[Souldrinker]: 573.Nightingale - Chapter 1

He regained consciousness to find that he was face down on the cobblestones.
He tried to get up but a large weight was pressing down on him, rendering him immobile. Before he knew it his hands had been pulled behind his back and he felt the cold, hard snap of metal cuffs upon his wrists. He tried to kick out, to buck off the weight that was pressing him down. For his efforts he received another blow to his head, and his vision began to swim again. He fought hard to stay awake, to look up at the scene around him, to try and make sense of what was going on in the square.
Everywhere he looked white-clad guardsmen were sitting atop men and women, cuffing their hands behind their backs and beating them when they resisted their arrest. Many forms lay still and unmoving, either in submission, exhaustion, unconsciousness or, he feared, possibly even death. Not everyone had ceased to resist, however. To his right, three guardsmen were still struggling to force a massive, bearded man to the ground. The man had arms that were larger than the guardsmen’s legs and he was using them to good effect, striking the metal helms and breastplates of the guardsmen as if he felt no pain, knocking them away as if they were children. A fourth guardsman approached the behemoth and struck his skull with a hard wooden club. The man’s knees began to buckle but he held his feet until a second strike forced him on too all fours and allowed the guardsmen to finally subdue and cuff him.
To his left, a woman lay sobbing. Blood ran freely from a broken nose and her left eye was swollen almost shut. She must have initially resisted, forcing the guardsman to beat her down in order to subdue her, receiving her wounds in the process. All resistance had washed away from her now and she lay face down on the ground, limp and submissive, without even a guardsman sitting atop her to ensure her compliance. He briefly wondered whether his resistance had left him with similar wounds, whether his handsome face would be scarred by the brutality of the sadistic members of the local law enforcement.
His train of thought was not allowed to delve too deeply into such horrendous places, however, before he was distracted. Behind the sobbing woman that lay to his left, a man had thrown his head back violently into the helm of the guardsman that was trying to cuff him. Fortuitously, the action had broken the guardsman’s nose and stunned him, giving the man on the ground enough time to throw the guardsman’s weight off and get to his feet. Still uncuffed, the tall, sandy-haired fellow immediately began to race for the nearest gateway.
He did not get far.
Before he had even run twenty metres, another guardsman swung his club in a wide arc and connected with the head of the would-be escapee. The man’s legs kept moving forward, but his head and torso fell straight towards the ground. With a sickening crack his head crashed into the cobblestones and split open. Blood cascaded out onto the ground like the bursting of a dam. The guardsman took no notice of his victim, instead paying close scrutiny to his weapon and picking off the few hairs and bits of flesh that had caught themselves on the club’s protrusions.
The scene did not go unnoticed. Almost immediately, resistance against the guardsmen ceased. The sound of metal cuffs clasping shut resounded throughout the square as the last of the men and women were apprehended and detained. Within one minute the only people standing in the square bore the Blue Marlin on their white tabards.
A horrified silence descended upon the square, broken only by the quiet sobbing of men and women who were either overcome by the pain of their injuries or frightened by the brutality they had just witnessed. When a booming voice broke the eerie silence, he flinched. He wasn’t the only one.
“Under orders of the Sentinel, Major Josef Armand, you are all hereby placed under arrest for dissidence against the lawful and holy rule of the Church.” He looked up to see a large, muscular man standing in the middle of the square. The four knots of rank on his shoulder marked him as Abel Caulon, Warden of Blue Bay Keep and commander of the city’s guardsmen. Despite his advanced age, no traces of grey touched his hair, and he held himself with the strength and confidence of a man thirty years his junior. One look at the Warden was enough to let you know that he was not a man to be trifled with, or disobeyed.
“As you well know by now, we have been authorised to use whatever force necessary to suppress and detain you. I would advise that no one attempt to repeat the feat of the unfortunate man over there,” the Warden said, pointing towards the flaccid corpse of the man who had just tried to escape, “lest you suffer the same fate as he.”
The Warden paused for a moment, sweeping his steely gaze across the square and taking in all of the men and women that lay cuffed and immobile on the ground. Every single one of them that was still conscious were horribly transfixed by that powerful look, unable to take their eyes away from their conqueror. “Make no mistake,” the Warden growled. “I intend to fulfil my orders, whatever the cost. Resist me at your own peril.”
