After staring analytically at Gunari for a few moments, Tribune Bourtze hoarsely asked his attendants to let them confer alone. ”Don't worry, sister: I have nothing more to fear from a Caydenite than the temptation to quaff some foreign vintages with him. I promise that I'll refrain from such carousing, at least today.”
After the others had departed, the Tribune resumed his quiet discussion. ”While you were gone, my men captured a notorious outlaw on the border of our lands. To buy his freedom, the rogue told us where he was bound when we found him: Every brigand and would-be warlord in 100 miles had been invited to a gathering on the shore of Deiphovan Slough, promised the chance to gain power beyond their wildest dreams. Such a parley reeks of the thrice-cursed Jester's scheming.' A fit of hacking coughs interrupted the Tribune's angry whispers. ”From your expressions, I know I hit the mark. I'd also wager that your band not only found the Alabaster Urn, but by now you have learned of its hideous true purpose. For centuries, my house kept the hellish thing hidden away in our vaults, along with a score of lesser items that various Emperors had deemed potentially useful, but too dangerous to keep. The accursed necklace would kill its wearer, but would grant him the power to shatter other enchantments before the blackness took him. The mace of madness can slay horrors that no lesser weapon could harm. The urn... well, you have seen its power. There are other items here that the Jester failed to steal: A cache of misery and doom that would keep you awake nights if you knew every item's dark history. Each cursed treasure could change the course of a kingdom's history, but each is also a trap bringing death and suffering.”
Bourtze stopped to awkwardly pick up a cup of hippocras in his left hand, spilling half of it on his shirt as he tried to drink the spiced wine. A shadow crossed his face, his expression bereft of hope. “Damn... Nothing works right. Nothing... I had plans... I would trade my ancestors' histories of Qadira's invasion for the gold I need to restore my House, to free this town from the slow decay that grips this land. I also thought that your historians might know how to safely destroy that damned urn that drove my wife to her death. Instead, my most trusted men are all dead and every brigand on the Tandak Plains has now learned what grim treasures my vaults held. My honor is in tatters, my wife is gone, and I have no heir.’
The Tribune collected himself, drawing upon some inner reserve of grim determination. “I give you the histories in exchange for the service you have done for House Bourtze, along with my thanks. I also ask that you remain here as my guests until I am fit to travel. Once I am well, I must go to Oppara and seek audience with the Grand Prince.”
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"I am not so sure that you don't have an heir, Tribune." grins Gunari. He pulls out one of the scrolls that Aram Zey had sent them with. "Your young maidservant, the one you call 'Goosegrass', bears a remarkable resemblance to Dame Lexara, one of your ancestors."
He shows the old man the scroll, and shows that he has more information like this. "By the light of the Starstone, perhaps your house is not so lost as you might have thought. Do you know of girl's heritage?" Gunari winks at the old man.
Unable to deny the evidence of his eyes, Tribune Bourtze did not know what to say. ”Goosegrass? It could be that… No… It cannot be. My late wife and I were not always close, but I cannot so insult her memory, after she sacrificed her life trying to protect our people from the vile objects that are our House’s grim burden. What would people think, if I were to now embrace a servant’s child as the heir of my body? Is my House’s escutcheon to carry that stain as well?” A tear rolled down the ailing nobleman’s cheek.
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"Well, my lord, there are always other ways." grins the Varisian. "Did you have any brothers, sons, or uncles? Or how do you feel about adopting?"
Gunari realizes that he knows little of the minds of nobility as he continues. "Perhaps manufacturing a lineage that is less... scandalous, would be of use, and protect the name of your late wife?
"Does the girl's mother yet live?"
The Tribune weakly reached out to touch Dame Lexara's image. ”The girl's mother was killed many years ago, caught in the wrong place when some hotbloods of House Disaren came raiding our cattle. She was very dear to me, so I fostered her daughter into my house, despite the risk that my wife would recognize her true parentage. Since then, I've tried to show the child no more favor than I would any other member of the household.
”Your idea has merit. My late brother died unmarried and childless. If I told the household that Goosegrass was his daughter, with the statue of Dame Lexara to bolster our claim, I could declare her my heir. Let us make it happen this day.
“Also, Goosegrass isn't the girl's true name, just a nickname the servants gave her. Her name is Iphrosine... Now, Iphrosine, the hope of House Bourtze.”
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At this proclamation, Gunari starts pulling out his tankards. "Surely, there is no harm in a small celebration. After all, your nurse maid is not here, and, well, honestly... you might as well enjoy the time you have remaining." He pours a beer for everyone in the room.
"To Iphrosine, the home of House Bourtze!"
