by Alston Sleet
“Saltfelt is under my protection. You will not harm him.”
The command was given in a sweet voice, but the steel under the velvety tone was clear.
“[Rebel King], know that your possible fates are limited. Raise hand against the dungeon, and you will die, and your kingdom will fall to ruin. Leave the dungeon be, and your kingdom will prosper.”
The proclamation came with the same thrum of power even as the goddess leaned back against the fireplace mantle and kicked her feet without any apparent care. As the echoes of her words started to fade so too did the image of the goddess fade away. The warmth of the fireplace slowly returned as the three men suddenly took breaths they hadn’t known they had been holding.
When the silence had dragged on for a while, the Lord Mayor finally gathered himself enough to ask what the king would have of them.
“Leave Saltfelt alone. Unless he does something else, I doubt the goddess was offering him a blanket pardon from all reprisals for any action.”
Nodding the Lord Mayor agreed, though Lord Vertan seemed annoyed that the [Merchant] would escape consequences yet again.
Thinking deeply for a moment he then directed the Lord Mayor to request his highest level [Courier]. Once the king asked for the Lord Mayor’s [Courier] the king noticed the pale face and clenched hands. Whoever this [Courier] was, the Lord Mayor did not want the king to meet him, this piqued the king's interest, but it was low on his concerns for the evening.
When the [Courier] arrived, the king didn’t find anything unusual about the young man. Weather-worn skin in woolen traveling clothes, scraggly beard and tousled hair, the only surprising thing about him was his age of twenty or twenty-five. [Courier] was a challenging class to level and the more useful skills required vast sums of money to make possible. The young [Courier] in question bowed his head on entering the office stating his name was ‘Welt.’ A name and accent, more familiar to peasants than nobles made this [Courier] more unusual than first appearances would present.
“What is your level and skill level in [Inspire Mount]?” the king questioned.
The uncomfortable shift of the Lord Mayor followed by Welt explaining that he was level forty and had [Inspire Mount] at seventy-eight caused a look of surprise on the king's face, the first shift in appearance from arrogance since entering the mansion.
[Couriers] only gained levels from delivering mail, a relatively thankless job. Useful and vital, especially during wartime, during peace, they struggled to pay for the upkeep for their horses. Most letters were sent intermittently with merchant caravans. Reaching level forty at such an age meant he had been delivering letters and packages regularly, the skill [Inspire Mount] being so high was even more extreme than his level. [Inspire Mount] would refresh the stamina and health of a flagging horse and allow it to race at full speed for hours on end at the expense of the rider’s own stamina and health. At the end of such a ride, the horse was almost always left lame or dead. To achieve a skill level of seventy-eight would require riding thousands of horses into the ground, an impossible to achieve result given that they could still trip and throw a rider under such a horrible ordeal.
The king had retained a stable of [Couriers] with a skill not even a quarter of this young man's. This discovery alone would be worth the trip out here, information was a weapon which he had wielded against the [Tyrant King], and if this young man’s skill could be recreated in others, it would be worth its weight in gold.
“Explain your skill level Welt,” the king demanded from the young man.
Nodding in a relaxed manner, the young man explained, “well, when I was a kid I rode lergs, those big slow lizards? Anyway, we used them to haul the plow. I earned the skill [Improvised Mount] which lets me use any horsemanship skill at thirty percent effectiveness on other animals. The Lord Mayor has had me delivering letters and packages using lerns. Fastest they go is maybe three or four leagues an hour. Been making me look a right fool, but the skill gains have been nice. Not to mention lergs can take a lot more abuse than a horse can.”
Nodding at the explanation the king motioned the young man away, “Very well, I will have a letter, and the Lord Mayor’s fastest horse, for you to deliver shortly.”
The king stared at the Lord Mayor while considering how to respond to this. While it wasn’t an act of rebellion to not tell the crown about any skill combinations which could be necessary for the kingdom, the act of monopolizing it while not reporting it was strange. This discovery would have vastly improved the kingdom’s military might and would have garnered the Lord Mayor favor from the king.
In the end, the king decided to let it lie and keep his [Spy Master] watching.
Walking to the Lord Mayor’s desk, the king retrieved a paper, quill, courier packet, sand, and ink bottle. Penning and drying his letter the king folded the paper and pressed his signet into the wax before wrapping it in the courier packet. Returning to the young [Courier] the king handed him the package then placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder and stared into his eyes.
“You are to ride as fast as you are able to Festick, south of the capital. You are to enter the Orphanage of the Blessed Sisters of Mercy. It is a front for Vetta’s church.”
At the mention of the church of Vetta, Goddess of Order and Light, the room tensed. Vetta’s worship had been outlawed with the death of the [Tyrant King]. Vetta had supported the [Tyrant King] because of his strict control of the people and his support of her [Paladins], he had gotten divinely powered warriors, and she was allowed to crack down on her enemies with the king's blessing.
“You will hand this letter to the headmistress, if they refuse to see you, tell them the king himself has placed this letter in your hand and wishes to make things right with her church. Do you understand?”
The young [Courier] clutched the leather courier pouch to his chest as he nodded under the king's stare.