As if no longer interested in his prisoners, he turned towards a guardsman and issued a quick and simple order. “Lock them up,” he said curtly, before turning on his heels and marching towards the eastern exit of the square.
No sooner had the order been given than he was being hauled to his feet and dragged towards the nearest wagon. He was unceremoniously thrown in the back of the wagon and kicked down onto the floor by the guardsman stationed inside. He looked around at his fellow detainees and saw the same emotions on each of their faces. Shock and fear. He knew that there would be no more resistance out of any of them, that they would now allow themselves to be hauled to the local prisons and incarcerated without opposition.
He also knew that when they looked at him, they would see the same expression. He would not offer up any more resistance either, for he was as scared as they were.


*  *  *  *  *


“Are you alright?”
Faeblar snapped out of his reverie and looked over at the woman who had asked him the question. He had seen her around the campus before but never spoken to her. They had attended meetings together before but he had never had the chance to have a conversation with her. He wondered to himself why he had never taken the opportunity to get to know her, because as he looked at her now it was obvious that she would normally be a very beautiful woman. Her dark hair was short like a boys, but this meant that it didn’t fall in front of her big blue eyes. Her lips were full as if they had been made just for the purpose of kissing. She was slim and lithe, with pert, firm breasts that complimented her athletic figure. As small and fragile as she looked, however, there was an unmistakable strength to her and Faeblar found this quality very attractive in women. There was no doubt that, normally, Faeblar would have found her beauty irresistible.
At that moment, however, she looked vastly different. Her short, dark hair lay stuck to her scalp, caked down with her own blood from a wound on the top of her head. One of her deep blue eyes was swollen half shut and her lips had bloated up beyond their normal fullness from a deep cut. Just like many of those who were in the square that morning, she had taken a thrashing today at the hands of the guardsmen. Not surprisingly, her strength remained, and he felt it in her gaze as she stared at him and waited for him to answer.
“Are you alright?” she asked again, and this time Faeblar nodded and waved her concerns away. Physically he felt fine considering the beating he had taken this morning and he doubted that he looked as bad as most of those that sat around him. She gave him a smile and extended her hand towards him. “Varlacana Beil,” she said, introducing herself, “but just call me Varly.”
Faeblar took her hand and summoned a smile of his own. No matter the situation, you never passed up the opportunity to smile at a pretty woman. “Faeblar,” he replied. Her hand was soft and smooth, a piece of femininity that remained amidst her bloody and bruised exterior. “Faeblar Wanfond.”
Suddenly the softness in her vanished as she stiffened and pulled away from him, a guarded look of uncertainty crossing her face. Suddenly Faeblar felt a hand clap down on his shoulder and Liam, his closest friend, lent forward to speak to her. “That’s right, my bloodied little rose, Faeblar Wanfond.” He turned his crooked smile to Faeblar, revelling as he always did in the discomfort and hatred his name always caused amongst the likes of those who sat with them. “Son of the great and wealthy Jaras Wanfond and heir to the vast fortune of the Wanfond merchant dynasty!”
He then turned his smile to the others around them, nodding jovially and mischievously to let them all know that, indeed, what he was saying was true. “Don’t hold it against him, though,” Liam laughed. “He believes in what we do as much as the rest of us.”
Those around Faeblar didn’t seem too convinced by Liam, and they looked at him as if he was a cat amongst the pigeons. It always happened this way, people judging him by his name and not by his actions. If it wasn’t his fellow students thinking he was part of the system of economic exploitation then it was businessmen, officials or merchants thinking he was a wealthy target for goods or bribes. It seemed that wherever he turned, someone was willing to decide for him where he fit into society because he was a Wanfond.
“Hey,” Liam continued, obviously noticing the way the others were reacting to Faeblar. “If he didn’t he wouldn’t be in here. He’s suffered as much as any of us today.” The others shared glances with each other before nodded exhaustedly. The man who sat to Faeblar’s right, Anden Gorrell, reached out and gave Faeblar a consoling pat on the back. Faeblar had seen the fellow many times in his Ethics in Society classes but, as with Varlacana, they had never spoken before. Looking around, Faeblar realised that the only person in the group that he had actually spoken to before was Liam. He was stuck in here with a bunch of people he didn’t know, and who appeared predisposed to hating him because of his family.
