The invisible energy that bound all worshippers of Rindor, and those in his presence, invigorated and energised him. He began to feel more alive, free and happy with each passing moment.
‘I’d prefer not to discuss that here. Would you care to join me for a little refreshment?’ Meone asked.
Draken nodded, acutely aware that he had not eaten since late the night before, and even that had been just a ration of dried meat. ‘I would like that. Although, to tell you the truth, I hunger more than thirst.’
‘Never fear, food and drink shall always be plentiful for a brother. This way.’
Draken cocked his head. ‘How do you know I belong?’
‘Belong to The Brotherhood?’
Draken nodded.
Meone stopped walking and looked at Draken deep in the eyes. ‘There is no question that you are of the Order. I smell it, sense it. Your very pores exude it.’
Draken was taken aback and became deeply troubled. Had he not denounced The Brotherhood and rejected Rindor himself? Surely that meant he was as far removed from being a brother of the Order as was possible? Wasn’t he?
‘Come with me, Draken. Let’s get something off the vine inside you, or perhaps something a little stronger. I think we both have a tale to tell.’
Draken, as if in a trance, followed happily as the pair bypassed the foliage within the dome to exit at the far end by a small door, barely visible to the naked eye. Dripping with sweat from the heat, he was glad to step into a cooler room, despite the presence of a crackling fire at the far end. The room held no windows and only one door that he could see. The chamber was lined with wooden panels. But it was comfortable and appeared to be Meone’s private quarters. The light came from a dozen candles affixed to the walls via brass holders. Several shelves along one wall held well-read bound volumes of varying thicknesses and subjects, many battered and torn. Dotted here and there were knickknacks, mostly globes with small houses, people or animals inside. A writing desk dominated one corner of the room, ink-stained and worn from overuse, to the point of collapse. A comfy looking bed on the opposite wall, beside a small wardrobe, waited for a weary head. But what interested him most was the two soft and comfortable leather chairs angled towards the fire. In between them a stack of books, two dozen high, balanced precariously and next to these a small drinks table held emerald and brown bottles of alcohol and two glasses.
‘Take a seat, Draken. I will find you some food.’
Draken removed his cloak and boots and laid them beside the fireplace to dry. Before doing as he was told, he firstly deposited his satchel beside the chair and watched as Meone pushed open a panel on the wall above the fireplace. From there she extracted a linen covered basket. She smiled at Draken and sat in the chair next to him with a squeak of leather. She placed the basket on her knee and dug inside. After a moment she withdrew a cloth covered item, about the size of Draken’s hand, and she passed this to him.
He took it and carefully parted the cloth. He smiled. A deliciously warm pie, which gave off a most delightful aroma, teased him. ‘Thank you, Meone.’
‘You are most welcome, friend.’
Draken felt a stab of pain through his heart and tears again welled up in his eyes. The last friend he had known he had killed most horribly and cold-bloodedly, and he now feared that should he tell this kind scribe the truth, he would lose another friend.
‘Eat, and I will pour you a drink. Then we can talk,’ Meone said.
Draken tried to smile, but only managed a grimace. He did, however, comply and took a bite from the most delicious lamb pie that he had ever tasted. He savoured it, rolling it around his tongue, feeling the texture and tasting the bliss. He forgot his troubles for the moment and enjoyed every mouthful. ‘This is delicious, Meone,’ he said.
‘Why, thank you. I bake them myself.’
‘You make a wonderful cook.’ Draken flushed and coughed on his pie. Meone quickly handed him a glass of red wine she had poured.
He sipped the wine and dislodged the morsel stuck in his throat. With one last cough for good measure, he set the wine down. ‘That is an excellent wine.’
‘It is, though not as grand as the Golden Temples’. I would love to sample that someday.’
‘Perhaps one day you shall.’ Draken smiled, oddly happy. He had not had enough wine to affect him in that manner, but he felt at ease with Meone and felt he could tell her anything.
‘How were your vitals?’
