Kevin's Watch

This is my favorite of all the stories in Daughter of Regals & Other Tales, except for the title tale. I feel that "Ser Visal's Tale" is greatly entertaining by involving the reader in a deep emotional investment from early on in its description of the repressive Temple; by having memorable characters including the story teller. Plus the satisfaction I get from the resolution in SVT is virtually lifted to euphoria, considering the odds against the protagonists in outwitting deeply evil self-righteous persecutors that are firmly entrenched in power.

But the "Daughter of Regals" story has all that as well, plus three other things going for it: the fate of an entire realm depends on the protagonist's success to give the story more "weight" than SVT, the DoR protagonist is a plain-appearing woman rather one someone striking in appearance--unconventional, and the concept of magic is original in DoR rather than traditional as in SVT. However, "Ser Visal's Tale" has one advantage over "Daughter of Regals", and that is while DoR has its pace slackened somewhat in mid-telling, the pull of tension in SVT is strong from beginning to end: I turned the pages much more quickly.

"Ser Visal's Tale" to me exemplifies terrific storytelling. This fictional unnamed kingdom's tyranny, reminiscent of the Inquisition and other past horrors, makes the story quite intense for me. This kingdom's "Good King", Traktus, gives the religious hierarchy (Templemen) a great increase in power that regresses the society to a controlled state managed by extreme fear.

The way this fictional religion of the Templemen is described would make almost anybody loathe it. It forces women to be confined to housekeeping roles when they had already proven that they could manage businesses here, it crushes all secular expressions of joy (by banning dancing, carnivals, and minstrels), it supports the ability of creditors to oppress debtors into slavery, and worst of all it consigns peaceful women who study natural and magical healing to cauldrons of molten iron because the Temple thinks of them as soul-destroying witches.

Because we learn all this early in the story, the knowledge gives a powerful persuasion to relate to the protagonists, cocky Dom Sen Peralt and bravely principled "witch" Thamala as they struggle against persecution from the Templemen.

When a drinking spree with friends becomes an encounter with the slaver Growt for Dom Peralt, he is threatened with a crippling by Growt (whose business is approved, even encouraged, by the Temple) unless Peralt breaks with his practice of not buying slaves by purchasing one of Growt's that very instant. Here we see Peralt displaying wit and (drunken) courage.

"Do not toy with me," he [Growt] snarled, attempting to recapture his menace. "Buy a slave."
"But of course," replied Dom Peralt. "I said the same myself. Just now, as I recall. A splendid idea. Altogether splendid. Did I say that also?" There was laughter in his eyes, but none in his voice.
Growt's whole face twisted as he strove to guess young Sen's game. Bending over him, he hissed "One of mine--or I will break your back where you kneel."
Dom Peralt flung his arms wide in a gesture of appeal. "Slaver, you wound me. I have not deserved this doubt. I cannot deny that I am young and thoughtless. But none accuse me of ingratitude. You have awakened me to my error. What other wares should I consider, except yours?" In a subtle way, his tone turned harder as he spoke. But his smile belied all hint of anger. "However," he continued reasonably, "you must allow me to rise. I cannot inspect your merchandise from here."
Growt was snared and he knew it. Titterings and chuckles arose from the crowd, galling him--but he was compelled by his own demand to release Dom Peralt's jacket and stand back.

That instance of bravery and humor on Peralt's part in face of brutal threat has always made me smile while reading it. Peralt likes the fierce spirit in the eyes of Growt's slave Thamala (though he does not know her at all). He then frees her to spite Growt, and drunkenly passes out just before Thamala uses her powers to disappear right before a crowd that includes Templemen witnesses.

Thamala's bravery is obvious as she appears to rescue Dom Peralt from his cell (Peralt was jailed on accusation of consorting with a witch). When Peralt refuses to leave because it would make him look guilty to the Templemen, she puts a spell on him to capture her and call for the guards, though this will mean she will be consigned to the cauldron of molten iron. The cruel policies of the Temple are reinforced for the reader when Thamala appears for her judgment time, having endured being beaten bloody and having patches of her hair torn out. Her accusers Templeman Knarll and High Templeman Crossus Hught are both disgustingly self- justifying and self-exalting as they proclaim they must administer such torture for the good of people's souls, and that Thamala must endure immersion in molten iron for the good of her own soul. The two of them are as poignantly evil as any villains Donaldson has created, enough to make me wish I could spit venom at them.

