Torrodil

by Luke Geraghty

  ‘Do you need a hand?’ asked Anna.

  The boy did not answer. Mind already a mess, Anna decided she was not going to put up with any more nonsense. She untangled the satchel from the hedge and gave him a crusty grunt.

  ‘Th-th-thank you.’

  Mateo had a bad stutter. Apparently Anna had been wrong: it was possible to feel more awful. She did not know what to say and looked at him with newly-flushed cheeks. Then, as the clearing of a grey sky, he did something wonderful. He shook his head to say words were unnecessary. She saw that he wrestled with a demon too, but it did not embarrass him, nor own him. Taking a hand, he gripped her lightly in a simple, human connection and then continued walking.

  Arriving at the front door of the farmer’s house, the group did not know whether to knock or sneak in. Peterson would hardly be willing to hand over five plates’ worth of food though, would he? Coming to this conclusion themselves, the youths split up, Anna and Mateo going round the house on the left, Cesar, Andres and Tommy on the right, with the idea that if one group found an open window or an unlocked door, they would whistle to the other.

  The house was made of thick grey stone. The farmer was obviously wealthy, as there were glass windows of various shapes and sizes, and those on the ground floor gave a view of fine china and patterned, plush furniture. A portrait of a woman in a navy blue dress hung over the fireplace. Hearing a whistle, Cesar, Andres and Tommy came running and discovered the other two waving from inside the house, an open window standing between them.

  ‘The farmer’s at the bottom of the back field, feeding his pigs,’ announced Tommy.

  The group’s first port of call was the kitchen, where they feasted on cold meats, cheese and, to Cesar’s especial delight, bread and butter. From the window they could see Mr Peterson busy with work.

  ‘Is this stealing?’ asked Tommy, failing miserably to conceal a burp.

  ‘It is borrowing with no intention to give back,’ replied Cesar.

  ‘So stealing then?’

  Stuffed and belching a couple of burps all round, the group elected to split up once more. A quick and efficient search was what they needed, with no pointless looting.

  ‘And if he catches us, Anna can blow him to smithereens!’ said Tommy, putting his hands on his hips, pleased with this clever remark. ‘What? It was a joke.’

  Anna took the upstairs, determined to find suitable clothing for the Venecians. Entering the bedroom, she saw it was decorated with ornate wallpaper. A carved wooden vanity sat in the corner, topped with combs and hairpins, faded parchment and jewellery. There was a wedding band lying disconsolately on a letter that caught Anna’s eye. Must belong to the farmer’s wife.

  The wardrobe contained an abundance of day and evening dresses, bodices, corsets and shoes, but little menswear. Anna bundled fur-lined coats into a sack. It’s not much, she thought, but at least it’ll keep the boys warm at night, not to mention hide those awful Venecian V-necked tops.

  Taking the plainest day dress into her hands, Anna let loose a puff of lavender, then folded it into the sack and left the room. She stepped down the stairs, admiring the portraits of the fireplace woman as she went. The warm, motherly face fostered a yearning for home that had been buried under the upheaval. They had to be okay. There was no alternative because it would have been too much to grapple with on this day, when so much had changed.

  ‘What did you get?’ she asked the boys, reaching the landing.

  ‘Enough food for a few days’ travel, materials to light a fire, and some thimbles full of spices we can sell.’

  ‘Good, let’s go.’

  The group left the house through the window. When the hardworking farmer noticed the mess in the kitchen later that day, he knew it had been kids again. Swearing at the stars, he checked her possessions to see what was missing. The combs with locks of her hair were still there. The jewellery that used to grace her neck lay untouched. The wedding band on top of the love letter too. But one of her day dresses – the one that had been her favourite, despite the others he had spoiled her with – had been plundered. That’s how fair life is, he thought, leaning on the doorframe, breathing out the room’s sweet air.