‘I found them to be most enjoyable. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure, Draken. Perhaps now we can sit comfortably and talk. First my tale, and then I wish to hear all about you and what brings you to Rodine.’
‘I hope you don’t have anything important to do. It may take a while.’
‘I have all the time in the world, brother.’
There it was again, the word brother, and with it that warm glow of belonging.
‘To answer your question then. I escaped during the night, thanks to my grandmother. She hid me inside the pack of a Werningo, and –’
‘Werningo?’
‘Oh, yes, sorry. A Werningo is a large grass-eating animal, with a long coat of hair. We kept them for their sweet honeyed milk and used them as pack animals. So, she hid me inside the Werningo’s pack and bold as brass led the herd away, with me out of sight. She was such a small thing, my grandmother, that she wasn’t spotted and the attackers merely thought that the animals were away to graze.’
‘What happened then?’
Meone took a sip of wine and closed her eyes for a moment, in remembrance. ‘We fled the country on what we thought was a trading vessel but turned out to be a slave ship. Grandmother fared terribly on that journey, and she became sick. Three days into our travels she died, and I was alone until the captain took pity on me and raised me as his own. It was an odd time of my life, being raised on a slave ship. It was work that I could never agree with, but I kept silent so as not to become a slave myself. At age thirteen I snuck away while in the port of Rodine, and hid among the homeless there, scrounging for scraps to eat. The captain and his crew searched for me for many days, and thankfully gave up and left. That was the first time that I felt truly alone. I was scared and spent three years on the street, scrounging and stealing anything to survive.’
‘That must have been a hard life,’ Draken declared, thinking back to his life that had been mostly free from the hardships Meone had endured. His own tragedies played over and over in his mind, flashing from one instance to another until he screwed his eyes tight and fought back the memories. ‘What happened next?’
‘I was near death, half-starved and suffering from an illness that would surely have killed me, had it not been for a kindly woman who was passing by, for want of a better word. She said she was a matron for an ancient Brotherhood and took me in, cared for me and nursed me back to health.’
‘Matron Truelove, no doubt.’
‘Yes, but how did you know?’
‘All in good time; this is the hour for your tale.’
Meone nodded and thought back to her younger days. ‘I received a shock one day to realise that I was floating in the air aboard a damaged section of the Golden Temple to Rindor, and my first instinct was to beg Truelove to get off. But I didn’t in the end, and instead, I listened to her tales of sorrow and pain endured by the many she treated in her floating infirmary, just like myself. I enquired if I could stay and assist her. She, in turn, said she would teach me the ways of healing.’
‘Did she?’
‘Oh, yes. Though, I grew tired after several years, of only pirates and Truelove for company. Anyone would, I expect,’ Meone replied, a little melancholy. ‘The day I told her that I wanted to depart for pastures new was a sad day for her, but she knew that I was beholden to no-one and I needed to live my life, free from burden.’
Meone sipped at her drink and stood to stoke the fire. Once done, she rested her hands on the mantelpiece above the hearth and warmed herself. ‘She asked
me where I would like to alight, and I surprised her by asking her to take me to the Golden Temple, so that I may worship there. Her goodness and purity had rubbed off on me over the years, and I saw such goodness in her that I, too, wanted to join The Brotherhood, and one day emulate this beautiful, kind-hearted woman. She was moved to tears and overjoyed at my decision, and we set sail for Rosthagaar.’
‘Quite a journey by unconventional means.’
‘Oh, it was. It took many months and with each passing day I became more excited and equally nervous, until finally, the hour had arrived. We said our goodbyes and the next moment I found myself alone once more among a throng of people in a strange city. The City of Rostha, she told me, where I could find the local temple, and there I should seek out the chief scribe and request an audience with the archmage at the Golden Temple of the Wulf. Two days later I became the latest initiate and granted access to the Golden Temple. For many years I served at the temple in Rostha as a scribe, slowly progressing through the ranks until, one day, the archmage approached me and asked if I would venture into familiar territory and establish an Order in the City of Rodine. I jumped at the chance, and here is where you find me.’ Meone sat down once more and glowed at her accomplishments.
