Darkness Rising 2: Quest

ii. Map of South-Western Nurolia. c1920.

iii. Map of North-eastern Nurolia c1920.

iv. Map of South-Eastern Nurolia c1920.

v. Map of South Goldoria and North Thetoria c1920

Prism: dramatis personae.

The house staff of the Keep.

Emelia—kitchenmaid

Sandila—her close friend. Housemaid. Azaguntan.

Abila—another friend from the Isles. Scullerymaid

Gelia—maid at the Keep

Annre—maid at the Keep

Tarn—maid at the Keep

Gedre—maid at the Keep

Quellik—maid at the Keep

Mother Gresham—housekeeper at the Keep

Halgar—maid at the Keep

Torm—footman at the Keep

Captain Ris—Captain in the Garrison of Coonor

Sarik—a guard in the Keep

The inhabitants of Eeria

Hirfen—chief valet & butler to Lord Ebon-Farr

Tremen—head of Greypeak preparatory house

Talis Ebon-Farr—Lower Lord of the Eerian council and Warden of the Garrisons

Heler Ebon-Farr—his wife (born of the Farvous house)

Jular Farvous—nephew to Talis and son of the Farvouses (by Heler’s brother)

Elik Farvous—head of the Farvous family and Orla’s father

Hulgor Farvous—eldest son of Elik Farvous

Karak Ebon-Farr—eldest son of the Ebon-Farrs

Geldir Ebon-Farr—second eldest son, to join the Priesthood

Uthor Ebon-Farr—third son. To join the Knights

Erica Ebon-Farr—daughter to the Ebon-Farrs

Inkas-Tarr—Arch-mage of Air (gold sash)

Ekra-Hurr—Air-mage (brown sash)

Bardit-Urr—Air-mage (silver)

Lady Orla Farvous—Knight of the Air (captain: 3rd lance. Silver wing)

Highlord Cranston—Highlord of the Eerian council

High Cmdr. Taros—Commander of the Knights of Air

Sir Risstan Helminth—Knight of the Air (sergeant: 4th Lance. Silver wing)

Lord Hinteron—Lower lord on the council and mining magnate

Shkris—Netreptan envoy on the council

The Denizens of Kir

Jurges Innsman—proprietor of the Rose Tavern in Kir

Alfra’Te—merchant from Kâlastan

Olix—an Azaguntan assassin from Kir

Jelbettio—a Feldorian mercenary

Malik—apprentice assassin in Kir

Hunor—a thief and adventurer. Thetorian

Jem—his friend. Goldorian. A Wild-mage

Linkon Arikson—Guildmaster of thieves in Kir

Scarseye—thief and enforcer in the Kirian guild (West Avenue Boys)

Thintor Lemon-bite—Wild-mage in the employ of the West Avenue boys

Noryan Burrstik—a Fire-mage who has fallen upon hard times

The Denizens of Bulia

Igred—Northridge Guildmaster in Bulia, Azagunta

Hegris Grach—Azaguntan merchant and criminal

Olthik Slanteye—Inn keeper of the Lamb Inn

Varix Aol—East side guild master in Bulia

Vrhin—a guard at Grach’s villa

The Knights of the Air

Sir Ronen Unhert

Sir Robert

Sir Iyri Minrik

In Artoria

Marthir—a druid hailing from Artoria

Kervin—a tracker also from Artoria

Ygris—Fire-mage from Pyrios

Sir Tinkek—a former Artorian Knight

Ograk—a Feldorian warrior

Master Hü-Jen—deceased Shorvorian mentor to Hunor

Ebfir—acolyte druid to Marthir

Iogar—an Artorian warrior

Darklord Jüt—commander of the Knights of Ebony Heart

Darklord Klir—sub-commander of the Knights of Ebony Heart

Xirik—a dark wizard

Garin—a dark wizard

Vildor—The Darkmaster. The master of the Ghasts

In Thetoria

Aldred Enfarson—son of Baron Enfarson

Argon Enfarson—Baron of Thetoria

Livor Korianson—Aldred’s friend.

