Torrodil

by Luke Geraghty

  ‘I shall, Elder. Peace be with you.’

  ‘And with you. Wear your robes well, Cleric.’

  Lysander bowed his head and left the old chapel, presently serving as a library. Dawn had hung in the air for several hours and monks were training in the leafy, uncultivated hub of the monastery gardens. Lysander walked through a colonnade under the caress of gentle light, minute flews darting in and out of the shafts until he drew close. His image was sullied by the sweat on his brow, but restored with a dab of a handkerchief, sending waves of his golden hair tumbling to one side. He lingered at the door to the baths, appreciating the tiled mosaic of ethereal nymphs by his toes, then opened the door and faded into steam.

  The monks’ baths often left them incapacitated, collapsed on grass and bed with rarely a towel to cover their modesty, for this was a sanctuary of men that housed no shame. Lysander shaved in a clean, downward swipe from cheek to jaw. He searched with his fingers for fuzz and returned to the bathwater to shake the blade free. When he was finished, he unwound in the water and let the heat soak into his skin, natural light cascading down from above.

  Who is the Trickster? he thought. Unknown. What does he do? He covets. What does he covet? Physical riches. Where does he look for them? Sites he expects them to be found. How does he gather this information? Fences, friends, idle chatter about town. Gossip? Yes. Rumours? Yes. So he may investigate claims he cannot substantiate. He may be prone to recklessness. He may be able to be lured into a ruse, if the bait is sizable.

  Anna and her companions reached Old Haven that morning and wandered the streets looking like a bunch of miscreants, attracting snickers from the ladies of leisure for which the town was famed. Old Haven was the spinster capital of the known world and catered to its wealthy female clientele with expensive boutiques, fine dining establishments, and brothels run by women for women, where a lady could pick up a paramour without names taken or questions asked. Men mutely went about their business, but none would speak negatively about the town or its female mayor. It was run well and said to be close to Queen Katharine’s heart after she summered there one year.

  At a crossroads, a town crier exclaimed the day’s hot topics:

  ‘Renowned Rosewater Urn to go on show at Manor Hamilton from this afternoon. Don’t forget to grab yourself some King Wesley imitation ashes while stocks last…Nuns wake up to find pentagrams drawn on their doors and idols stood on their heads in the fifth attack this month; blame “secret Horned One sect that live in Tarnwood Forest”…How does your garden grow? Miracle manure company Boyscent Bean raking it in as wonder plop sells like dirt cakes, despite unpleasant odour…Venecian spies may be among us, warns Palace. Look closely at your neighbour. Are they sporting an unusual haircut? Stopping in the street to groom themselves in shop windows? Genuinely mean it when they ask how you are? If so your neighbour is leaking blood in a back alley somewhere. In their place is an undercover agent. Remember: no-one can be trusted. Report your neighbour today and sleep sound tonight!...’

  Tommy was currently in the middle of a mid-morning rant, having spent the night tossing and turning. ‘What they don’t tell you about sleeping on cave floors is that they’re harder than a gristleback’s trotter and wetter than its snout. We won’t be having that every night, will we?’ Tommy adjusted his back left and heard a crack, then shimmied it right and heard a click, ultimately giving up and resuming his default semi-slouch stance.

  ‘Maybe we can get a bed at the Candle Blower tonight,’ suggested Anna.

  ‘And pay with good intentions?’

  ‘With that and your charming disposition I’m sure they’ll be happy to oblige.’

  ‘Those two go on and on,’ said Cesar to his compatriots. ‘Ay, I cannot take it much longer.’

  Anna repeated a rhyme:

  ‘Tommy Tommy,

  I’ve been thinking,

  What the kruk have you been drinking?

  Is it water?

  Is it ale?

  I’ve no idea,

  But it comes out pale.’

  Cesar’s face ripened to a reddish shade, its sinewy structure ready to rupture at any moment.

  ‘Tommy Tommy,

  I’ve been thinking,

  Why the kruk are you so stinking?

  Is it mud?

  Is it spit?

  I’ve no idea,

  But it smells like—’

  ‘AAAH!’