After the [Courier] had left the king wearily sat in the cushioned chair once again.
“My king? Was that wise? The goddess did order us not to raise a hand against the dungeon; your life and the kingdom rests in the balance does it not?” asked Lord Vertan.
The Lord Mayor gripped Lord Vertan’s arm as he started to speak but his underling had always been outspoken, and this situation was no different.
“I haven’t raised my hand against the dungeon. I’ve simply let Vetta know about this dungeon and offered her church a chance to return to the kingdom. Besides, she didn’t say I would survive not striking against the dungeon, she only said I would die if I attacked directly. Fate is rarely something that can only go one of two ways, there is always a different way for things to go if one is willing to look for the option.”
The two men glanced at each other but remained silent as the king fumed while warming his suddenly cold hands at the fire.
Knocking at Coldona’s door, Denda frowned as she considered what she had set in motion. Her arms wrapped around her body trying to hug away her concerns.
Coldona had spent the last month in her quarters within the Hall of the Gods. Her shifting appearance would not have bothered her family, but she didn’t want her erratic behavior to cause problems with the other gods.
Opening the door, Denda halted when she looked upon Coldona, her frown transforming into a glorious smile.
Denda nearly rocketed across the room as she shouted, “You have a new domain!”
Four slender, and finally feminine, arms opened wide as Denda impacted on Coldona’s voluptuous chest.
“I’m also more human looking, I haven’t fully stabilized, but I now have the domain of Challenge! It was touch and go there. I…I almost split Sis.”
Coldona’s voice came out as a whisper at the end. A split was when a god or goddess had too many conflicting views from too many mortals, and the only solution was for the domains to split and produce two divine beings. Given the conflict for Coldona, it was possible both divine halves could have ended up evil.
“I’m so
happy for you, I didn’t see this, but I had hoped it would work out.”
Coldona looked down then tipped her little sisters face upwards.
“Ok, now what was causing that sad face before the good news?”
Denda tried to look away, but Coldona kept her face turned up towards her only letting her turn her head and tuck it into the hug once she started to talk.
“Am I a monster Sis?”
The question was so odd that Coldona pulled back and stared at Denda in confusion.
Scrunching her eyes closed Denda explained, “The king had three possible fates. One was his death and the kingdom falling into ruin, another had him living and the kingdom faring well.”
Denda bit her bottom lip and then looked at Coldona as she continued.
“But the third had him dying and the kingdom failing, but the whole of the Tapestry of Fate grows and knits tighter. That future had creatures of all kinds changing and coming together, it’s a future that was good for our pantheon. All it cost was a king’s life and the death of a kingdom.”
Tears started to fall from Denda’s yellow eyes as she confessed what she had done.
“I pushed the king toward that final fate. I chose us, I chose you, I chose that bright future, and I practically pushed the kingdom and most of its people onto the knife.”
Coldona pulled her little sister closer and started to rock her, “Oh honey, you haven’t killed them. You picked the best actions you could, knowing what you know, the same as anyone else. The future can still change, and things could still improve. Just do what you can for those who will suffer from the king’s actions, do the best you can. We are gods, but we are not all powerful.”
This was why Denda came to Coldona, she understood living in unfortunate situations and the making of hard decisions.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Cold Light
The door to Margen’s room was bumped open by Yorgo’s hip as she carried little Annwey. The little girl’s face was tear streaked, and her hair was tangled as she held her hand close to her chest. Her red, watery eyes pleaded for Margen to make everything better even as she silently sobbed. In the three years, she had lived in the orphanage, Annwey had never spoken. The hope was that with enough love and care the child would eventually talk again. The death of the rest of her merchant family while traversing usually safe terrain had happened during one of the occasional monster surges.
“Hey now little one, what happened to you,” asked the elder Margen even as she turned to Yorgo.
In a reproving tone, Yorgo said, “She was running around in the courtyard and tripped, landed on her wrist odd.”
Placing the little girl on the bed, Yorgo turned to the cabinet for a wrap. The small dusty and ill-lit room had only a chair, a rickety desk, the rickety bed, and the cabinet. The cabinet and lock were the only signs of wealth in the room and only then because it housed the expensive and sometimes dangerous medical supplies.
Pouring the fine sand onto her letter to dry the ink, Margen lifted her frail body from her chair and hobbled around the desk to slowly kneel before the silent crying girl. While Yorgo pulled wraps from the cabinet, her motions smooth and controlled, Margen gently held the girl's wrist as she checked for a break in the bone.
Turning to face the little girl, who had been watching Margen’s ministrations through her lashes, she smiled. Margen’s dry face cracked into a spiderweb of laugh lines as she whispered to the girl, “I know it hurts, but nothing seems that wrong, we will wrap it, and things will be better, ok?’
The silent girl nodded as Yorgo perfunctorily wrapped the injured limb. Once she was done, she held Annwey’s uninjured hand and escorted her out to the yard. If past injuries were any indication the little girl would be running around silently shortly. This left Margen alone to lever her self up carefully and onto her feet again.
