Bliss

by Daniel Lawley

  “Oh spare me the sanctimony.” Tenebris waved away her offence. “We all know the three are a story concocted to give the people hope while the Order receive a profit to absolve their sins, a children’s tale. Like ghostly apparitions or faerie folk,” he snapped, turning to Arlandus. “What are you teaching the girl Euricles? She’ll fall for her own scheme!”

  “The three!” Began Arlandus, “Are the cornerstone of all creation. Before them there was nothing, there will be nothing after and everything that exists, is by their grace alone. A belief I hold dear and shall until the end of my days.”

  “Then you shall die disappointed,” spat Tenebris, “pull yourself from the veil of ignorance you have allowed to be cast over yourself, the ignorance of understanding blinds you and binds you to something so catastrophically unworkable and you refuse to see.” Mania upon him, quiet conversation had expanded into strained tones of indignity.

  “Curious” Armatrine commented out loud, lost within her thoughts.

  “What?” Asked the mark, aloof.

  “As a man once of faith you have seen the same as we, experienced all we have and yet you deny the existence of the goddesses as though it were irrefutable fact despite everything you have done informing you to the contrary of this assumption beyond all reason. What happened to you?” She asked in accusatory tones.

  “Allow me,” began Tenebris, “to answer a question with a question if you will.” The mania thick upon him now. Arlandus gestured for him to continue while Armatrine could do naught but sit in shock at the display taking place before her eyes. “What is it that you do?” He asked, the simplicity of the question catching them off guard.

  “Well, we track down hidden artefacts and relics for the Order, left many decades ago. Things of immense value with hints of power inside them from a time before this, before Neta.” He answered. “But you should know this…”

  “Ah, I never demonstrated lack of understanding, I simply asked you start demonstrating your own,” the treacherous brother cooed, arrogance thick in his voice. “Why is it that you do what you do?” He asked.

  “Because the order decree it so,” stated Armatrine, “because the three decree it so, take your pick. There are artefacts and relics of such power and value that the entire principality would be torn asunder and rendered uninhabitable, then where would the people go? In their grace the three allow us to collect and archive these dangerous and archaic treasures, cataloging them, making the world safer as we do so.”

  “Ah, the bliss of youth” he sighed. “Dangerous and enthralling in equal measure, I ask you this dear girl,” he motioned to Arlandus “and you dear Euricles remain silent.” He turned readdressing Armatrine, “if all the artefacts are kept safe by one faction, by one group, when who holds all the power?”

  “The Order, but they would never abuse the position they are afforded, lowly and relegated as they are to the depths of our society,” she debated fiercely.

  “They?” Tenebris asked, even Arlandus raised an eyebrow in her direction. She flushed, embarrassed by the mistake.

  “You do what you do,” continued Mitrick, “because the Three decree it so and you wouldn't ever want to defy the will of your oh so precious goddesses!” He spat upon the table. “Of course they send you hunting every artefact which comes to their attention, all those and more. Why would they not? Bring them anything which might upset the fragile balance of power here in Neta and be rewarded with power and adoration. The Three are a lie and the Order is a ruse. You thank the Three but I thank myself for having wits enough about me to see things for what they are before spending my entire lifetime on mere trivialities,” Venom leaked into his tone now. Armatrine sat incredulous, offended. Indignant she rose, her master bid her be seated.

  “Before the turn of the world, you shall change your heart Mitrick Tenebris, mark my words.” There was a blackness to his voice. Terrifying and full of malevolence. “Your weary bones shall not find rest, your lust may never be satisfied and your thirst will grow with every sip of water, wine or any other liquid you may imbibe. May each step you take be filled with lead, may your pleasures become your deepest agonies and your agonies become increasingly severe, may your skin become rotten and your teeth fall from your head, every breath shall become shallow and short, you may never know the comfort of a lungful of air. May every sound torment you and may your vision fail you too, then may you perish alone. Then may the Three murder your soul for all eternity.” His face, twisted with the weight of his words now settled to his usual rosy demeanour. In the years since she had been taken Armatrine had never seen Master Arlandus as she did now. Toward her he'd been a benevolent and patient teacher yet now she saw how dangerous a man such as he could be, she pitied the mark.