  Cesar ran at the terrible twosome and reached out desperately with his hands, attempting to grab one by the neck, but they had realised their mistake that day in the lane. This time they split up, Anna running one way, Tommy the other. Cesar called for reinforcements but his men were practically tipping over from laughter. Scolding them, he made chase after Anna, following her down a back lane and through a wall of drying laundry. Pulling a pair of well-worn pants off his face, he saw he was catching up to her – not because she was tiring, but because she was cockily turning around to give him an exclusive selection of fingers.

  Tommy comes out of side street, two Venecians behind, everyone wanting to see how it plays out.

  Anna’s the frontrunner, out of the gates first, running her scampy little legs off, but here comes Cesar teetering forward, stretching out his hand, almost reaching the nape of her neck. Oh, her stocks aren’t depleted yet. She’s found a burst of energy and is soaring ahead, past a grammar school, dodging a woman and her pram, Cesar not so lucky, running straight into it, apologising profusely, discovering the pram is full of stolen fruit and vegetables, and the greengrocer and the woman have started their own simultaneous chase as Cesar shoots off again, Anna giving him the two-finger salute, Anna tripping over backwards on her dress. This could be it, folks. Can she get up in time? Is Cesar going to catch her? Oh, she’s running with a bit of a limp. Could it be? Is it really? Can it be all over? And he’s almost there, extending his arm again, a big smirk on his face. Shaper’s toenails, Anna’s stopped dead in her tracks. What is going on? Does she have a serious injury? She’s smiling politely at two men. Cesar’s grabbed hold of her neck. And now he’s quickly let go off it again. And he’s smiling too. And both of them are backing away little by little.

  And here’s Tommy, oblivious to what the men are wearing, running straight into Cesar and chuckling his head off. Andres and Mateo are more astute and have attempted to blend into the crowd.

  ‘Fine day, isn’t it?’ says Anna to one of the Queen’s cavalry. She gives out a big yawn. ‘I apologise. It’s this one. He’s been keeping me up at night. Not like that. He’s my brother, you see.’ She puts her arm round Cesar. ‘Snores like a sloth.’

  ‘I do not,’ snaps Cesar with his heavy Venecian accent. ‘I mean, one tries not to snore – one really does – but one cannot help oneself. You know. Like.’

  ‘You look familiar,’ says one of the Queen’s cavalry.

  ‘Nah,’ objects Anna. ‘Common as muck we are. Nobody special. Just passing through.’

  ‘Where have I seen your faces before? Hmm…’

  ‘Really must be going. Lots to do.’

  They calmly back away from the men, one of whom is holding up a poster in his hands that reads: ‘WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE (PREFERABLY DEAD)’ with a first-rate drawing of Anna and Tommy with three striking tanned males. A second artist’s impression, free of charge, portrayed Anna gripping a set of leashes with collars wrapped round the boys’ throats. It was deemed inappropriate and immoral, but kept by one of the Queen’s cavalry for “information purposes”.

  ‘Wait a minute, I do know you.’

  The travellers stop in their tracks.

  ‘You’re those minstrels, aren’t you? The Three Bards of Baywater. Mike, leave that a minute. We’re in the presence of real royalty. Take a gander and tell me if I’m right.’

  Anna and company turn around slowly, smiles forced across their faces.

  ‘Do you have any weapons on you?’ says Anna through gritted teeth.

  ‘Your lovely townspeople took them when
they dragged us to the stocks,’ replies Cesar.

  ‘And my life’s savings,’ chips in Tommy.

  ‘I don’t think two bronze coins counts.’

  ‘Hey, sing us that tale about the knight and his steed,’ says the rather inebriated Queen’s cavalry member. ‘I love that one. Mike, come on, you have to see these three.’

  ‘My name is Michael, Edward. Michael. Get it through your thick skull. We have a job to do and—’ Michael looks at the poster in his hands, then at the three faces in front, then back at the poster. ‘You three, stay where you are!’

  ‘Yeah, sing us a story.’

  Michael shows the poster to Edward, who focuses his eyes on it. ‘She’s a cracking looking lass, ain’t she?’

  Michael tilts Edward’s head to the poster, then at Anna, who waves while backing away hastily. He repeats this action three times.