Hinkir—a stable boy at Blackstone Castle

Jirdin—Aldred’s servant

Quigor—advisor to Baron Enfarson. An Azaguntan

Kerdir Almsman—physician to Baron Enfarson

Holbek Gartson—a captain of the guard at Blackstone Castle

Arlana Gartson—his wife

Thrisk—a soldier of Baron Enfarson; Azaguntan in origin

Lord Jerstis—one of the Lords sworn to Baron Enfarson. Nr Greenford

Poris Longshanks—lordling from Enfarson’s Barony

Orlo Smithson—burghmaster of Eviksburg

Urgon Tannerson—Innkeeper of the Traveller’s Rest

Pastor Burker—priest of Mortis

Guntir Hawkskin—captain of the town guard in Eviksburg

Kindar Hawkskin—brother to Guntir. Soldier to Baron Benrich the Younger

Aargil Markson—(deceased) Lord to Baron Benrich the Elder

Inger Markson—widow to Lord Aargil

Hela Markson—daughter to Lord Markson

Orgar Markson—(deceased) son of Lord Markson

Uhurk Wangstane—a merchant from Kokis

Ekris—a mysterious troubadour and thespian

Urenst Enfarson—cousin to Baron Enfarson. Lord of Oldston

Argas Enfarson—cousin to Baron Enfarson. Called the runt

Ligor—dark wizard in Thetoria city

Ajacre—dark wizard in Nolir, South Thetoria

Jaan—a farmer in Nth Thetoria

Loral—his wife

Hinfer—their eldest son

Mek-ik-Ten—Galvorian monk and mentor to Jem

Captain Jarnert—the Artorian captain of the trading ship, The Patience

In Goldoria

Sir Krem Listerthwaite—a Goldorian knight of good standing

Gilert—a squire of mean disposition

Utrok—a dark wizard

Elbek-Trall—a Pyrian merchant docked in Goldoria

A swift note on time

The most commonly used calendar in Nurolia is the Imperial calendar, which dates from the time of the First (Eerian) Empire. It dates the years from the date on which the god Umar gave the gift and knowledge of magic to humans. Dates prior to this are described as ante-magi (abbreviated a.m.) and dates after as post-magi (abbreviated p.m.).

The months of the year number twelve and are named:

Festivestide

Snowstide

Rainstide

Seedstide

Blossomstide

Sunstide

Flowerstide

Bloomstide

Harvestide

Leafstide

Windstide

Froststide

Darkness Rising

Book 2

Quest

The Letter

Dear Torm

I was told by Jem to begin every letter with a date, so here goes. It is the fifth day of Windstide in the year Nineteen Twenty Two. That makes it just over two years since I saw you last. Two years since I escaped from the Keep in Coonor.

So here’s a jest—I don’t even know if you can read. Up until this year I certainly couldn’t, and if it wasn’t for Jem’s teaching then I still wouldn’t have a clue.

Who’s Jem, I can hear you think? I’m certain you heard about my escape. It was on the somewhat destructive side. Well, Jem and Hunor are the two thieves that took me under their wing that night I fled the Keep, and have been looking after me since.

I’m in Azagunta now, in Bulia, and it seems so far away from the Keep that I find it hard to think back to the years I spent in servitude there.

Jem always says that when it gets hard to work out a problem to go back to the roots. So here I go. There were certain things I kept from you when we were friends at the Keep and I am sorry for that. I will try and explain it all from the beginning.

On the day we first met I served in Lord Ebon-Farr’s chambers and met the Arch-mage Inkas-Tarr. Lord Ebon-Farr agreed to transfer my servitude to the Arch-mage, which you also know, but whilst I was there I saw them with a blue crystal. I overheard them talk about it being magic and where it was being secured in the Keep.

That was also the day that Uthor Ebon-Farr tried to molest me. Something odd happened then that stopped him, and following that day strange things kept happening to me. For example, when I panicked and ran from the carnival in the Lower City I met a terrible black wizard. I somehow got away from him… by passing through a wall. Please don’t think I have the Moon’s Malady—I will explain it all in a minute.

I’ve known I was different ever since I was a child, when my father sold me into servitude to the Eerians. My dreams had always been strange and vivid, and they seemed to be trying to tell me things. I had this little voice, from my dreams, which I sometimes heard in my mind. I even gave her a name—Emebaka. I’m telling you this because you were the only one at the Keep that tried to understand me.

Well it turns out I am different. I am a Wild-mage—and I found it out just after Sandy died. I was convinced that Uthor Ebon-Farr killed her, and I decided to confront him. When he tried to hurt me the magic just burst from me. I knew then that I couldn’t stay—Wild-mages are hated by the normal orders of magic.