As for storyteller Ser Quest Visal, he is a fully realized character that comes across as clever to couch his righteous indignation in piety and acidic sarcasm in his recital of events to a tavern room of noblemen's sons.

Spoiler

Hints of how he really feels about the kingdom's management occur throughout the story, such as when he starts to refer to Temple actions as PERsecution rather than PROsecution, and in observations of his tonal and facial expressions at numerous points.

I've found upon re-reading this story that knowing its ending in no way diminishes the pleasure of seeing the vicious fanatics therein outwitted.

Ser Visal's Tale is indeed very good. I haven't read it so recently that I can discuss specific points. But I would just add that this is a great example of Donaldson elevating an otherwise simple story through the use of exquisite characterization. In that regard nothing else but Mordant's Need compares. (I would be curious to compare when these were written.) Re-reading such treasures is always worthwhile because watching his characters sparkle and twirl is ever fascinating.

I'll have to find a copy of this book somewhere, getting interested in the content. Thanks for the review.

(For once I'm posting something that doesn't involve explaining a dirty joke!)

Borrow mine! I shall download it to my kindle sooner or later so won't need the paperback.

Aw, thanks, but return delivery from Finland will cost more than purchasing the book online. I found some used copies in Play.com beginning from 3€ and they don't charge for the shipping. Gotten most of my Malazan bricks second-hand from there as well.

wayfriend wrote:Ser Visal's Tale is indeed very good. I haven't read it so recently that I can discuss specific points. But I would just add that this is a great example of Donaldson elevating an otherwise simple story through the use of exquisite characterization. In that regard nothing else but Mordant's Need compares. (I would be curious to compare when these were written.) Re-reading such treasures is always worthwhile because watching his characters sparkle and twirl is ever fascinating.

You're absolutely right, wayfriend, this story has some of the strongest characterizations of any of Donaldson's work I've read so far, save for the two Mordant's Need books.
I believe "Ser Visal's Tale" was completed in 1983, and Mordant's Need was started sometime the following year.

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Frostheart wrote:I'll have to find a copy of this book somewhere, getting interested in the content. Thanks for the review.

(For once I'm posting something that doesn't involve explaining a dirty joke!)

I DO encourage the reading of Daughter of Regals & Other Tales, as most of the stories in it I've found to be enjoyable! Even the stories I didn't like so much had something about them I could admire. I think you'll be glad you read it, if you get the book, Frostheart.
Sorry it took me so long to get the joke! The idea of a Giantess warrior having "sword-lengthening abilities" puzzled me there, for a while. (To KW readers, this refers to comments between Frostheart, myself, and others concerning one of the Giantesses in The Last Dark. I don't think I can say any more about it, in this particular forum, without giving away spoiler information pertaining to The Last Dark.)

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Visal, Knarll, Thamala, Peralt, Hught, and even Growt were fleshed out well enough with words that I cared a lot what happened between them.

Ser Visal is clearly aware that he's got enough sweating to do in dangerous times, and that he needs to cover himself for a protection that his somewhat high station can't give him:

