The Seal of Thomerion

by Daniel Heck

  What do you do?

  We return to the warehouse.

  I recommend somewhere more public.

  You reassure your companions, “She might be able to tell us something valuable. I ask no money of you, and will be as quick as possible.” The woman giggles.

  You reach into your belt pouch, count off five gold pieces, and hand them to the fortune-teller.

  “I thank thee, good sir,” she says, pocketing the money, “And now, your palm, please.”

  You look her in the eye, and hold out your hand, your fingers thick and leathery in comparison to her dainty digits. The latter now traverse the lines in your palm; over several moments, the woman occasionally cocks her head to the side, or squints, the signs speaking to her in ways mysterious and unspoken.

  She releases your hand, and looks up at you. Her lips twist into a smirk, and her hazel eyes twinkle. The three of you glance at each other with apprehension.

  The fortune-teller flips her hair aside, removes her pack, and retrieves a ripe, shiny apple. She steps back a short distance, takes a bite, and scans you up and down. Her smirk never disappears. You do your best to summon patience.

  “Your soul,” she says through chewed food, “is pure, a product of a solid upbringing. Family is everything. But your journey is a contradiction. You respect life, just as you also kill to protect it.”

  You arch an eyebrow, and wring your hands.

  She swallows, and adds, “And that is where the desire for revenge comes in. Just as a worm in an apple, which works from the inside out, it may not be all noticeable at first. But it is insidious. You have been tested once, in this respect, yes?”

  You nod.

  “Then beware. You will be tested once more, and to pass once more will be yet more difficult.”

  This news sinks into you like bricks in water.

  “I had hoped…” you say, “For something a tad more positive.”

  “Continue to hope,” she advises, “And act. Your goal is within your grasp.”

  You nod, pensive. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  The woman shakes her head, and releases your hand. “Go. And, when all else fails, look within.”

  “Thank you,” you say sincerely, “And… what is your name?”

  “Katalina,” she replies.

  “Madam Katalina, what might you be doing in orcblood territory? Surely better opportunities for a prognosticative career exist in Ambrosinia.”

  Her smile fades. “I was exiled. An influential duke did not appreciate the honesty in my services.”

  You nod. “Some people cannot handle the truth, as much as they may also need to hear it.”

  “You are kind to say so.”

  Katalina waves, turns, and attempts to earn the attention of other passersby. You rejoin your group, reflections swimming in your head.

  Write down the keyword APPLE.

  I ponder further as we travel.

  Your heart softens a bit from your earlier stance, as this might give your companion a chance to get on the mayoress’s good side.

  “Wait to act until I can lure him away from the door,” you instruct.

  “That’s the way,” Bartleby says. “Good luck.”

  Here goes nothing.

  “We know that something odd is going on underneath the warehouse,” you note, “and might get their attention by employing the place in the same way they did us.”

  Bartleby arches an eyebrow, but accepts your idea. You hike westward once again, enter, place the parchment on the altar, and hide in the same large crate as before. Time passes, yet nobody comes.

  “Out of curiosity,” you whisper to Bartleby after about an hour of waiting, “you said that the church of Thomerion finds ways to cover up what they’ve done. Can you give examples?”

  The cleric thinks for a moment. “Mostly, they use up something as quickly as possible, then move on before those who could prosecute them catch on. I only know that much from a few isolated incidents involving defectors, such as what Crolliver had appeared to me to become.”

  You grimace. “Was it rather hasty of me, then, to let him go?”

  Bartleby blinks, then says, “I am not one to judge.”

  Suddenly, seven men, all dressed in black and red robes and carrying lit torches, enter your vision from various directions and converge behind the altar. The shortest barks an order, and four others disperse. They spread some kind of liquid over the floors and many crates, including your own. The smell of alcohol wafts into your nostrils.

  You glance at Bartleby, whose face betrays his panic.

  By the gods…we’re trapped, and outnumbered…

  “As this temple has been desecrated, it is of no more use to us,” you hear, “May this sacrifice please Thomerion!”

  “Hear, hear!” the others shout, before each touches his torch to the nearest wooden surface. Within seconds, all you can see is fire, and smoke begins to seep through the holes in your crate. Hacking and coughing, you burst open the lid to find that the worshippers have fled, but there is no open escape route. Charred beams fall from the ceiling, and you hear the building’s infrastructure creak as its support weakens.

  “What do we do?” you shout.

  “It’s a temple, after all,” Bartleby sighs. “We pray.”

  Don’t let evil win. Read another path!

  Go back to the previous choice, or…

  Restart from the beginning.

  “So, to a commoner, this paper is just a bunch of nonsense.”

  Bartleby nods. “More or less.”

  “If we put it someplace highly visible, then, anyone who tries to take it must already know the purpose for which it is used.”

  “I think I follow you, but, what did you have in mind?”

  “The Pig’s Foot.”

  You exit the temple, and cross several streets to get to Whitetail’s most popular watering hole. There, you sweet-talk a local carpentress into lending you her hammer and a nail, post the parchment on the public kiosk and order brews for both you and Bartleby, with no intention of drinking them. You snag a table that puts the kiosk to your direct left, but well within your peripheral vision. Work notices and wanted posters around the parchment help it look like just another normal document.