That is why I needed to go that night. But I’d left my shell pendant in Lord Ebon-Farr’s chamber and when I snuck up there, I discovered two thieves—Jem and Hunor—looking for the blue crystal. Jem worked out I was a Wild-mage and he pushed Hunor into taking me with them. The blue crystal was being guarded by an Air-mage called Ekra-Hurr, and he almost captured us before Hunor injured him.

We got out through the windows, using Jem’s magic, and from there we went to Kâlastan (which was astonishing) and then to here in Bulia. Jem is teaching me reading, writing, meditation and magic. He’s a Goldorian, but obviously he can’t live there as they burn all sorcerers. Hunor is from Thetoria and he is so funny and charming—I know you would admire him if you ever met him. He’s teaching me thievery and also how to fight (and I am surprisingly good at it). He’d learned his swordsmanship from a Shorvorian called Hü-Jen, but something terrible happened in the past and he died. Hunor won’t ever talk about it.

I know this letter will never get to you, but that doesn’t matter. It has helped me putting my thoughts down on paper, and I’ll probably just tuck it away in my room at the Lamb Inn in Bulia. I dream of one day seeing you again, and each day I look over my shoulder thinking you might appear with that big grin of yours.

If you were still in the Keep tell Mother Gresham I am sorry for the upset I gave her, but finally I am free. I think she might understand more than she lets on.

Your friend always,

Emelia

Excerpt from the Journal of Lady Orla Farvous, Third Lance, Silver Wing, Knight of the Air

27th Day of Blossomstide 1924 post-magi

Today we have arrived at the farmhouse where Hunor intends for us to hide. Emelia dwindles by the day. Demon wounds are terrible things to behold.

The farmer, Jaan, has two children, one of whom, Hinfer, has taken an understandable shine to me and my tales of Eeria. Such oration has brought to mind the chaotic undertakings of the prior fortnight and accordingly I shall seek to record them lest some ill befalls me.

Our mission, and I feel like an Artorian tracker when I speak of such things, has proven challenging from the day the High Commander ordered it. I am certain that my men were amply suited for the task—Sir Minrik was a courageous knight, as was Sir Unhert, and Sir Robert was skilled and able. I fear the fly in the ointment was the Air-mage, Ekra-Hurr, whose disdain of the prisoners eradicated all objectivity from him.

I think often of the night we captured Hunor, Jem and Emelia in Bulia. The trap was successful with the aid of the Wild-mage, Thintor Lemonbite, whose service we had procured. Hunor had claimed ignorance as to the whereabouts of the blue crystal. His bluff was called in a rather dramatic fashion when Sir Minrik was almost forced to behead Emelia. It was only then that he revealed the crystal had been procured by a baron in North Thetoria.

The journey across Goldoria was largely uneventful, a blessing given the Goldorians’ hatred of magic. The prisoners proved to be most cooperative, until we crossed the Silver Mountains and Hunor escaped. We located him swiftly in a carnival near Silverton, and I feared Ekra-Hurr would have killed him had I not intervened.

This baron we sought owned lands in the north-west corner of Thetoria. Hunor, it seemed, had visited this Blackstone Castle when younger (one of the gate guards recognised him, I think). Baron Enfarson had taken a number of Azaguntans into his employ. One in particular, his advisor Quigor, was a fellow of sour disposition.

How did the mission fall apart so swiftly? I find it hard even now to rationalise how rapidly the situation deteriorated. Baron Enfarson had hidden the blue crystal within his throne—Ekra-Hurr revealed as such. Upon the discovery of the crystal Quigor transformed into a demon and set about the gathered Thetorians. Ekra-Hurr and Sir Minrik were slain, as were all of the Thetorians present. The demon wounded Emelia as she attempted to gain the crystal. It was the wiliness of Hunor that saved the day, allowing me to slay the creature.

I am in his debt. There is no other way to convey this, and it irks me beyond belief. He saved my life, and thus I have little choice but to passively accompany him on his journey, whilst he ignores my pleas to petition the king of Thetoria for clemency. Hunor is convinced that he saw Baron Enfarson, whom I saw killed by the demon, alive and well after we escaped from the castle. The same cannot be said of my knights and griffons. They were killed by Enfarson’s men, though I did not have the condolence of seeing their bodies.