Ser Visal was diverted into a lecture on piety. He was prone to such digressions, perhaps thinking that they would whet our attention for his stories--and we dared not interrupt him, for fear that he would grow vexed in truth and refuse to continue. He demanded a rapt audience, and we sought to satisfy him.
Ser Quest Visal was indeed a fat old man--as fat as a porker, with eyes squeezed almost to popping in the heavy flesh of his face, arms that appeared to stuff his sleeves like sausages, and fingers as thick and pale as pastries. His grizzled hair straggled like a beldame's. Careless shaving left his jowls speckled with whiskers. Though he sat in the corner of the hearth--the warmest spot in the Hound and Whip--he wore two robes over his clothing, with the result that sweat ran from his brows as from an overlathered horse. Yet every gesture of his hands beyond his frilled cuffs held us, and every word he uttered was remembered. We were familiar with his storytelling.
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Ser Visal smiled at the effect of his announcement. Then--perhaps recollecting that it was unwise to smile on any subject associated with the disfavor of the Temple--he frowned and slapped a fat hand to the table. "Be warned, whelps! This is not the tale of daring and passion you expect. It is sordid and foolish, and I tell it to caution you, so that you will be wiser than mad Dom Peralt, who was nothing more than a boy some few years older than yourselves."
But we were not daunted. We watched Ser Visal brightly, our breathing thick with anticipation in our chests. And slowly his face appeared to refold itself to lines of sadness. His gaze receded, as though he were now seeing the past rather than the public room of the Hound and Whip. We knew that look. If we did not interrupt him now, he would tell his story.
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All our attention was centered on Ser Visal. He appeared oddly shrunken in the fading candlelight, his eyes glazed by what he saw in his mind, his stubbled cheeks ashen and sagging from the bones of his skull. At another time--during another tale--we might have nudged each other and winked, thinking in silent laughter that the heat of the hearth made him melt, that his fat flesh was composed of nothing but tallow and wine, which he sweated away. But not now. We were held. And he seemed hardly to be aware of us.
There was one thought in all our minds. He is afraid. This tale is dangerous, and he fears to tell it.
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Bulging in his fat cheeks, Ser Visal's eyes shifted among us warily. Still slick with sweat, his skin had a pasty color. Twice he opened his thick lips and closed them again, gaping like a fish. Some of us nudged Domson Tahl warningly. Others clenched their fists. We wanted no harm to come to Ser Visal for the things he had revealed to us. But at last he swallowed his fear and accepted the full risk of his tale.

Knarll, brimming with resentment and determined to overcompensate by covering himself with symbols of holy dignity and authority as much as possible:

"Into the cell came Templeman Knarll, highest of all servants of the Temple of God in this region.
"He wore his formal robes which were customarily reserved for the pulpit of the Temple. Resplendent in white surplice and gold chasuble, symbolizing Heavenly purity and worldly power, he would have appeared impressive if--Well, Templeman Knarll is known to you. He is a devout and searching man, worthy of admiration." Ser Visal employed his pious tone to good effect. "He is not to be mocked for his appearance. That he has the form of a toad and the face of a hedgehog is the will of the Almighty--surely not of Templeman Knarll. Nevertheless, it is not to be wondered at that he has little patience for those better made by their Creator than he."

Thamala, with her courage, indomitable spirit, and determination to leave no debt unpaid, whatever the cost to herself:

"Thamala waited until he [Peralt] was done [protesting]. Then she said, 'You are brave, Don Sen Peralt.' Her tone suggested both mockery and respect. 'But no coin measures the value I place upon my life. How do you intend to prevent me?'

"For his pride--if for no other reason--he attempted to match her. 'I need do nothing,' he said, 'nothing other than wait. When next the guards come to this cell, they will find us together--and then we will both be undone.' He smiled wryly through his fear. 'To avert that outcome--so that your life will be preserved and I will be able to hope--you will depart before the guards come, relocking the door after you to protect my protestations of innocence. Of what worth is my life,' he concluded, 'if it may only be saved by your death?'

"You are mistaken,' she said. "The world has need of such men.' For no evident reason, her voice now seemed to come to him from a great distance. The candlelight blurred, as if his eyes were failing. 'Therefore,' she uttered in a tone which could not be refused, 'it will be necessary for you to dream.'"

Peralt, used to not taking life's responsibilities very seriously, discovering that deep within himself he has a strong conscience that cannot be denied:

"When at last Templeman Knarll released him from the temporal office, Dom Peralt went back to his estates in mortal shame to await the sitting of the judica.

"In shame? you ask. Why in shame?" Ser Visal glared around at us. It became increasingly difficult to distinguish between his piety and his sarcasm. "For no good reason. The woman was a witch, offensive to God and Temple. If she chose to do one honorable thing before she died, perhaps her soul would be the better for it. And I repeat that he had not known her for the total of an hour. He knew nothing about her at all, except her power.