In here. He looked around, still in disbelief that he had wound up in one of the city’s goal cells, his head split open and throbbing like he’d been on a weekend tavern crawl. No, worse, for there weren’t enough taverns in Blue Bay Keep to create the throbbing Faeblar was suffering through at that moment. A dozen dirty, bloody men and women were crammed into a space that would have originally been designed to hold two or three drunken vagrants or tavern brawlers. On each side of Faeblar’s cell and across the hall, ten similar confines were also crammed tightly with the men and women who had been detained in the University’s square that morning. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, with barely enough room to squirm, one hundred people sat waiting like mute, miserable cattle for their butcher to hand down his sentence.
No one knew what that sentence would be, though. Faeblar had known students who had been charged with dissent when standing up for their rights, but he feared that under the new climate that had arisen in Blue Bay Keep, more serious charges of sedition might be laid against those who were responsible for organising the gathering and encouraging their fellow citizens to go on strike from their workplaces and classrooms. Faeblar had no fear about facing such charges himself, for he was only a new member of the movement, but even a charge of dissent would have his father crying that Faeblar had brought shame onto his family. No doubt if his father even found out that he had been detained he would face a tongue lashing, if not more, when he was finally allowed to leave his cell and return home.
It was not something that he was looking forward to, yet surprisingly he was still of the belief that the actions that had led him to be in a goal cell had been the right ones to take.
Things had begun to change in Blue Bay Keep recently, and word from elsewhere was that the situation was no different in the rest of the kingdom. The Church had always held power within Carelon, by law if not in the hearts of citizens, but the last year had seen the Thorosian hierarchy extend its iron grip beyond the walls of the Holy City to the far corners of the kingdom. When Faeblar had begun his studies at the University, things were much the same as they had always been in Blue Bay Keep.
The town flourished on the back of a thriving fishing industry in Lobster Bay and solid cattle trade from throughout the many small towns and villages of the western plains. Blue Bay Cove, just to the north of the city, offered the best source of pearls in the kingdom and courageous divers built their fortunes and reputations in their dangerous fight against the rocks and tides when seeking these precious rewards. Injury and death had always been common amongst their ranks but those who survived did so with a burgeoning purse of gold and many a tall tale to share at their local tavern with eager-eared fellow patrons. The Bay has always offered other prizes for the less foolhardy, such as a wide variety of colourful and flavoursome fish. From the blue-spotted scorpionfish, valuable for its deadly spines and even deadlier poisons, to the tenacious fighting cobia, whose flesh was not commonly sought after but valuable to those who had acquired the taste. The life of a fisherman on Lobster Bay was not as dangerous or profitable as that of a pearl diver or sea-fisher from the Crying Sea, but it offered enough reward and the added lure of leisure so that the boats and ships that left the docks of Blue Bay Keep were never short handed or under-manned. The city had reaped the rewards of a strong and profitable industry for some time.
The western plains also offered their bounty to the people of Blue Bay Keep. Whilst Dalston had always been the centre of agriculture in Carelon, Blue Bay Keep had always had its own smaller rural sector. The produce was not of the same quality or quantity as that grown in the central plains, for the local farmers around Dalston had a strong tradition that had formed the basis of their existence since before the founding of the kingdom, but the cattle, grains and vegetables were all locally grown and harvested and thus offered an acceptable, and less expensive, option for the inhabitants of the western plains. Whilst the produce from the central plains was the more desired, the demand for western plains yields, mainly as an average daily fare, was strong enough to keep the industry significantly profitable for those involved.
Blue Bay Keep had also developed into the major stopover on the trading route from Dalston to Lancastar. Being totally landlocked, Dalston had to rely on caravans to transport its goods throughout most of the kingdom. To its south was the small port city of Duponte, but the coast there was so ragged that the docks were not able to be expanded to such a size as to accommodate all of Dalston’s needs, and so the King’s Highway remained the major venue upon which Dalston conveyed its goods to the western plains. As such, Blue Bay Keep served as a well deserved resting place for the weary merchants partaking in the long voyage back and forth between Lancastar and Dalmonte, as well as the major port for shipping out Dalston’s farming goods to Tarandan and the towns along Angorah Island’s western coastline.