  Everything is going according to plan…

  Noon strikes, and you’ve exhausted all casual topics of conversation with both Bartleby and random passersby, when a plain-clothed man in his fifties, with stringy white hair and deep black eyes, approaches the kiosk. The man reads for a moment, looks about him, and snatches the scroll, before turning toward the tavern entrance.

  You stand, and the man increases his pace. You follow. He attempts to walk toward the west, but frowns at you over his shoulder.

  “What do you want with me?” he shouts.

  You grab him by an arm, and Bartleby seizes the other arm. He struggles, but you hold tight.

  “You are of the church of Thomerion, yes?” you grunt.

  “So what if I am? You can’t prove anything.”

  Bartleby forces his way into the man’s pockets, and pulls out a medallion emblazoned with a skull and dagger of deep red hue.

  “Certainly more than a lackey,” the cleric theorizes, “In all likelihood, a bishop. You shall come with us, at risk of imprisonment.”

  You retrieve rope from your pack and tie the man’s hands behind his back. You lead him toward your hut, and enter.

  Let’s get this done.

  After you place the four of hearts, Saul deals the ten of hearts, and places it in the upper left corner. The grid now looks like this:

  He then deals the three of hearts, and there are only two spots left to place a card.

  Where do you place the three of hearts?

  In the top row.

  In the bottom row.

  You inspect the cards’ arrangement one more time, just to be sure, but no matter how you look at them, you have only scored three of the necessary four points. />
  “Well,” you grunt, “A bargain is a bargain, is it not?”

  “Worry not,” Saul consoles, “for my ship employs some of the finest men this side of the mountains. They will get you to where you want to go.”

  With some guidance, your journey from Fort Remnon to an unmapped coastal village proves quick and uneventful. There, you find the vessel; of moderate size, sturdy-looking and well-kept, it displays a placard on its side that reads ‘The Grand Titania.’ You board, and the crew shoves off. For the next few hours, the by-proxy captain says little to you, other than to occasionally bark an order to help with the sails during patches of rough weather. As dusk approaches, the crew pushes the ship to its limits in rotating shifts, as you drift into sleep under-deck.

  The next morning, you stretch your weary bones, yawn widely, and ask one of the men, a red-haired chap of about twenty, “Have you, perchance, journeyed to Managhast before?”

  “We have not,” he replies as he hoists rope above his head, “The mission is supposed to be exploratory, but others have failed to fill me in on the details.”

  “Maybe,” you offer, “that is because the natives, I have been told, are not so friendly. Deadly, perhaps.”

  “Is that right?” The sailor adopts a quizzical look, saying this with a touch of bitterness. A moment passes as he glances at the sea.

  “So,” he continues, “this is a suicide mission?”

  You concede, “I do find it surprising that you were expected to participate without full knowledge of what you were getting into, but…”

  “No, no,” he counters, “I’ve known him for quite some time. This is just like Saul, to throw everybody around as if we were mere pawns, while he sits on his rear, comfortable and safe.”

  You blink, and say, “Paranoia will not help.”

  “Perhaps not. But, I know what will.”

  The sailor hastily finishes his work, then retreats to under-deck. You stare after him, pondering.

  More time passes, as the Grand Titania cuts through miles more of surf. The sun has risen considerably when the proxy-captain shouts, “Land, ho!”

  You scan the horizon, and see a crescent-shaped island that hugs a pristine bay, straight ahead. Expansive jungles paint your destination a glorious mixture of brown and green.

  “I can already taste those exotic fruits,” the captain says.

  You reflect upon the chances of getting at the Tree of Purity within such an expanse. You reflect so deeply that you fail to see a half-dozen crewmen until they have already snuck up behind the captain. Two of them grab his arms and hold him fast, while another binds his hands and wraps his torso with immense lengths of rope.

  “This is a mutiny!” the red-haired sailor shouts.

  “Now, just… just, wait a minute,” you grumble, “I need to get to that island!”

  “Stand in our way, dwarf,” another sailor says, “and get thrown overboard.”

  You can’t swim all that well, so that isn’t an option, and for some reason, this vessel has no lifeboats. Thereby, you can do little but watch as the crew locks the proxy-captain into a holding cell and steers the ship far away from Managhast. Where you are headed now, these mangy miscreants don’t, or can’t, tell you, and anger and frustration rise to the boiling point within you. Your last bits of hope that you’ll head toward the Ambrosinian mainland within the next few days dissolve when one of them makes clear that they’ve wanted to sail the seas randomly for years, and just needed a reason.

  So much, you lament, for trust.

  Your travels cease here, but don’t give up.

  Go back to before the card game, or…

  Restart from the very beginning.

  “So, good sir,” Wyver says to you as you trek, “tell me more about your friend, and about what ails him.”

  “He is Fedwick, of the Canterbury clan. I fear many more souls share his plight, for he has been marked with the seal of Thomerion. A disease of pure evil accompanies the seal.”