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"Do you have any fireworks to make it a real celebration?" Mor'targh asks hopefully, "At any of my family's Taldan celebrations there are always fireworks... or at least large bonfires... well I say bonfires..." feeling he may have said a word too many Mor'targh finishes, "To Iphrosine!" and grabs a tankard from Gunari.
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"So," starts Gunari again, once the little celebration happens, "tell me true, Tribune, do you think that your family can still protect the Urn? I'd prefer not to bring it back to Absalom, seeing as it is a major metropolis, but on the other hand, I'd not want it to fall into hands such as the Jester's once again.
"And, unless Draa has figured out something, I don't know how we could destroy it." Gunari looks truly worried about this.
”I'm not sure how long we can keep the cursed Urn secure, but the jackals of the plains will take some time before they try our strength. Even then, this House has a few arrows remaining in its quiver. That Sabas bastard's mind tricks cozened some of our House's secrets out of me, but not all of them. Anyone who dares enters the vaults now will surely die. The Urn will certainly be safe here long enough for me to discuss the matter with the Grand Prince and learn his will on the matter. I dare not take it with me: That would expressly violate my line's oath to the Emperors, and we would place the whole city in danger.”
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"Tribune, if you think that your house can protect the Urn and the other items, then we shall return them to you. We ask that if your resolve is tried, or that of your heir, that you call upon us, via sending or other magics. The Pathfinder Society will have your back, as we did here." states Gunari, already assuming Mor'targh and Draa's response. "If you need help protecting it, perhaps we can stay on a while, until your return."
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"Yes, of course, the mace.."
Gunari's face goes pale. 'Draw me' he hears in his head. 'Crush the skull of that wizard that dares to contradict you. I will bathe in his blood and brains!'
Gunari pours himself another beer, then shakes his head. He goes into his pack, pulling out a bottle of Oldlaw Whiskey. He pulls the stopper, and drinks heavily... even for him. Though the harsh liquid burns his throat, he manages to take down half the bottle.
"Sorry... I am going to be of no use to you soon... shoor... we keep the murder mashe, and da' brokin' necklash... you keep da' urn. I won' bash yer hed in? Right?"
He stumbles over to Draa. "Sumfin is wrong wit' da mace. It wans me to kill you..." he says, hugging the aloof Theurge.
The brief syllables of Draa's spell reveal every nuance of the cursed mace's dweomer. Its enchantments are complex, yet primitive and raw, coursing with primordial energy. Some elements of the mace's enchantments draw upon the overwhelming power of Rovagug, the Destroying Beast. These potent magics give the weapon the power to harm or even kill the destructive god's spawn (along with nearly anything else it is used against), but Rovagug's passion for destruction will corrupt the heart of anyone who wields it, forever filling his mind with an overwhelming lust to kill and destroy. Even briefly touching it (as Draa Faer must do to draw upon the identify spell's power) lets the mace's darkness whisper in his mind, urging him to heft its comforting weight and crush anything that dares oppose him.
Alarmed to see the mace’s influence on the adventurers, the Tribune awkwardly picks up a bell placed beside the couch, ringing it to summon back his servants and Sister Alma. The stricken noble’s hoarse voice cracks as he issues orders to his household. ”Sister, I need Caernon to go to my chamber and fetch the leaden case that originally contained the mace of madness. Its corrupting touch weighs heavily on these heroes, and must be silenced.’ He then held his hand out to Goosegrass as she approached, already bending to pick up the Tribune’s soup bowl again. ”Girl, these Pathfinders have brought proof that you are my brother’s daughter, as I had long suspected. You are to be cleaned, attired, and your hair dressed as suits a Lady of Taldor. I don’t want you to answer to the name ‘Goosegrass” anymore: You are again to be called Iphrosine, the name your mother chose for you. Tonight, you will swear fealty to the Grand Prince through me and be named as my heir.”
The girl’s face brightened at first, but then seemed crestfallen. ”But, sir… when I was little, my mother told me that you…”
Tribune Bourtze quietly shushed her. ”I know, child. There are reasons we do these things. I have always been proud of you, and hope that you understand one day.” He turned his attention to other servants arriving in the chamber. ” As some of you know, rumors have long persisted that my late brother had secretly married a commoner. These fine adventurers have brought proof that the maiden Iphrosine is descendant from the Bourtze bloodline. She must therefore be my brother’s daughter, and so shall be named our heir. I will brook no disputation in this matter.”
The servants looked at each other in amazement, with some showing joy that an heir was found, while others looked nervously at the maidservant. Overwhelmed by the sudden changes, Goosegrass, now Iphrosine, looked as if she needed a place to throw up.