Her pained trudge back to her desk was interrupted by a commotion outside the orphanage. Briefly, a look of frustration and annoyance flashed across her face before it calmed and she turned to try and march her way to see to the noise. Her movements had slowed each year, and soon enough she would no longer be able to attend to her duties.
Outside was a young man, scraggly of beard with light blue eyes and tousled hair, he wore a courier uniform and was marked with the king's badge, but he lacked the traditional finery of the king’s [Couriers]. Prostrate at the gateway of the orphanage was presumably the man’s horse, its shuddering exhaustion plain to even Margen’s aged eyes. The horse lay at the gate frothing and gasping, ignored by his rider while he attempted to try and cross the threshold past Yorgo, but the woman was guarding the entrance against him.
“I need to see the headmistress, I have a letter from the king himself!”
Yorgo moved again to block him and retorted, “…and I will deliver it to the headmistress, and you will wait here! This is an orphanage for females only.”
When the young man noticed Margen in the vestibule, he attempted to move around Yorgo and was subsequently surprised when the woman not out of her teenage years was able to strike him in the chest with her elbow and knock him back.
“Let him through Yorgo, you know how I feel about fighting in the orphanage. If he wants to see me this badly, he must be delivering something important.”
At the older woman’s rebuke, Yorgo moved to let him pass through. She walked close behind him as he approached the headmistress. As the man approached he slowed, his eyes drawing across Margen as if looking for something. The eyes of a young man roaming across her had been something she hadn’t experienced in many years, but these eyes held fear not attraction. He wasn’t sizing her up as a playmate, he was eyeing her the way some men eye a weapon carried by an enemy.
“Are you the headmistress?” the [Courier] asked even as he reached for his courier pouch.
Calmly the old woman’s paper dry voice replied, “I am, what does the king need with the headmistress of an orphanage?”
The man said nothing as he opened his courier pouch and handed over the letter marked ‘for the Church of Vetta.’
Making a sound of acknowledgment the headmistress turned and walked towards her room while she gestured the other two to join her with a careless wave over her shoulder.
It was a slow and awkward walk back to the cramped room, and Yorgo shadowed the [Courier] far too close for comfort. Soon Margen had lowered herself into her chair and opened the letter, using a small knife to cut across the wax signet mark before reaching for a magnifying loop with her other hand. Silently she read while the other two stood, the [Courier] near the cabinet and Yorgo in front of the closed door.
Margen leaned back, dropping the letter on her desk when she finished reading. She began to tap the knife she still held against her other hand even as she set down the loop.
Looking to Yorgo, her voice gained much of the strength it had lost over the last few years, “Hmmm, well. This changes things. Yorgo, go gather your weapons and armor, it seems you will have your sanctifying rights instead of taking up my mantle.”
The [Courier] glanced to Yorgo as the overbearing woman exited, her glare at the young man daring him to do anything while she was gone. The sound of her stomping was loud even as the slender woman retreated to one of the rooms down the hall from Margen’s quarters.
Margen stared off into space a bit as she tapped her knife before the young [Courier] interrupted her thoughts, “So, do you wish me to send a letter back to the king with your response?”
Margen pulled herself from her daydreaming then turned back to the [Courier], “Oh, hmm, yes, I have a message. Though, I will be sending Yorgo. Her mission was to train new [Paladins], but that won’t work now that we know the king knows of us. But then that doesn’t matter now does it?”
The rhetorical question was made while Margen snatched up the letter and signet seal and pulled herself from her chair with more vigor than she had shown in decades. The [Courier] rose as well and stepped toward the doorway as the he
admistress opened her cabinet and scooped out a pair of coin purses. The young man walked beside the woman as if not sure precisely what he should be doing with himself now that his delivery was made. His responsibility was to deliver the response to the king, but the answer was apparently the young woman arriving at the king's request.
Before he could exit the orphanage, Margen requested he wait a moment.
After fifteen minutes of the two waiting, Yorgo marched towards the headmistress and the [Courier]; she was dressed in leather armor with a dagger strapped to her upper arm and another to her left lower leg. She had a pack which rattled as she walked and had a large roll of cloth strapped onto it. A scabbard and short sword rode at her side with the holy mark of Vetta, a sun and sunburst with rays equally spaced around the engraving. Her shoulder length hair was pulled back and tied into a ponytail.
Yorgo’s sudden change in appearance drew the [Courier’s] eye even as the new armed and armored woman watched him eagle-eyed as she approached, her hand never straying from the pommel of her sheathed sword. The antagonistic woman was far more imposing when geared up for travel or battle, but it was the look in her eye that was the most frightening.
Mergen reached out for the young woman’s hands and clenched them in her own weathered ones.
“I know you have dreamed of fighting for Vetta and now you will, but remember that the darkness is tricky; it can entice, and you must shine Her holy light upon it. The king has directed that the Church is invited back into the kingdom if a troublesome dungeon is destroyed.”
Here the old woman’s voice rasped as her emotion leaked out, “The evil bitch of disorder, the whore of monsters and dungeons has apparently taken this one as her own, her champion. She is tempting the poor and weak, those susceptible to disorder and the darkness, she draws them in, and she is giving them power in exchange for their unholy allegiance. You will go to the capital, you will find this dungeon, and you will destroy it.”