  Wyver scratches his chin. “I know of magic that may be able to help. But be warned, the spell is taxing upon both the caster and the recipient, and takes quite some time to cast in its entirety.”

  “Taxing?”

  “In the same sense that our bodies fight illness naturally, this spell exploits and encourages automatic defenses by restricting the target’s exposure to only a controlled dose of what is bothering it. Many ways exist in which it could go wrong, including sudden overdose.”

  “Therefore, we cannot afford to rush.”

  “Or be tired, or distracted,” Wyver agrees, “while casting it. The earliest I shall be able to heal your friend is tomorrow morning.”

  You acquiesce to this, since dark has indeed enveloped the landscape by the time you emerge from the wood. Many miles still remain between you and the capital.

  “Shall we rest here?” Grindle suggests.

  “There is still time,” Wyver says, “to see what we can do about the throne. I’d venture a guess that we are less likely to run into resistance after most of the royal staff has retired for the night.”

  You press on, despite grumblings from much of your party, and a distinct sense that your personal goal has been lost, or at least minimized, within the greater context.

  Suddenly, a horse bolts past you from behind, in full gallop and carrying a stout rider in a hooded green cloak. You couldn’t see who it was, and the pair ignored your party. As its path ran many yards to the south of yours, and Bartleby and Grindle were locked in conversation, it seems nobody else noticed the rider but you.

  You scratch your beard, but continue your trek, nonplussed.

  More time passes, as owls begin to emerge and fill the night prairie with ominous hooting. Your legs ache and your head swims, but finally, you see the torchlight of the Whitetail border guard ahead. You enter the city without trouble, but as you approach the castle itself, two helmeted footmen confront you near the edge of the moat.

  “The drawbridge is up for the night, sires,” the younger one explains, “Whatever your business with King Patrick, it will have to….”

  “Wait,” the older orders. He approaches the druid, places a hand upon his neck, and traces the birthmark with a finger.

  “ Prince Wyver…” he says, amazement tinging his voice, “You’re alive! How is this possible?”

  “Indeed, it is I.”

  “Who?” the other guard asks.

  “I shall spread the word.”

  “You are not worried that I am a killer?” Wyver says.

  “Of course not. Such grudges ceased being important long ago. Ambrosinia needs a new leader, one spurred to action.”

  The support behind placing Wyver back at his deserved post quickly spreads, from the guard to a group of tired passersby, to the rest of the castle staff. The footmen issue an order to lower the drawbridge, and the internal guards comply. Your party enters, and finds Patrick’s royal chambers, on the second floor of the southwest tower.

  “Let’s see him try to fight us, now,” the prince says. He knocks loudly upon the door.

  From within comes a cough and a splutter, and the sounds of sheets being ruffled. “Wha? Who dares to wake me? What could be so important that you…”

  The door opens, and within the archway stands King Patrick himself, stooped and blinking, his disheveled head bare of the crown, which sits upon a wooden bust on an armoire, mere inches away. Patrick grows silent, and the two men glare at each other.

  “Brother,” the king says.

  “Patrick.”

  The king wrings his hands, and mumbles, “I know that what I did was unconscionable. Years, and trials of many a kind, have taught me that hard lesson.”

  Wyver stares at him, listening.

  “But, my friends,” Patrick asserts as he scans the four of you, “I do not give up the throne that easily.”

  “Even in the face of the will of your people?” Wyver retorts.

  “What do you mean?”

  The
prince offers an arm to the king, who takes it and accompanies your group to an open window, from which can be heard chanting. A servant offers Patrick a robe, which he pulls around himself to combat a stiff breeze as you step out onto the balcony. Below stands a throng of over a hundred citizens, many of whom pump their fists, pitchforks, or torches in the air, and all of whom call Wyver’s name.

  Patrick stares at the populace for a while, then hangs his head, and sighs. “Perhaps the time has come. After all, royalty becomes weary of criticism, of hatred. I had become the ‘do-nothing’ king… when all I had ever done was what I felt was best.”

  Wyver puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  “All you need do now is to say the word. Then, rest easy.”

  With the tiniest bit of a smile, Patrick nods. You accompany him back to the bedroom, where he takes the crown and places it gingerly upon Wyver’s head. Once again, you return to the balcony, where Patrick leads Wyver to the very edge of the stone railing.

  “May I present to you,” he shouts, “His Royal Highness, King Wyver of Ambrosinia!”

  The throng cheers their new ruler, and you detect an air of bittersweet irony, as you watch Patrick wordlessly retreat beyond the bedroom and into a deeper recess of the castle, his brow furrowed.

  “As we discussed,” Wyver tells you, “go on ahead. I shall meet you at your home, with bodyguards in tow.”

  Your other teammates accompany you through the city as far as their homes, but then bid you a good night, and retire. While you traverse the rest of the distance alone, your heart both leaps and aches for Fedwick, feeling closer to a peaceful end. You check in on your clansman when you reach your hut, and dismiss the attending cleric. The moon rests high in the sky when you lay down in your bed.