The Tribune continued, “Tomorrow, I will journey to Oppara to speak with the Grand Prince.” From where she was conferring with House Bourtze's majordomo, Sister Alma started to protest. The Tribune glared at her, stifling her outburst before she could do more than clear her throat. ”These Pathfinders and their friend the pedant shall travel with me, along with two of my men, Sister Alma, and the maiden Iphrosine here. Find some of my late wife’s gowns and fit them to Iphrosine so that I may present her to the Court. Tonight, we go to the chapel that she may swear fealty.’
His energy noticeably ebbing even after this short address, the Tribune tried to rise, then sank back on the couch in defeat. “Pathfinders, our house owes you a great debt. You may take the Mace of Madness and the broken necklace back to your society, if you wish. I do not know if the necklace’s magic can be restored, but I pray the day never comes when the mace’s fury must again be unleashed. My servants have gathered the histories of the Grand Campaign for your scholars to peruse. Now… Set up the tables for a feast, and move my couch near the Great Hall’s fireplace. My… brother’s daughter and I will swear our oaths, we will celebrate, and I will have some… soup. Hurry, now! There is much to be done tonight.”
Conclusion and Afterword
The entire Bourtze household and a score of villagers crowded into the decrepit citadel's tiny chapel to hear Iphrosine invested as the Tribune's heir. Other villagers ended up standing in the hall outside, straining to hear. The nervous girl had trouble remembering her parts of the ceremony, but recited her oath of fealty without coaching. Unfortunately, the sage Khenankantra caught an indignant villager's elbow in his ribs when his whispered explanation of the ceremony's historic origins grew a bit too loud. His surprised "Oof!" was audible throughout the chamber.
The feast and celebration afterward had a somber air, combining a tribute to the town's recent losses with the Tribune's recognition of his new heir. His weight supported by a sturdy manservant, the Tribune was able to get up and walk a few steps to give offerings for the spirits of his fallen men-at-arms. Afterward, the townsfolk built a bonfire in front of the Devil's Fork Inn and tapped a fresh cask of ale. The Bourtzes' majordomo Caernon demonstrated some modest magical talent, impressing the villagers by making the fire belch forth clouds of colored smoke and multicolored sparks.
The journey from Evondemor seemed to take forever, with Tribune Bourtze and Khenankantra riding in a slow moving cart. The journey passed without incident, save for a brief encounter with a band of lordless men. Recognizing the adventurers, they politely greeted the party and hastily departed. Khenankantra's snake escaped from its basket nearly every night, taking a drastic toll on Sister Alma's nerves. The elusive serpent was always easy to find, drawn unerringly to the warmth of the party members' bedrolls. By the end of the journey, Iphrosine had overcome her initial fear of the snake and had grown somewhat attached to it, handling it in camp each evening. Sister Alma was quite indignant at the girl's unladylike behavior.
Reaching the outskirts of Oppara, the group met some members of an allied noble house. Sister Alma's healing ministrations had helped the Tribune recover a bit, so he was able to (briefly) walk to greet them, leaning heavily on a stout staff. The presence of a marriageable young woman in the party drew the interest of several young noblemen. Their ardor cooled slightly after Iphrosine introduced them to Khenankantra's pet snake, shoving the serpent in their faces to watch them jump.
After making their farewells, the Pathfinders departed for Absalom. At the Grand Lodge, Society scholars enthusiastically assessed the journals and documents the party had been given. ”These contain descriptions of military actions during the Grand Campaign that were otherwise entirely lost to history! They also describe the schemes and manipulations the Emperor relied on at the time to keep his fractious nobles in line for the war effort! This is amazing!” Even the usually impassive Aram Zey was forced to admit he was impressed by the party's achievements.
A letter arrived a few weeks later, addressed to the whole party. Its seal bore the wolf badge of Baran, heir of House Disaren. His handwriting was clumsy (to put in generously) but his meaning was clear. ”I understand why you were forced to fight my brother, but what you have done is not something I can forgive. You have my admiration and you freed me from the Jester's thrall, so I will not seek you out. Nonetheless, if you return to the Tandak Plain, my House's honor will compel me to settle this score. Respectfully, Baran of Disaren.
*** The End ***
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Upon reading the letter from Baran, Gunari falls into a major funk. "Honestly, Gilligan," he explains to his Capuchin monkey, "we did everything we could not to kill him. We asked him to surrender or not fight, because we knew we were trying to do the same thing. I still feel bad about his brother."
He searches out Draa, to discuss his guilt with another divinely sponsored adventurer. "Draa, what can we do about this?"