"Yet he was shamed. His skin burned with it, and his heart ached. Every twist of his thoughts squeezed sweat from his brow. It was a cauldron more subtle than iron, but no less compulsory. Hiding himself within the walls of his manor, he drank wine by the barrel to slake the fire--but it only burned higher. All about him were reminders of his father, that strong and just man who had filled his life with care for those dependent upon him--memories which gave young Sen no ease. In desperation, he turned from strong wine to clear water and became sober, hoping that cold reason would succeed where besottedness failed. But the flame did not subside. He consulted those who still named themselves his friends--not young Beau Frane and Serson Lew, I assure you, but older heads and wiser--and obtained no relief. He attempted every solace but one, the strict comfort of the Temple. All failed him, as all things human and prone to sin must fail. His shame would not be quenched. One thought tormented him. It was not just. He had purchased Thamala with a few coins--his father's earnings, not his own. It was not just."

Hught, dangerously unrelenting in his pursuit of purity for the kingdom's subjects to safeguard their souls:

"Though he was similarly black-clad, the High Templeman did not need the golden miter which he carried in the crook of his arm to distinguish him from the other servants of the Temple. He was tall, strong despite his years, and commanding. Much of his authority was in his eyes, shich seemed to have no color at all. Indeed, at first glance his face itself appeared to have no color. His thin, close-cropped hair was white--his skin pale with the translucence of old age. Upon nearer inspection, however, a faint red hue could be seen, for every blood vessel was visible beneath the skin, as distinct as madness--I mean, of course, that purity of mind which the sinful world might term madness, but which is in truth the most exalted devotion to God. Seeing him, it was at last possible to understand his importance to good King Traktus. He was not a man who would be easily refused."

And the slaver Growt, a minor character in the overall story, yet the one who gets the story rolling:

"It is said of Growt--but such tales are told everywhere, especially among boys. Well, my puppies, the tales are true. Growt is feared because he asks no questions concerning those he hales into slavery. If the Templemen desire a man or woman punished, they merely give the name to Growt. If a miller comes to loathe his goodwoman's shrewish tongue, he gives her name to Growt. If a usurer covets the property of a debtor, he gives the name to Growt. And when he has not enough commissions to fill his quota, Growt takes minstrels and travelers and gypsies where he finds them.

"Now among slavers, as in the Temple of God, such men as Dom Peralt are looked upon with resentment--and perhaps also with fear--because they take no slaves. Their wealth is denied to those who most merit it. And on this slaving day Growt's resentment had grown beyond its usual blackness. His wares were in little demand. It will not surprise you that innocent travelers and shrewish goodwomen are not always docile slaves. Growt's wares were rendered suspect by his means of obtaining them. Therefore it was in no mood of good fellowship that he set himself in the way of Dom Sen Peralt.

"Burly as a bear, but entirely hairless from the knob of his pate to the tops of his toes, and dressed in his slavers' leathers, he was a formidable obstacle to be found in any man's path, were the man drunk or sober. But he was not content merely to bar Dom Peralt's way. When the young Dom neared him, Growt thrust out an arm as heavy as an axletree and jolted Dom Peralt in his tracks."

Having several well-described characters appearing in this tale make this story rise above its simple plot to be a page-turning thriller I've never forgotten, and never forgotten I've loved.
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[Editing note: I decided to apply a spoiler tag in my original post.]

This short story is effective with me because it can stir up such strong emotions, especially when I think about how people can claim love as a motive for doing the most hateful actions (and intending to drop someone in molten iron is quite hateful, wouldn't you KW readers say?).

"Abruptly, Templeman Knarll stood from his chair. With great care, he set aside his quill, stopped his inkpot, then gathered up his sheets of parchment and tucked them away within the sleeve of his surplice. As he did so, he said, "Dom Sen Peralt, you are an impious wretch, careless of your soul, and a hazard to all who love salvation. Praise God, the Temple is stronger. And we who serve the will of Heaven will never permit such as you to disorder our good work. If you think to defy me, you are a fool. I will return to question you when thirst has lessened your haughtiness somewhat.