  Two miles from Old Haven, the band of travellers found their way hidden in night’s cloak, impervious to their attempts to find the right trail. A torch built out of branch, cloth and pitch provided light enough to guide them to a cave, where they sheltered from the darkness wrapped up in the fur-lined coats until the fire provided sufficient warmth. Tales dripped from the Venecians’ mouths like a steady trickle of moonshine, and the travellers let their minds slip from the long and arduous day into the stirring stories. But after a tale or two about mythical beasts – the snake-haired women of the stony gaze; the ice-skinned Faccants of the Frozen Isles – the adventurers’ forgot to forget, and dwelled on the creature of their party who was no mere girl. Sensing the boys’ not-so-subtle stares, Anna attempted to change topic.

  To the Venecians, ‘What are your plans?’

  ‘We intend to head home,’ replied Cesar.

  ‘You’re not coming to the desert with us?’ asked Tommy, in the perpetual state of bewilderment that suited him.

  ‘There is a war brewing between our two kingdoms. We have come to these lands; we have seen them for ourselves. You are no different from us. Our forces were entrusted with scouting and reporting back to the King. We were trained in your language and given a rudimentary understanding of your ways, but few from our party were interested in merely scouting. They wanted to be bandidas, rich and powerful. They lie dead for what they have done and none can tell the King anything – not that we deserted them, not of the unprotected towns, not even that we remain in the land of the living. We will journey to Mezbollah. From there we can take a camel ride to our border, gather our families, and leave Venecia together.’

  ‘What if you went to your King? Told him our forces were strong? You could prevent the war,’ said Anna.

  ‘He will not listen. If the towns are unguarded he will come. If the towns are guarded he will train more musketmen, bring more cannons and battering rams for your walled capital, but he will still come. Word has spread that you have been slow to utilise gunpowder.’

  ‘So you won’t even try to tell him? How cowardly.’

  ‘Why do you not go to your Queen? Tell her of the impending war? If she gives public audiences these days. Rumour has it she has even sworn off men because she is already betrothed…to Carrigan.’

  ‘I hope you’re not implying that King Barbosa is going to declare war because she refused his offer of marriage.’

  ‘I do not know his reasons; I cannot read minds. Is that another of your talents, along with insulting your friends and turning people to dust?’

  Anna and Cesar swam in a mutual scowl. Tommy attempted to lighten the mood. ‘Well, I reckon you Venecians ain’t so bad.’ A wry ‘thanks’ came back at him. ‘How about another story?’ he suggested, changing tack.

  ‘Y-y-y-yes. Andres.’

  ‘May I?’

  ‘If Cesar can keep his mouth shut,’ Anna muttered under her breath.

  ‘I heard that.’

  ‘Not about mythical creatures,’ Tommy said, wary of thoughts returning to Anna. ‘A normal one this time. From your country.’

  Andres contemplated for a moment and then began:

  ‘In La Sabana, where sandstone mountains touch the sky, there lived a girl of the Guamón tribe.’ Anna didn’t appear to be listening, so he raised his voice. ‘This girl was prized, for the jejenes loved her sweet blood like no other. Where she went, so did the gnats, and no others were bitten.

  ‘The chief of the tribe said that no man may lay his hands on her, in case her chastity was the source of her power. And so she aged from a girl to a woman, taking with her a sadness that developed with each passing year. At night she dreamt of a saviour; a man with cream skin and warm hands. For years she waited for this dreamlover.

  ‘One day the tribe we
re told that a road was to be built right through the plains. They were frightened of the changes that it might bring. But the girl was filled with joy, her steps that day light and her pain from the biting jejenes little.

  ‘The road did bring change and men eager to see how the tribespeople lived. One man came to the camp and, in the tribe’s mother tongue, offered goods and his knowledge in exchange for the chance to live among them. The chief was impressed. He accepted and offered him the bed of any one woman – all except the girl the jejenes loved.