It was not just trade that contributed to Blue Bay Keep’s lifeblood, however. The city’s University, one of only two major academic institutions in the kingdom not directly controlled by the Church, was a hubbub of intellectual activity that drew thinkers and scholars from the central and western areas of Carelon and gave Blue Bay Keep a unique, liberal and egalitarian feel that was not to be found anywhere else in the kingdom. Due to its distance from the Holy City and presence of an institution dedicated to the development of thinking and knowledge, Blue Bay Keep had developed itself into a place well known for its freedom from the strict dominance of the Thorosian Church. The priests of the Bull God had always held a strong presence in the city, however the citizens did not always live their lives with the strict obedience to religion that was commonly found in the east, where the Holy City of Comrum was situated.
The tables of Blue Bay Keep had always held plentiful food, and they served without fear of rebuke as a meeting place for the citizens to openly discuss and debate any topic they wished. Life was good in Blue Bay Keep
Life had been good for the Wanfond family as well, more so than most. For two generations the Wanfonds had been in possession of a Domestic Pass, the trade certificate that allowed you to deal in any goods that the Kingdom had to offer. From the minerals and gems mined at Charlon Peak in the east to the potatoes of Kobelac in the west and the grains that were harvested throughout the central plains, the Wanfonds had the uncommon privilege of being able to buy and sell whatever they pleased. Not wishing the extend himself beyond the family’s means, Faeblar’s grandfather Thomas had chosen specialisation over diversification and had soon become the largest trader in the hides and meat of the wildebeest herds that populated the north-west corner of the kingdom. Befriending the villagers of the area, Thomas Wanfond had invested in the maintenance and well being of the herds and in turn was granted by the locals almost sole right to distribute the commodity throughout the Kingdom of Carelon. Using indigenous knowledge to understand how to best present and serve the meat, and make the greatest use of the hides, Thomas Wanfond had turned what was previously thought of as an undesirable foodstuff fit only for the poor villagers of the west into a sought after alternative to the staple diet of beef that most of the kingdom consumed as their preferred fare.
When Jaras, Faeblar’s father, had inherited the business upon Thomas’ death, he had decided to make the most of the fortune the family had made. Taking the large amounts of gold that the Wanfonds had stored in the city’s depository, he had purchased some rundown warehouses in the city’s western district and renovated them. Then, he had convinced a group of traders from both Dalston and Lancastar that transporting goods between the two cities, through Blue Bay Keep, was too expensive and causing too much wear on their wagons and that they could save money by transferring the goods to his warehouses and letting him finish the journey. He had only tacked on a small mark-up in price and so there wasn’t much profit in these new goods by themselves, but the new merchandise brought new customers and new customers meant a larger market for his hides and meat and this meant more profit for the Wanfond family. Soon enough, Jaras was also the sole trader of other village goods from the western plains – handicrafts, soft timbers and sweet berries – and the Wanfond family had grown to be one of the most prominent in Blue Bay Keep, and one of the largest merchant empires in the west.
Just over a year ago, however, two deaths – one in the east and one in the west – had served to change the character of Blue Bay Keep in a way that was not totally agreeable with its citizens, most especially the youth who had grown up in the liberal city. In the Holy City of Comrum, Ordant, head of the Thorosian Church, passed away and was succeeded by Pothis, the Horn of the Bull that had been serving in Serathan. During his rule, Ordant had been a kind and benevolent man, believing the purpose of the Church was to support the poor and the weak, and to offer moral guidance to the population in general. Pothis, however, held very different views about the role of the Church. His belief, which he made immediately clear, was that the Church should be the dominant authority throughout the kingdom and that all citizens of Carelon should be strict observers of the Church’s beliefs, preferably through voluntary means but by force if necessary. So began the militarisation of the Thorosian Church.
There had always been warrior-priests of sorts within the ranks of the Thorosians. Under Ordant, many had wandered the highways and roads, protecting travellers and merchants from brigands and wild animals, as well as journeying throughout the backwaters of the kingdom to spread the word of the Church and ferret out any heretics. Soldiers had also been stationed in barracks within the Holy City, guarding the Holy Quarter and safeguarding any senior members of the Church that were travelling throughout Carelon.