  ‘Oh dear,’ says Edward.

  The second chase of the day was a messy affair. The cavalry soldiers, horses tied up outside an inn, scurried after the trio until Michael spotted Andres and Mateo and ran towards them with his sword drawn, almost skewering a set of noblewomen in the process. Once the companions were reunited they decided to try to lose their pursuers through the centre of town, where a brewers fair had drawn a considerable crowd. The commotion. Jugs were thrown into the air. Velvet dresses were splattered. Edward was socked in the face by a sodden girl. And Cesar got his behind squeezed painfully hard, turning round to find a sturdy woman of dwarf stature giving him the once over.

  Andres led the pack onwards, coming to a dead end with the only possible exit being a fishmonger. Haddock perfumed the air as they entered, a ginger-haired mass of whiskers and sideburns hurling a bucket of fish heads at them when they dashed through to the back, discovering a locked door and the fishmonger standing behind them with a second bucket and a healthy grin. The Queen’s cavalry blundered into him and sent a hail of foul-smelling fish through the air, narrowly missing Mateo’s head and slamming into the locked door. Cesar gave a signal to his men and the three of them charged it, breaking it off its hinges. Running down an alleyway, pursuers and pursued reeking of haddock, the occasional fish head leaping out of their pockets, the five youths suspected it could only get worse. And it did.

  Coming round the next corner, Mateo was greeted with a staff to the stomach and dragged through a doorway. Following him, Andres got a blow to the back. Then Tommy to the legs. Cesar to the head. And lastly the monk grabbed Anna before the cavalrymen could turn the corner, placed his hand over her mouth, threw her inside and shut the door, leaving the five companions lying in a heap in his hallway and the two cavalrymen scratching their heads outside.

  ‘Assaulted by a monk? What is the world coming to,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Would you prefer it if I called them back? I’m sure they haven’t gone too far.’

  The boy decided to sit down.

  ‘Tell me,’ said the monk, drumming a desk with his fingers, ‘what are you wanted for?’

  The companions exchanged glances.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ said Andres. Lysander let the drumming admonish him. ‘Us three are Venecian deserters. And she’s a witch. And he’s her best friend.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Oh, the five of us are wanted—’

  ‘Dead or alive,’ added Tommy.

  ‘Yes, dead or alive, because she cremated a man.’

  ‘With her magic powers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you going to turn us in?’ asked Anna.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘That’s…odd.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The group sat uncomfortably in the living room, part grateful to be spared a second, perhaps successful, public execution, part doubting that this potential kidnapping by a man in a dress was any better.

  ‘Is this your place?’ asked Anna, taking in the marked walls and a good portion of damp. ‘Nice moth collection.’

  ‘It belongs to the Order. Think of it as a refuge.’

  ‘The Order?’ enquired a suspicious Cesar.

  ‘I’d like to take you to them, if you would be so kind as to accompany me.’

  ‘They were almost burned at the stake yesterday, mister. We’re not rushing anywhere without some answers first,’ said Tommy in a rare display of bravado.

  ‘I suppose that is understandable. My name is Lysander. I am a newly appointed Cleric of the Illuminate Order and I suspect that there is more to your situation than meets the eye. I would like to take you to my Elder so you can speak with him. There you can rest and eat a hot meal and train in our grounds, so long as you don’t mind the occasional naked man.’ Lysander was matter of fact in his delivery and tone. ‘If you refuse my offer, I’m afraid I will have to hand you over to the authorities.’

  ‘You can try,’ corrected Anna.

  ‘Unfortunately it would be more than trying.’

  ‘Why would you even want to help us?’ she asked.

  ‘Because that is what we do. We do not think every crime is of equal weight or that every crime deserves capital punishment. As I said, all will be explained at the monastery.’

  ‘Monastery?’ asked Tommy, eyes widening at the prospect. ‘And we’re allowed to enter?’

  ‘It is decided then?’

  ‘Can we talk it over?’

  ‘Of course. I will be outside. Do not try the window – it is sealed shut.’

  Drat, thought Anna.