  ‘The man was a botanist and studied the plants of La Sabana in the day. At night, he slept with a tribeswoman, waking each morning free from bites. But the girl was never far from his mind, her silent tears inducing in him such grief that he resolved one night to save her.

  ‘She had recognised him as her dreamlover from the moment he set foot in camp, so when he came to her she was not scared and listened as best she could to his words. Each day he concocted a salve from the plants of La Sabana to apply to one of her arms. When that arm had no fresh bites the following morning he would have found his cure.

  ‘After many days and many failed salves, there came the morning when the girl lifted up her arm and the botanist counted the bites, realising the repellent had worked. He tested it that night on her entire body and the next day she came to him with a happy heart and no fresh bites.

  ‘But the tribespeople were not happy. Theirs was an awful sleep and they had awoken to find themselves afflicted by tens of jején bites. The chief demanded that the man be killed for taking the girl’s power, but the botanist explained about the salve and said he could make enough for the entire tribe and then none would have to suffer the bites anymore.

  ‘He did exactly this and that night each person slept with the salve on their skin and each awoke to give accounts of their wonderful night’s sleep. In his happiness, the chief gave the girl the jejenes loved to the botanist and, that night, he made love to her. And the night after. And the night after that. And the girl’s heart was as light as a feather.

  ‘One morning the chief awoke to find his wife lying dead beside him. He immediately suspected the botanist and dragged him and the girl from their tent. The botanist checked his books and realised the salve had kept the jejenes away because one of its ingredients was poisonous. In small quantities this may have been fine, but they had applied the salve every night and the toxin had accumulated, killing the chief’s wife.

  ‘The chief chased the botanist and the girl to the cliff-face, intent on murdering them both. Running for their lives through the grasslands, the man and the girl found themselves at a cliff’s edge. There was no time to speak about what had happened as soon the chief would be upon them. Cradling the girl in his arms, the man asked her if she was scared. With her face to the azure sky, she said that she had lived for twenty four years and only known happiness for the last two weeks. But what happiness that had been. And with those words and the chief a pace away, the botanist and the girl the jejenes loved dove off the sandstone mountains that touch the sky, hearts beating full until the last.’

  Five – In Kelgard We Trust

  Being a queen gets so, very tedious. Katharine discovered that a week after her coronation, when a gnome of a man threw pig’s blood at her dress.

  Needless to say he got the rack. Then all order in the universe was restored and Katharine could get back to her busy schedule: practising her wave, then sitting for portraits; learning the latest court dance, then sitting for portraits; opening universities, then sitting for portraits; getting her copper hair cut, then sending the Royal Painter to the rack.

  Every Wednesday, to break up the mundane, Queen Katharine gets to attend the Council of the Realm, where ministers debate on important matters such as whether they should implement a tax on beards, and how exactly that might go down, or whether a tax on hats would be more suitable, because nobles these days maintain a selection one can only describe as excessive. Katharine does not take kindly to this weekly meeting. She is already subject to a healthy amount of hot air, and quite averse to the consumption of any more.

  Today's discussion will fortunately be limited. Two days ago the outlying town of Leitrim went up in flames – the fourth town in less than a month.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ begins Katharine. ‘I am told that while the people slept, a small Venecian band set fire to the thatched roofs on their houses, forcing those who did not immediately perish to commit degrading acts.’

  ‘Degrading is such an emotional word,’ claims the bespectacled Lord Sutton, more neck than face. ‘Can we not say indecent?’

  An outbreak of tittering.

  ‘Regrettable?’

  Tittering louder now, minister bowing his head. Presumably the floor holds the answer. ‘I’ve got it,’ he declares confidently. ‘Unfortunate.’

  A din fills the room, full of whistles and handclapping. Katharine has to endure thirty seconds of the sycophantic squealing before she can hear herself think. Forget that Venecia is freely carrying out acts of terror. Forget that her spies have reported that King Barbosa is amassing an unparalleled army to travel through the mountains before the first frost of winter. Her ministers must not be deprived of these little moments of self-congratulation.