Under Pothis, however, this contingent of soldiers had been expanded significantly, and rapidly. Thousands of young men had been recruited into the ranks of religious military service and were now either wandering throughout Carelon or stationed at newly erected permanent barracks in the kingdom’s major towns and cities. Their jobs were no longer to provide assistance and guidance, but instead to enforce the Church’s strict laws. More often than not they were all too eager to bring about this enforcement with the point of their swords, confident in their violence because they were under the protective umbrella of the Church.
The second death had taken place in Blue Bay Keep itself. Vassal Haran Sentras, ruler of the city, had passed away in his sleep at the young age of fifty. His son, Weston, had succeeded him and immediately put his own stamp on the city. A fervently religious man and a soldier himself, Weston had immediately negotiated with the Church to establish a garrison of Thorosian soldiers within the city and soon enough the Church had as much authority in Blue Bay Keep as the Vassal himself.
There were some within the city who immediately fell into the new way of life, knowing that to oppose the combined rule of the Church and Royal Family would bring upon their heads attention that they did not want. Faeblar’s father had been one of these people. In order to find favour with the arriving Sentinel, he had made a significant donation towards the building of the new garrison and offered his wagons to transport anything to Blue Bay Keep that might have been needed. Many others who had a vested interest to look after had made similar moves until the power structure of the city had largely fallen into line with the new regime.
Others, however, had not been so willing to submit to the violent domination of the new Church without resistance. The central core of this opposition had come from the University, whose very function relied on open discourse, freedom of expression and autonomy from any singular authority. Many of the poorer, less advantaged members of the city were willing to stand by their side, for they had lost much when Pothis had moved away from the compassionate rule employed by Ordant. With their libertarian culture under threat from the restrictive rule of the new Blue Bay Keep, the disenfranchised citizens had at first tried to sabotage the construction of the fledgling garrison. When this failed, and the garrison was completed and began housing soldiers, the citizens had turned instead to public demonstrations against the new regime. Initially, the support from throughout the city was significant, but soon enough this began to dwindle when the Thorosian soldiers, supported by the city guardsmen, began to demonstrate their willingness to use whatever means necessary to assert their authority. Soon enough the population of Blue Bay Keep had been cowed into submission and the Church’s grip on the city was almost complete. The demonstration that morning had not even one tenth the number of people in attendance that similar events were receiving one month ago, let along at the begin of the opposition movement.
Looking around at the broken and bruised bodies that shared the cell with him, Faeblar wondered how many would be willing to stand in public and defy authority again. Rubbing the welt on the back of his head, he wondered whether he would have the strength to do it again. Thinking about the young man who had tried to escape from the guardsmen that morning, his confidence in himself dropped even further. Most likely by the time his father had finished with him, he would be too terrified to even leave his house without permission.
Anden must have been reading his mind. “You’re father isn’t going to like it when he finds out you’re down here with the rest of us rapscallions,” he said laughing. The last thing Faeblar thought about the situation was that it was funny. The red headed woman across from Faeblar somehow saw the funny side of the situation, too. “He’ll have to dig deeper into his pockets to sweep this one under the rug,” she said with a smile and a wink. Faeblar just shook his head and dropped it into his hand, rubbing his eyes as if to try to rub the thoughts from his mind.
At least the guardsman agreed with him. “Quiet in there!” he growled as he stopped in front of their cell. He banged his club against the steel bars and they rattled causing everyone, in all the cells, to look his way. He stared back, running his gaze the length of the corridor, taking them all in. “You all be in enough trouble as it is. I be adding bruises on top your bruises if you don’t all be quiet.”
Most of Faeblar’s fellow prisoners seemed to heed the warning and fell silent, stopping their muted chattering. One young man, two cells down, was the exception. “How can you do this?” he asked with anger, standing to lean against the front of his cell as if he could intimidate the guardsman. “All we are trying to do is stand up for this city, for the people of this city. People like you!”