And now we skulk like thieves in Northern Thetoria, hiding from Baron Enfarson’s men. I hear from Jaan, our host, that Enfarson has a son, of honourable repute. It is odd to think in such a way at this time, but I pray to Torik the lad flees the den of Dark-magic that has arisen in Blackstone Castle before it claims him as well.

Prologue Flotsam and Jetsam

Rainstide 1922

Two years ago

A slurry of rotting wood and seaweed buffeted the slimy stones of the quayside. The spray from the sea, tinted dark by the tar from the numerous hulls of the ships, arced into the air like blood from a slit neck.

The spring storms were never kind to the port of Kir. It was as if the vast Northern Ocean availed itself of the opportunity to scour the filthy timbers and stones from the face of Nurolia. The primordial wrath of the wind and rain tested the resolve of every denizen that ventured onto the quayside.

Torm Freeman stood resolute against the fury. His broad frame was wrapped in a dark travel cloak, now saturated by the storm. A youthful face stared out from the cave of the hood. A light beard decorated his chin, golden like the first shoots of corn after the harvest.

Indecision strengthened him against the gale and served to cast an aura that dissuaded any of the darker occupants of Kir from disturbing his ruminations.

Across this tempest, on the far side of Torik’s anger, lay the Shattered Isles, my home, Torm thought. And so here I stand, at the crossroads of my life. A year since I fled The Keep in Coonor and finally I have the choice… the choice I have been avoiding.

The filthy waters swelled, as if mocking his indecision, tempting him to gamble the passage across to the tiny islands of the north. Torm wiped the rain from his face and glanced over his shoulder. The gloomy silhouette of Kir rose behind him, the ramshackle dockside rising to the crumbling memory of the old town. The amber lights of taverns and bordellos winked feebly through the haze of rain.

And behind me my other choice. A whole world—a fruit I have but nibbled at, like a wary child. So many lands and so many people; thousands of stories and legends and adventures. A dozen quests for me to display the bravery I am sure is within me.

A small group of men were prowling along a nearby jetty, stooped against the wind. Despite the rain Torm could see they were slavers—the distinctive cloaks and secured whips revealed that. A shorter figure led them and a brief display of his forearm tattoo proclaimed his profession.

An assassin—one of the Silent Knives—it is best if I am out of their way. This is a dark place with darker business.

Torm moved from the quayside, the wind augmenting his pace, and he gravitated towards the chaotic collection of taverns that welcomed mariners as they left the dock. The doors and shutters clattered in the wind, sending staccato bursts of amber light across the cobbles.

I could get passage on a trading galley when the spring storms abate, Torm thought. The Corinthians usually navigate the Isles to trade pottery and such wares. But is that the direction I want my life to take?

Torm paused by an alley that crept between two inns. A wrench of trepidation gripped his gut. It was the realisation that life had been so much simpler when there was no choice, when he was a servant to the Eerians in Coonor. In those few years he had been carried along like the debris in the harbour, taken wherever the whims of others directed him.

But now I am a free man and the indecision is tearing me apart.

Harsh voices swirled in the wind’s lament and Torm peered into the gloom of the alley. They spoke in the grating vowels of the Azaguntans, a tongue Torm had learned the hard way as a child from slavers.

This is a waste of your good time, lads. I’m not worth the sweat on your brow.

You’d have that right, a voice replied. But there are some debts that can only be paid in blood.

A bestial cry merged with the wind. Torm could discern two ruffians, tunics woven from filth, kicking and punching a short rotund man. The larger ruffian slammed the man’s head off the rough stones of the wall. He crumpled to the floor of the alley, coughing and spitting blood.

This is no business of mine, Torm thought. This is the nature of this putrid niche of the world.

Please, by Asha, please, he said. Where would you be without Noryan’s stories, my marvellous tales to ease the long nights of our voyages?

Ten crates of contraband and a bottle of grog a night better off, the second ruffian said and kicked Noryan in the gut.

Noryan vomited dark fluid across the ruffian’s leg. His words slurred and Torm almost lost them in the screech of the gale.

I could tell you such things. The Fire-serpents of Pyrios; the Lost Dreamers of Karste, who journey on ships of twilight; a mysterious maiden with eyes the colour of frost, perhaps a Subaquan in disguise…

The words sent a shiver through Torm far greater than the icy needles of the storm. Emelia—he speaks of Emelia.