‘You have accomplished much, Meone. You should be proud of your achievements.’ Draken sipped at his drink.
‘It is for Rindor’s glory, but I am happy to have been a small part of the process.’ Meone smiled softly. ‘Have you enough drink, perhaps more food?’
‘What I have is sufficient, my lady.’
‘Very well, perhaps then you could impart your tale.’
Draken took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The next few minutes would decide his future. Meone would most likely be horrified and ask him to leave, and that he would deeply regret. She had been a genial host, and he enjoyed the pleasant company. However, every ounce of his being was screaming to confess all. No matter how horrid the tale, the truth had to be told.
‘Let me first begin by saying that my tale is one that will be abhorrent to you, but I hope you find it in your heart to listen to its entirety.’
‘Whatever it is, Draken, I am certain it is not as bad as you say. But I will do as you ask and listen, without judgement,’ Meone promised.
Draken nodded. ‘Very well, you know my name to be Draken, but my full title is Draken Orin Wulf, Lord of Re’um. Born son and heir to Lord and Lady Mag’yar Wulf in the province of Westeroe.’
Meone showed sign of recognition, and though her brows raised and she slightly cocked her head, she kept her word and merely listened.
‘Now that you know who I am, or more rightly who I was meant to be, you will know that my tale is one of woe and misery and not all at my hand.’
Draken put his hands over his face and rubbed at it as if to remove the stain of his past deeds from upon it. ‘I was once a noble, trustworthy man, devoted to the Order and him.’ His eyes flicked upward, signifying he meant Rindor. ‘Yet, I fell in with some bad people, and yes, I enjoyed the attention, for I saw all that my brother Ædelmær received from the curator and archmage, and I none in comparison. I was jealous and angered. I felt unloved and alone. I was older and wiser, so why had he been favoured above me? My spiritual brother, Lordich Secracar, convinced me that our destinies lay elsewhere, that by seizing control of The Brotherhood we could stamp out such injustices, and I soaked it up like a sponge. I wanted to believe him, and I was fooled by his silver tongue.’
Draken paused. Inside, his heart was beating so fast. He had told no one his tale before now, and although confusing to him exactly why he was compelled to impart it, it felt good to get it off his chest, to set the record straight once and for all.
Meone politely remained quiet and refilled her glass, and silently offered the same to Draken, who shook his head. Instead, he stood, and as she had done, stood beside the fire to warm his hands. After a moment he faced her, and without looking directly at her, he continued.
‘The day came to enact Lordich’s coup, and we failed, unsurprisingly. During our trial, I lied and swore that I was under the influence of a powerful drug. I was not, I was aware of my actions, and now know them to be wrong. However, I was never trusted again, and I found myself cast out of The Brotherhood. I was alone for the first time in my life, and I became even more bitter and angry. It was then that I set out on a quest to secure a new future.’
Draken stopped again; tears were streaming down his agitated face. His inner turmoil was boiling away inside, threatening to overwhelm him to the point of collapse. He was saying too much, it hurt him, yet it felt wonderfully rewarding to feel its release. Rindor surely had a hand in this, guiding him to repent, show remorse. Several moments passed, and when a particularly difficult memory surfaced he fell to his knees. ‘No, Rindor, please,’ he screamed. ‘No, I can’t, please don’t make me, it hurts.’
Meone stood and joined Draken on the floor. As she kneeled, she placed a comforting arm around his shoulder. ‘Speak, brother; it is the only way to forgiveness.’
Draken wiped an eye and even though he trembled, his breathing heavy, he continued. ‘My darkest secret is that I …’ He closed his eyes and endured the pain. ‘I ordered my brother Ædelmær dead. It was never meant to happen the way it did, Godwen was not supposed to die. The children, oh, god, the children, those poor souls, the orcs burnt the whole village and killed nearly everyone.’