The man didn’t sit down or back away as the guardsman came to stand in front of his cell. “How can you let the Church just walk in here and take over, take away everything our families have worked to build in this city?” he asked, poking his finger through the bars at the guard. He was either very brave or very stupid, for the guard was well built, unhurt and armed. The guard lashed out with his club, poking it through the bars of the cell and striking the man in the head. Turns out the man was stupid. He fell back clutching his head and those around him grabbed him and dragged him back to his seat, looking at the guard out of the corner of their eyes in fear, worried that he might come into the cell to dish out more damage to the youth.
The guardsman swept his gaze back along the cells, and this time his face was angry. “I do what I do for my coin. I be feeding my family,” he growled, obviously not happy that his work was being brought into question by a bunch of prisoners. “You should all be knowing better by now. Your shouting get you only a busted head and a sleep in these cells. Hopefully you be learning today.”
He turned around and banged his club onto the bars of the cell behind him, the only cell that was not packed with prisoners like sheep in a pen. The cell held one man, and it was obvious that he had been beaten severely. Compared to the way the solitary man looked, Faeblar felt almost unharmed. “If you no be learning this, you be like him soon. He be on his way to the noose soon enough.” With one loud bang on the bars he was off again, walking the length of the corridor, glaring at the prisoners as he left.
Everyone was looking at the man now, but he didn’t seem to notice the attention. Another man from the cell directly across from the solitary prisoner spoke to him. “What did you do?” he asked. “Why did the bastards beat you?”
The prisoner slowly lifted his head, and scraped away the hair from in front of his eyes. He gave a short laugh, but it obviously hurt him to do so. “I am accused of heresy by the Sentinel,” he croaked. He must have been beaten brutally from the pain in his voice. Every move, every word from the man obviously caused him distress. “I have been charged with being in possession of heretical texts. Distributing them. Reading them.”
“What texts?” the youth in the cell across the corridor asked.
“Do you really want to know?” asked the man back. Pain in every word, but he still laughed. “Do you want to join me at the gallows? I could use the company, that’s for sure.”
The youth pressed on, not heeding the warning. It seemed that he was as stupid as his cell mate. “Tell me,” he said. “I want to know. I am not afraid of the Church’s rope.”
The solitary prisoner stared at the man through bloodshot eyes. It seemed as though he was impressed by the youth’s defiance. No doubt this would encourage the young man and probably get him in more trouble. Faeblar continued to listen, but turned away from them and leant back on the side of the cell again and closed his eyes so that it wouldn’t be obvious if the guard returned. “Books on astronomy, astrology,” the prisoner said, the pain in his voice carrying with it an unmissable tinge of gravity. “Books on the Hell Regions.”
Apart from the two having the conversation the rest of the cells were quiet, but now the silence was heavy. Heavy with fear. They had all been beaten and arrested because they disagreed with the Church’s heavy hand of dominance, but that did not mean that they did not fear the darkness of the Hell Regions. If this man was a purveyor of such knowledge then he was indeed a heretic.
Once again showing his stupidity, the youth opened his mouth to ask another question, but the heretic waved him away before he could speak. “And that is all you will get from me,” he said. “I plan on surviving until I face the Church’s noose, so that I can spit in the face of the priests as they hang me. I will not be beaten to death by a simple local guardsman.” And with that he turned away from the youth and lay down, quiet once again as he had been since they had all been brought here.
Faeblar shook his head and wondered for the hundredth time how he had gotten himself into this situation and what was going to happen to him. The cells were all silent now, the men and women quiet with fear of both a beating from the guard and close proximity to the heretic. There would be no talking for some time, Faeblar knew, and so he let himself relax as much as his throbbing head would allow, hoping to drift off to sleep and avoid the reality of the situation he was in for a short time at least.


*   *   *   *   *


“Are you trying to put me in an early grave, boy?” his father yelled. “After all I’ve done for you, this is what I have to deal with? Do you know what this is going to cost me? What I’m going to have to pay to save my name?”
Faeblar was sitting with his back against the wall, slowly banging his head against it. It was painful, but not as painful as having to listen to his father’s tirade. So far he had said nothing but he couldn’t remain silent forever. He stopped banging his head and sat forward, forcing himself to look his father in the eye. “All you have done, father, is let them walk into our city – our city – and take over!” he barked back. “And haven’t you paid them enough? You built half of their damned garrison, for crying out loud. Or will you just keep paying them money so you can continue to sit in their lap?”