"'Understand me well,' he continued as he moved to the door. 'By the word of the Temple, your bones will burn in molten iron if you refuse to answer me. Tell me how you came into the company of this witch--how she wove her wiles upon you--and how we may find her again, recapture her so that her evil can be destroyed--and you will be spared from agony if not from death. Hear you? The Temple is stronger than you. You have no escape. Your soul is in our care, and whether you are determined for Heaven or Hell, and we will wrest you from evil at any cost. You are bound to us as all are bound, from the meanest slave to King Traktus himself, and we will rule our own. Think upon it and recant.'

"'Vile wretch!' snarled Templeman Knarll, raising his hand to strike her. But High Templeman Crossus Hught snapped at once, 'Hold! Here she may say whatever she will. Her words purify the judica of doubt and false pity.' Then he turned toward Thamala and touched his miter to her shoulder.

"Dumbly, she gazed at him as though he had power to command her. Bending his look of madness over her, he said softly, almost fondly, 'Woman, you are my daughter in the spirit. The care of your immortal soul is my duty and my great treasure. You believe that we mean to deal with you harshly--and perhaps by mortal standards we are harsh. But there is God's love for you in what we do. By the standards of Heaven, only the harsh mortification of the flesh may hope to free the soul. The sufferings of your body will soon end. But the sufferings of your soul--Ah, your soul cries out for forgiveness, though you do not heed it. ['"]

"Setting the end of his miter to her cheek, he pressed her to face the cauldron. From the foot of the ramp below the pot, she could not see its contents. But the fire in the kiln made a steady roaring, and at intervals the molten iron could be heard to bubble.

"'There is your doom, witch,' said the High Templeman. 'Look for hope and mercy there, not from me. You will find that the agony is terrible. But it will be brief. A moment's anguish--a few screams. The agony of your soul will endure. Fiercer than any physical hurt, it will go on and on without let, and you will never escape. Only by confession and repentance may you hope to ameliorate the fire which awaits you.['"]

Extreme versions of the justification, "I'm only doing this for your own good", it seems to me!

At first, I wasn't inclined to sympathize a whole lot with Thamala for getting Dom Peralt in trouble by disappearing in front of everybody after he had freed her. But her coming to release Peralt from prison and her speech here caused me to see her more favorably.

"'No,' she retorted. She had been much abused in recent days, and her temper was somewhat short. 'This I will not endure.' Power curled in her fingers as she raised her hands against him. 'Murder and treachery have become the constant lot of my kind, and I accept those things as well as I am able. At the least, I have turned my back on revenge. But insult I do not accept--not while I am still able to defend myself. If there are evil and damnation here, they are your doing, not mine.

"'We whom you call witches commit no crimes. We desire only to live in peace among the leas and woodlands that we love--and to expand our knowledge of the weaving of true dreams--and to barter our help for the simple necessities we lack. And for that, we are slaughtered. You and your precious Templemen abhor us because we are free in spirit--and because we possess knowledge which you are too cowardly to share.'

Dom Peralt sought to interrupt her indignation, but she did not permit him. 'Do you believe,' she continued, 'that I need only wave my hands to steal clothes and cleansing and access to your cell from anyone I choose? No! The first I obtained honestly, healing the walleye of a child and the abcessed teeth of a goodwoman in trade. And for my appearance here--by good fortune, the outer street was deserted. But two guards hold the door of this building. Scribes labor at desks everywhere, lettering indictments. Four more guards dice with the jailer, thinking themselves secret. Three Templemen confer together nearby. And between that chamber and this, six guards more. For all of them, all, I spin the dreams which enable them to believe they have not seen me. No harm to them--but women like myself have gone mad under such strains.

"'Heed me well, you who despise the aid of witches. I pay my debts. But you will accompany me without insult, or I will cramp the tongue in your mouth until it chokes you.'"

She's a bit harsh in her response to Peralt, but she sure seems to have good cause, after all she has endured.