The larger ruffian kicked Noryan in the face and his head ricocheted off the wall. Torm took a deep breath and ran into the alley.

The smaller ruffian had just begun to turn as Torm hurtled into him. The momentum of Torm’s wide body slammed the pair into the wall. A spray of blood burst from the ruffian’s face as Torm delivered a swift head-butt. As the ruffian crumpled Torm brought his knee up sharply into his belly, lifting him with the force.

The second ruffian snarled and began to pull loose a knife. Won’t matter how big you are, you Island scum, when I stick this in you.

Torm tugged a dagger from the unconscious ruffian and crouched in readiness.

You can still walk away from this, mate, Torm said.

The ruffian spat and lunged with his knife. Torm side-stepped then turned, to keep a space between them. The ruffian had a swift arm, but drink dragged at his feet like the currents of the harbour.

Torm met the ruffian’s eye. Six months ago, when he had learned how to wield a blade, he had also learned that you must always meet an opponent’s gaze before you wounded them.

The knife slashed towards Torm’s throat, but the attack was misjudged. Torm twisted and stabbed his dagger up into the ruffian’s chest. Blood soaked Torm’s hand as he let the ruffian tumble to the ground, the dagger jutting from the filthy tunic.

Not dead, not yet, Torm thought as he stepped past him. That’s good. This is no cause to kill for. He regarded the fat man on the floor, moaning as his dark vomit mixed with the muddy puddles. And this would be no man to take my first life for.

The man was delirious as Torm helped him to his feet. His ginger beard proclaimed him as Azaguntan, although his head was shorn and crisscrossed with tattoos. White froth clung to the corners of his mouth like the mould on rotting fruit.

He’s a Fire-mage, Torm realised. And if I don’t get him out of the rain then all this will have been futile.

Supporting Noryan’s weight, Torm stepped from the shadows of the alleyway and stumbled towards the warmth of his lodgings.

***

The Fire-mage stank like a cheese cellar in the height of summer and the pungency of vomit had done little to improve that. Torm could discern clots of blood interspersed with dark rum in the smear that ran down the mage’s soaking robes.

He had attracted only a few stares as he had traversed the common room of the Rose Tavern. In Kir everyone’s business was generally their own. Despite this Torm was wary—he had no idea who the Fire-mage had upset to earn such a harsh beating. As a result he took periodic glances out of the shutters of his tiny room on the Tavern’s first floor.

He peeled the stinking robes from Noryan’s bulk and wrapped the bed’s sole blanket over him. Even the bed bugs seemed to avoid the mage, although whether that was because of the stench or the dim pulse of the magic ruby in Noryan’s chest, Torm was uncertain.

The ruffian’s blood tinted the water in Torm’s bowl a rosy shade. Nausea rose in him, the stalker of the thrill of battle. Was this how warriors felt when they slew terrible beasts? How soldiers felt as they marched to battle?

Why did you do it, boy?

Torm jumped, splashing water across his lap. Noryan was regarding him with dull eyes.

It seemed wrong to let you die grubbing in the alley’s filth like a pig, Torm said. You said you had stories.

Noryan’s chuckle dissolved into hacking and retching. An ugly purple had spread across his flanks, like damp rising through plaster.

You have my thanks, then. Better to die in a warm bed, though I always visualised a more epic finale.

You’re not… Torm said, but the words froze in his mouth like ice as he saw the sad smile on Noryan’s face.

Have you some rum, my boy? A last boon I’d ask of you. I seem to have lost my own supply down my front.

Torm passed him a quarter full bottle that he had been sipping idly from. Its sweet intoxication tended to sicken him anyway.

You mentioned eyes… of frost… like diamonds… Torm said.

Diamonds? Gems? Noryan said, gulping from the bottle. Torm’s eyes were drawn to the ruby embedded in Noryan’s sternum. The flesh was scarred and lumpy around the fringes of the stone like melted wax.

Noryan followed his gaze and nodded. It is a beauty is it not? Bound to me until my dying breath by the ritual of Ni-Efork. A Gem of Power! It is through this that me and my brethren can channel the magic of the elements—a conduit directed by arcane words and precise gesture.

Torm hesitantly reached out to touch the gem. It pulsed like a heart of fire yet its surface was frigid.