The slap from his father stung, adding to the throbbing in his head. “How dare you!” he roared. “I have given you everything. Everything! I have paid for your education, given you the chance to learn what you need to know so that you can take over from me one day. I have given you every opportunity to become somebody in this city. And what do you do?” He looked as if he was going to strike Faeblar once again, but instead he slammed his fist into the table. “What do you do? You bring shame upon our family. You bring shame upon me, and I will not stand for it any more!”
Faeblar felt his own anger rising to meet that of his father’s. He was up out of his chair now, staring down at his shorter father. The throbbing in his head now was from the blood pumping through his skull like a raging river. “Shame?” he asked at the top of his voice, incredulous that his father would accuse him of that. “It is you that brings shame onto our family, father. You have made yourself a lapdog of the Church, a lackey of the Sentinel, begging for the opportunity to open your purse and buy his favour. While I am out there getting beaten down for this family, you are at the chapel kissing robes and washing feet. You’re selling this family out!”
The second blow from his father hurt. It really hurt. When the pain cleared he was back in his seat with his father standing over him, face as red as a ripened beetroot. “I have had enough,” he bellowed. His fists were clenched tight, his shoulders tensed. He was ready to strike again. Faeblar had to force himself to not shy away from the hulking madman. He didn’t want to back down from his father, wanted to stand up to him, but his body’s reflexes were preparing to shield him from further damage. “Enough of your disrespect. Enough of your selfishness. Enough of your damned games with those troublemakers. You mark my words, whatever it takes, whatever I have to do, this will be the last time that you cause trouble for this family.”
Faeblar’s father cocked a fist as if he was thinking about striking his son, but instead he turned on his heels and stormed out of the room. It was only then that Faeblar noticed his mother, standing in the doorway. She held a handkerchief to her face to wipe away the tears that were flowing from her eyes. In times past she would have run across the room and embraced her son, stroking his hair and asking him if he was alright. This time, however, she shook her head at him and turned to follow her husband out of the room. Faeblar was left alone, abandoned by both of his parents, the pain in his heart matching that in his head.


*   *   *   *   *


Faeblar stood waiting upon the dock, his long curls being tossed by the strong sea breeze. At his feet sat a chest full of his clothes and most important texts, waiting to be loaded onto the ship that sat anchored in front of him. His precious lute sat atop the chest and he kept half an eye on it at all times, even as he looked around the docks for his family.
They had not come, nor would they. His father, after leaving the room in which he had struck down his son three days ago, had gone immediately down to see the Harbourmaster and booked Faeblar a passage on the next ship breaking port for Comrum, where he was to work for his uncle who would ensure that he developed an appreciation for the family business. It seemed that his line of reasoning was that if he removed Faeblar from Blue Bay Keep, from the University, from his friends, that he wouldn’t be influenced to take part in any more demonstrations or public disturbances. Faeblar didn’t care what his father was thinking. As soon as he had heard of his father’s plans, he had grabbed a handful of clothes and his lute, and taken off to his favourite tavern to hide out. He had intended to lay low for a week until his father calmed down and the whole incident in the square was taken care of, until Blue Bay Keep settled back into some semblance of normalcy.
His plans had been thwarted on two fronts. Firstly, Blue Bay Keep had not settled back to any kind of normal routine. In fact, it had gotten worse, and now soldiers and guardsmen walked the streets just waiting for someone to step out of line. Taverns were losing business as men became concerned about being found staggering home after dark. The number of boats setting off from the docks each morning was dwindling as fishermen were scared to be caught without official licenses. Merchants had begun to take the backroads around the city so that they could bypass inspections of their wagons and avoid being caught trafficking in undeclared goods. Herbalists had shut up shop for fear of being branded witches or heretics. Even the dogs that roamed the streets had learnt to stay out of sight lest they be struck down under the guise of public safety.