  The group discussed the offer, with thoughts ranging from, ‘They’re going to eat us or something,’ to ‘What do you think he means by a “hot meal”? And can we assume that comes with bread and butter?’ In the end they decided that the possibility of a warm bed, decent food and some guidance on their journey would be too good to pass up – everyone except Anna, whose idea of putting a chair through the window was vetoed by the rest of the group.

  Cesar opened the door, announced to Lysander that they would travel with him, and the five became six, journeying onwards to the monastery of the Illuminate Order.

  A small boat lay draped on the River Tevern like muslin cloth, light and perishable. To its side rested a grove of pear trees. The companions roved through, picking up fallen fruit along the way and sucking them dry of their juices. Gargoyles sparked in Anna’s mind the notion that she would not be able to enter hallowed ground, but the notion passed with that first, slow step inside. The monastery bore the splendid decoration of its former use: frescos, hanging tapestries, and a gilded golden ceiling, along with a perceptible air of duty and dedication. Gone was the silence and the man stooped on one knee, replaced by debates on ethics and democracy. Gone too was the bulk of the religious iconography, in its place statues with peeping-out toes to observe and draw, not to cherish. Lysander guided them to Elder Francis’ office and they found the man surrounded by papers with a quill in his hand.

  ‘Ah, Cleric. I see you have not changed into your new robes yet.’

  ‘I have been busy.’

  ‘So I see. Who are these men and...woman?’ Lysander apprised him of the situation in his eloquent manner, a lilt of syllables tripping off his tongue. ‘And you do not think they will be a threat? To us or to the Order?’

  ‘I do not, Elder, but I have brought them here for you to judge.’

  ‘I trust in your conclusions. I suppose you are hungry. We must get some food in your stomachs, mustn’t we? Let us go to the dining hall. I believe it’s partridge today.’ The boys’ faces lit up. ‘Would you walk with me, Anna? I would like to speak a while.’

  ‘Erm.’ Anna looked at Tommy, who mouthed, ‘Everything okay?’. Before she could give him an answer he’d turned around, thinking only of glorious juicy partridge. ‘I suppose that would be alright.’

  They walked behind at a snail’s pace as the group wound its way through the monastery, out to the gardens where training had ceased for the day, and onwards to a distant dining hall.

  ‘Is it true what he said? Of your
gifts?’

  ‘If that is what you call them.’

  ‘Our Order has long known of the daeva. Some think us their male counterparts, albeit with very mortal talents. We mould our minds and our bodies, but we are not endowed with the gift that you wield. Make no mistake: it is a gift if applied properly. I am but sorry that our understanding of it is little compared to your sisters and that any training we could provide would come so late in your life.’

  ‘My mother told me these women came to take me. When I was young.’

  ‘It is the only way to ensure mastery over your talents. You access something that exists outside of mortal reach; a potentially all-consuming force. Without training you would have unbridled power.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound so bad.’

  ‘Ah, but at what cost? Levelling cities because you were bored? Killing friend and foe because you couldn’t see the difference? That is a curse, not a gift. This blackness in your eyes. At Leitrim. This is the Aether. The source of your powers. And to let it in utterly is to risk the essence of your being. In our limited understanding it is a fifth element that gives command over all four others.’

  ‘Evil?’

  Francis chose his next words carefully. ‘The chaos of nature is beyond morality, and if we know nothing else about the Aether we know that it is as natural as the air we breathe or the water we drink. Pagans believed it was a living force that lay within every being in Torrodil; that they could draw upon it to heal or destroy, seek answers or absolution. I cannot say I entirely agree with their beliefs, but I think if there is a natural power in this world we would be wise to respect it. You asked me if it was evil. I don’t think it is. But if you give a girl the power to shape her sky, you give her the power to shape everyone else under it. I don’t think you can escape morality then.’

  Anna pushed aside an unsettling feeling to ask whether the daeva would train her, to which Francis replied that he did not know, but he would help her find them nonetheless.

  When they reached the hall’s entrance, the monk paused to look at her. ‘It is not a sin to use your abilities, Anna. You are no more malignant than any creature that walks this earth. Know this. Now let us eat and lay these serious matters aside for the time being.’