unfortunate young man watched undetected as they stopped and
looked out over the party idly.  Only a few feet away, their words
were clearly audible.

"…and the wild-eyed lad accosted me almost in the middle of my
conversation to try and convince me to fund his venture.  I dare say I
would not be able to attend such events as this if I handed my money
over to every lunatic that asked for it.  There is most definitely
something not quite right with that boy," the second man said.

Garret nodded sagely until the man continued with, "The rumor floating
around the room is that he can coax angel song from that harpsichord,
though."

The aristocrat's knuckles whitened, clenching the railing in front of
him, and in a tight voice, he said, "I was there when he played.
There is some minor skill present, but I can assure you that the
rumors are greatly exaggerated.  I fear he made a false impression on
the guests by playing in a most irresponsible manner.  Harpsichords
are fragile instruments, and he showed poor manners in using mine as
he did.  If we were to throw away the instruments on a single
performance I would outdo him easily."

Davydd's jaw went slack as he watched the second man swallow the
obvious lie with ease.   His naiveté was swept away in a sickening
moment as everything came into focus for the first time that night.
Slighted at having the other's admiration usurped by someone else,
Garret had ruined Davydd's life in a fit of petty spite.

The pair of wealthy businessmen left in the direction opposite Davydd,
having never looked toward him, while the youth was left to absorb the
incomprehensible lessons of the harshness of the world, and potential
for cruelty in the human spirit.

There was nothing left for him there, he needed to get away.  The call
to travel, the itch in his feet, pulsed in eager sympathy with that
statement.  Down the stairs he went, snatching his cloak from the
small room himself rather than allowing one of the servants to get it
for him.  Past a protesting offer to help him put it on, and
well-wishings for his night, he broke free of the glittering
suffocation of Davydd VonRiesan's unmarked tomb.

The snow continued to fall in thin flakes throughout the midnight
world as he descended the stone steps and was caught up in the frozen
current of the streets.  He turned down a different path than the one
he had arrived on, for some reason feeling he should not, could not,
walk that same route.
	
The first feeling to break through was the cold.  The fine clothes
offered no protection against the cold.  He clutched his cloak tighter
and looked around to find that the emotional momentum had carried him
further than he had thought, and that the edge of the city was not far
away.  He should turn back home… but how could he face his father?
The pulse of escape, of flight, of travel, had weakened in the winter
air, and all it could do now was hold him in place.

The mysterious instinct quelled, it became a tug of war between shame
and numbing limbs, a war with time on the side of the latter.  Davydd
stared at the turn that would take him toward home until he could no
longer feel anything except the last embers of disgrace that were
insufficient to hold him any longer.  A moment before he would have
consciously willed his knee to bend and foot to rise, a voice spoke to
him from nearby.

"Davydd Bach," the voice pronounced with authority from the direction
of the city's exit.

The youth snapped his head around, to find an old man with wispy
silvered hair.  He leaned on a gnarled staff, clutched in time-worn
hands, and he looked surprisingly pleased with his location despite
the fierce lashings of the wind at his long beard and thick grey and
blue robes.

The ice-blue eyes bored into Davydd's green, awaiting some response.
When the stunned young man gave none, the old man explained further,
"That is your name."

Unaware of how this stranger had approached unheard, or how the man
knew his name, Davydd at last asked, "Do I know you?"

The robed figure smiled, as a teacher would when a student answered a
question correctly, or perhaps it was as an owner might when their pet
began to learn its first trick.  "No, but I do know you.  I've been
watching you, Davydd."

Unnerved by the bizarre nature of the encounter, and urged by the cold
already settling deep within his flesh, the merchant's son said
hastily, "I really need to be going…"

The first step began, but was uncompleted as the stranger asked with
pointed purpose, "Do you truly wish to return home in shame, Dayvdd,
with no more hopes in life than to push coins around?  Fate has gifted
you with a talent.  Would you truly choose to move metals instead of
minds?  Would you squander your days in pursuit of profit when your
music is capable of changing souls?  To go over numbers in a cramped
office, when you could instead go to far-off places and behold things
you've never dared dream of?"

The itch flared to new life in the boy's otherwise unfeeling feet.  He
looked at the mysterious figure and to the city gate beyond, feeling
the pulse and rhythm of the road ever more strongly.

Leaning further on his staff in Davydd's direction, and lowering his
voice, the old man asked more intensely, "Would you truly prefer to
spend your days haggling over the price of hay when I am offering you
a chance to change the world?"

Davydd's thoughts flashed over the spite-corrupted evening, the
pleasure of music, and the prospect of facing his father in disgrace,
and then answered all the questions at once with a single, distant,
"No."  He took a step away from home and the stranger extended a hand,
inviting him to come closer and take it.

"We shall accomplish great things together, my boy.  History will
remember our names," the man said with a wide smile on his face and a
twinkle in his eye.

The hands of young man and wizard clasped firmly, and then they were
both simply gone. The snowflakes quickly spread throughout the newly
vacated space and only an incomplete and filling trail of footprints
in the snow was left to mark that the encounter had ever taken place.