The second thing that had gone against him was his father’s foresight. His father may not have been the type of man who thought straight when he was enraged, but once he had calmed down he had foreseen Faeblar’s reaction. No sooner had Faeblar arrived at his favourite haunt than he was being escorted home by a pair of city guardsmen. Each subsequent attempt to avoid his forced migration to the Holy City had met with similar results, no matter what obscure tavern, house or hideyhole he had tried to shelter himself away in. His father had put the word out that he was to be watched for and returned home whenever he was found, and the guardsmen of Blue Bay Keep had sure earnt their keep in that regard.
The result? Three days after feeling the wrath of his father’s hand, Faeblar was standing at the docks of Blue Bay Keep waiting to be forced onto a ship and moved off to Comrum against his will. There was no chance of one last ditch attempt at escape, either, for his father had had him escorted down to the docks by two city guardsmen who had remained behind to ensure that he took his berth on the Blue Maiden. At that moment they were sitting together casually , throwing dice for copper shekels, yet they made no secret that they had one on him and one on their game at all times. The only place Faeblar would be heading to that day was Comrum, whether he liked it or not.
A small, wiry man approached Faeblar, followed by two burly, tattooed sailors, and looked him up and down. He squinted down at a sheet of paper he was holding before looking back up at him. He reminded Faeblar of a mole, short sighted and fidgety as he was. “Faeblar Wanfond?” he asked in a squeaky voice. Faeblar simply nodded. The little man blinked at him before going on. “Time to board. The Blue Maiden will be setting sail as soon as the other guest arrives. He should be here soon.”
The little mole-man then squinted down at Faeblar’s chest and lute. “These are your belongings? This entirety of them?” he asked, and before Faeblar answered he waved the two burly sailors forward. “These men will take your possessions to your quarters for you. You should make your way on board immediately. The captain would not like it if you delayed his departure.”
Faeblar managed to grab his precious lute just before one of the sailors did. It was too precious an item to allow it to be damaged by the meaty hands of a roughhouse sailor, and he would carry it aboard himself. In fact, it would stay with him at all times during the voyage until he was safely in his uncle’s house. The lute had been a gift from beloved grandfather before he had died, and it had become Faeblar’s most treasured possession for that reason as much as its undeniable quality and monetary value. With the lute he had entertained many tavern rooms over the years and it had allowed him to catch the eye of numerous pretty girls from whom he had stolen kisses, or more.
He slung the lute over his back and walked towards the gangplank to board the ship when he heard a commotion at the foot of the docks. He turned to see a group of scarlet-clad armsmen, soldiers of the Thorosian Church, pushing aside fishermen, sailors and labourers to make room for whomever they were escorting to the waterfront. It seemed as though his fellow guest on the Blue Maiden had arrived, and whoever it was, they were important enough to require an armed escort of soldiers throughout the city. Faeblar groaned, not looking forward to spending a single day with a priest, let alone an entire sea voyage. If his life could get any worse, he didn’t know how.
Faeblar stepped back when the soldiers approached him. His head was still sore from the beating he had taken four days ago and he was not looking for further injury, and he doubted whether the soldiers would take enough care to ensure that his lute remained undamaged. When they reached the foot of the walkway up to the ship the soldiers stopped, and one stepped forward to hand some paperwork to the little mole-man that had spoken to Faeblar only a moment before. The mole-man squinted down at the paperwork and then peered between the shoulders of the soldiers to look at the guest, still obscured from Faeblar’s vision, that he was being asked to let board the ship.
Recoiling in shock, or maybe horror, was not the reaction that Faeblar had expected from the little man, but that was what the mole-man did when he stuck his head between the soldiers. The frail harbour official frenetically waved the soldiers on to the ship as he backed away. When two soldiers broke from the ranks of the group and began dragging a man up the gangplank, Faeblar finally got to see the man he would be spending his voyage with, and he almost recoiled in shock as well. There were no flowing robes of a Church official, no shining metal armour of a military officer, no well cut, fashionable tunic of a nobleman or wealthy merchant. The man was clothed in rags that barely clung to his body. The exposed flesh was either red from welts or blood, or black from bruises, and both his hands and feet were chained together so that he had little movement apart from a shuffle. His shaggy, uncut hair hung down over his face and obscured his identity but Faeblar did not need to see his face to recognise who the man was.
He would be sharing his voyage to Comrum with the heretic.