Meone sat down opposite Draken, tears welling in her eyes. This man was broken; this man spoke the truth. Despite his terrible deeds, he had come home, and Rindor was apparently directing his confession.
‘I learnt of the village elders’ failure to pay a debt to Mador, and after speaking with the Madorine, they assured me that their only interest was in killing the elders, including one named Rangsan. Using this as an excuse, I gave information to the Madorine that would ensure they would reach the Village of Arrom undetected. I told them where to go to find my brother and … kill him. Everyone would believe, including those who attacked the village, that the reason for his and the elders’ deaths were due to an unpaid debt.’
Draken broke down once more, and it was some minutes before he could find the strength to continue. His throat was dry from all the tears, and his nose was blocked.
‘Perhaps you should take a break. We can discuss this later,’ Meone said with some concern.
Draken looked at her then, and through tearful eyes he knew he had made the right decision to tell her his tale.
‘I must continue. My story must be told. I must be free of this burden.’
‘Very well, but please sit and take a drink,’ Meone insisted, and helped Draken rise to shaky legs and guided him to his chair.
‘Thank you.’ Draken nodded his thanks and took a drink, almost finishing it in one go.
Meone waited, once more in silence, trying not to stare, but all the same enthralled by this man, his once cold eyes warming with every passing minute.
‘The first I heard Ædelmær and Godwen had been killed was finding the presence of my nephews at my door. Until then I had no idea how the death of a loved one could cut a man in two. I immediately regretted my actions, but with no way to turn back the clock, I could only do one thing and raise the boys as Ædelmær would have wanted. But I couldn’t even do that right. The Cerathil Rite prophecy surrounding them spurred in me a desire so strong that I could use their talents to my own ends.’
Draken, Meone noted, was speaking easier now with much of his pain released.
‘I figured that they could help me seek the Swords of Cerathil.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘Simple; to ascend to the heavens and request Rindor to permit me to reside there as a god. Only, I needed an accomplice to achieve my goal, and that, unfortunately, turned out to be Lordich. As time has passed, these last months, my desire to ascend to the heavens for my own ends has been replaced with a wish to speak with Queen Taminoth and request that my brother and his wife be resurrecte
d to life.’
Meone felt sad for Draken now. Only a fool would believe that Rindor would permit such a thing, even if it were possible. ‘You contacted Lordich knowing full well what the man was capable of?’
‘Indeed. I thought that by using Lordich I could secure the swords much more quickly. For me to deceive him I needed to provide information to him directly. My nephew’s movements and plans, etcetera. Please believe me, even though Marrok is the most irritating of my nephews, I could never see harm come to him. Admittedly, I have thought about it. But only fleetingly,’ Draken added hastily. ‘And so, now that you know the real Draken Wulf, shall I leave?’
DRUNK & DISORDERLY
Marrok, unused to city life, and never having visited such an industrialised location, was awestruck and bewildered at all the new and astonishing sights that greeted him.
He marvelled at the wide cobbled streets with strange lanterns that burnt with a most un-flame-like brightness. The buildings towered over him and looked to be places of business with glass fronted displays advertising their wares.
He had seen glass used in the temple, but not to this extent or clarity. This was astonishing, and he wanted to stop at every window and peer inside, only Jericho urged him on every few steps.
At the far end of the promenade, Marrok could just see a large building belching dirty clouds of smoke. On the exterior of the structure, great iron-toothed cogs turned, creating a shower of sparks.
They walked steadily along the promenade, following a series of iron tracks sunk into the cobbles. The tracks followed the road and disappeared from view, and it was mere minutes before their use became apparent. The noise started as a low rumble, barely noticeable above the din from the industrial buildings nearby. Then, without any more warning than the sound and screech of metal on metal, a series of horseless carriages steamed towards them, noisy and large. Two substantial iron cogs, larger than a man, straddled the conveyance at the rear and drove smaller wheels attached by crankshafts and connecting rods. Those smaller wheels rested on the iron rails and propelled the craft forward.
The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection Page 84