And… when you…?

When I die? Noryan said. Stay around and see.

Torm frowned at the peculiar humour. How could a man face his own end with such disregard?

It’ll disappear, fade into the ether, Noryan said. His grin revealed teeth stained dark with old blood. All of the Gems of Power are enchanted to return to the Towers of the Elemental Orders when their bearer... expires.

Torm drew his hand back. And that way they are used again? I never realised... where do they come from?

Noryan seemed to become invigorated by this question, fighting through the sheen of perspiration on his yellowed flesh to orate his reply.

Why they are fragments of creation, my boy. All creeds speak of the Great Crystal—the first substance to form within the Void before time began. And even the legend that speaks of the birth of Mortis and Miria, shards of the Great Crystal that broke away and gained sentience, will have filtered through to the stormy shores of the Shattered Isles.

Torm folded his arms and sighed. Our tales speak of it differently, but, yes, I know of this. And from there Mortis took four more shards and created the Secondborn—the Elder Gods—and daft old Miria, jealous of her brother, tried the same and got it wrong. Hence why we have Nekra, and thence the Pale...

Noryan’s chuckle was a juicy rattle. Torm could almost hear the fragments of bone shifting in his round chest.

Aye, my boy, although a career in the priesthood may evade you with that style of oration. Well, the legend goes on to elaborate the creation of the five races, the Younger Gods and the Dukes of the Pale. You will recall that this led to the Great War, a battle unlike any that can ever be known again. And at its finale, during the final act? Nekra cast down the Great Crystal and it shattered—plummeting Nekra down into the Pale and the gods back to their heavens.

And those are the Gems of Power? Parts of the Great Crystal?

Indeed. Some arose into the skies and we see them now as stars. Others fell to Nurolia and became buried, deep in the soil and the water and the mountains. There they remained until they were revealed to mankind.

Noryan winced and clutched his belly in pain. Torm glanced at the empty bottle of rum. I’ll get some more in a minute. Finish the tale.

My mother always alluded that I would talk myself to death, Noryan said, licking his cracked lips. Well, magic was always the preserve of the four elemental races and, of course, Nekra’s brood—the ogres. But men, as ever, are dissatisfied with their lot and thus, at the end of the Era of Legends, four pilgrims sought to solve the riddle of sorcery by travelling deep into the Khullian Mountains. They sought a Galvorian hermit who, it transpired, was the Younger God Umar, in disguise. Umar felt that mankind had matured enough to be given the gift of sorcery and he embedded the first Gems into the pilgrims’ chests.

Mature enough? So much for a God of Knowledge, Torm said.

Noryan paused, looking indignant at the interruption to his narrative. Then his pale face softened. You lived through the famine.

Aye, and that’s only one of the gifts sorcery has brought to Nurolia. Death and misery to two whole nations, if the songs speak true.

The Fire-mage looked away and was silent. Torm stood abruptly and exited the room, reining in his galloping heart. He still had vivid images of starving friends on the Islands, their bellies swollen and shining.

The common room of the Rose Tavern smelt of wet dog and stale ale. Small groups of sailors and merchants huddled around the tables like they clung to shipwrecks floating in the sea. The innkeeper was his usual miserable self and Torm let his gaze drift over the occupants of the room as he awaited a fresh bottle of rum. He could overhear snippets of talk from the mariners, talking of sailing to Thetoria and Goldoria and lands further away.

Torm left a silver coin on the counter and returned to the room with the bottle. There was an acrid scent in the room as he entered and immediately he saw that Noryan had vomited again, although this time it was mainly gelatinous lumps of blood and tissue. The pulse from the ruby was dim now.

Torm pressed the bottle to the mage’s lips and he slurped the sickly liquor down, a colour returning to his wan cheeks. His eyes had a feverish glint in them.

It’s why we need rules, my boy, a code, he said. "We all do. The mages who toe the lines set by the Order, they follow the Codex. But even those like me, ones who live on the fringes of the discipline, the varistars, have rules."

Oh? To try and drink a bottle before sunrise each day? Torm said, as he watched the rum draining into Noryan’s mouth.

"Very droll. What is life without rules, eh? What is life without purpose and direction? I have made many choices I regret. I have sired children I shall never see. I have carried the curse of the bottle with me from the day I could walk. I have squandered the gift that my moneyed family bought me—this