  ‘What I advise,’ Katharine continues, ‘is that we continue trying to negotiate with Venecia while bolstering our own troops. What a waste to send the cavalry all the way to Leitrim to dispatch a few ill-equipped men. Wouldn’t a few garrisons in the Outer Kingdom do wonders in the long run?’ The ministers take her in their sights, delivering their weekly supply of daggers with a passion she might have suggested they save for their speeches, had the circumstances been better.

  ‘Wonderful idea, Your Majesty. Better yet, because there are so few soldiers left in our army since you did away with conscription, why don’t we ride out together and offer to defend the peasants ourselves? I’m sure you know how to put on a good show.’

  The Queen waits for silence to filter into the room. While anticipation builds she spends the time considering her opponent. Myopic swan spawn like Sutton were normally keen to keep their neck off the chopping block.

  ‘Good sir, how outrageous of you to suggest we ride off today, wind at our backs, bloated stomachs in our throats. I dare say I couldn’t think of a more perverse idea. For one thing I have yet to break in this lovely new pair of shoes.’ The fair-weather ministers break into a fit of laughter. ‘I am merely trying to lay the prospect of war on the table for all to see. I would hate to have the Venecians march into this chamber tomorrow with the High Cardinal's head on a stick and have you go off colour.’

  The ministers leap to their feet, room blazing with their ovation, spilling out of the windows onto the capital city of Kelgard below. Those who bathe in its transitory bliss are filled with the sentiment that yet another page in the long history of the Empire has been written that day.

  Six – That Old, Good Chase

  The monks of the Old Haven monastery are a mysterious bunch. Three decades prior, the monks discovered that they did not mind the plundering of their sacred artefacts to feed and clothe a fattening king. They had no ties to golden chalices and priceless works of art. Truth be told, they had no ties to the Shaper, for they were monks by name, but not by nature. They had for years feigned servitude to Him, taken in strangers, listened to streetwalkers confess atrocious crimes and beg for His forgiveness with stains on their hands. They had for years hidden their muscular bodies under long robes, and acted elderly and decrepit even if young.

  But freed from this pretence by a monarch’s greed, the monks were able to devote the entirety of their days to purifying their minds and bodies via rigorous exercise and a healthy diet, seeking divinity not through an external force, but through a corporeal cleansing. They expanded their order and took in young men to educate in their ways, training them in their specialties of hand-to-hand combat and the use of staves. The men were taught to not want for worldly possessions; to meditat
e, not to pray; to search for relief within themselves; to hone their intellect through the readings of their forefathers. And when the elder monks were convinced of their purity, the potentials were allowed to patrol the streets at night and use their skills to defend the innocent, told never to kill.

  Policed by this agile force of atheist monks, Old Haven has become the safest town in Carrigan and continues to expand with the passing of each year. With expansion comes people, and with people come thieves. Lately the Illuminate Order is noticing that its nightly patrols are not enough to stem the soaring crime rate. A malignant thief known as the Trickster is particularly to blame, leaving his signature lace glove at the scene of countless thefts. Silent burglaries in the night. An audacious daylight robbery of a cathedral relic. The Trickster is daring. He is skilled. He is going to be caught by Acolyte Lysander?

  ‘Elder Francis, you think me ready?’

  ‘I have watched you mature into a fine man. The Order has bestowed on you its teachings and you have exceeded our expectations. Your schooling is complete, Acolyte. Today you leave behind your old life and become a Cleric of the Illuminate Order, accepting with the title its responsibilities. You will find white robes in your quarter this afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you, Elder. I will wear them with pride. But with respect, I do not know why this undertaking is mine alone.’

  ‘Clerics before you have asked the same question. The answer is that it is inconsequential who solves a problem; what matters is the route they take to solve it. Ask yourself: who is the Trickster? What does he want? Meditate on it in the cloisters and in the baths. It will come.’