  “Mere parlor tricks!” Chided Tenebris, a chuckle in his tone turning Armatrine cold. She had vastly underestimated the bravado of this man. “Do not forget, good master, that I know as much as you do and perhaps more it would seem.” He smiled, filling his mouth with a swill from the pewter flagon before him, his expression deeply satisfied before becoming one of revulsion and horror.

  “Oh?” Questioned Arlandus, watching events unfold before him with keen interest. Mitrick opened his angry mouth, instead of spilling forth words or ale there spilled only salt. It collected in a pile upon the table as he choked to swallow the dry crystals already in his gullet.

  “You!” He struggled to get the words to form in his mouth as his choking continued.

  “Yes” Arlandus confirmed. “It's all in the strength of one’s own convictions, I believe and therefore it becomes so” he stated. “Now art thou satisfied?” He asked smugly, his mark becoming twisted with rage. “One without faith, such as yourself, could never begin to understand, but perhaps you'll start to believe!”

  Mitrick rose. Face contorted with dread and agony, confusion and fear crept across his brow. The face of a man unwilling to admit his defeat. He leant toward his former friend, finger outstretched toward his rounded, bearded face. Arlandus sat perfectly still, Armatrine, concerned he would attack her master moved her hand to the hilt of her blade. The anger raw inside him, Mitrick stood and turned on his heel, leaving the tavern through the main entrance. His haughty nature hiding the panic flowing inside him.

  Armatrine stood to follow, until a hand grasped her arm, it was Arlandus. “Wait, my apprentice.”

  “But he's getting away” she protested.

  “Aye, that he is, but he’ll lead us to the items we must recover if we allow him to, and some time under a curse could do him some good.” He laughed at the last part, his own infectious laughter forcing Armatrine to chuckle with him.

  “Did you see that salt? She asked excited, “I almost lost it at the sleep part. By the light of the Three, you really went off on him!”

  “Does he not deserve it?” Arlandus asked.

  “Of course,” she continued to laugh, “now what was that about a hot pie?”

  “Ah so the girl does have a stomach for the tavern after all!” Arlandus chuckled. Setting himself down at the table and gesturing to the barman.

  Neither saw the hooded man finish his flagon, leave his seat, place it gently under it’s place at the table and follow brother Tenebris.

  Qesa, First City~

  ~First of the Smith, Song of Joy~

  In the vastness a rogue shall come

  The one who rises,

  The star of the lost

  The bastion of hope and a threat to all.

  - Death throes of ancient master Alyycus

  Jackson Laanson had seen the Order of the Pearl before. The dark results of their pernicious work etched with uncanny clarity into the annals of his memory. There were never people so dangerous than those who believed themselves to be on the side of righteousness. Just what these apparently benevolent yet resolutely dangerous inquisitors were, righteous. More importantly, when his survival was a factor, what they could do to one such as him, powerless, lacking agency. He stood, not quick
ly. Attracting their attention not a priority in his agenda. Simply waiting a few moments and draining the dark, nutty ale before him he counted seven long seconds before slowly taking hold of his jacket, sword and pistol, aligning the assortment of personal effects about his body in such a way as any sailor might and exiting through the wooden door that the old monk had used moments before in a somewhat panicked state.

  The streets outside were quietening as the evening set in, no dusk here. The setting of one sun in exchange for the dawn of another. Qesa shone in splendour. The brilliant light of the setting star Pei caressing the last brush of her finger tips over the reaching towers and dizzying heights of the sprawling city island. At the dawn her sister Tei shone. Her brilliance cast a double light through the city, a brilliance he longed to touch, to feel and hold inside himself. Wonderment upon him, like a fool in a daze he stood for a second, allowing the glory of creation to become one with himself. Truthfully he’d witnessed the changing of stars, this dual dawn to dusk, every day of his life, yet the Kite offered little in the way of scenery, above the clouds most of everything looked the same. Here there was a glory to it. The way the light of the suns illuminated this moment, not a shadow before or behind. He paused to bask before continuing the mission of his own volition. A perfect ruse to keep himself far removed from suspicious minds of those in cream robes.

  He’d been tailing the mark for a number of days, the slithery and lustful ex priest, whom in all likelihood had stolen an item of untold value and a fistful of gold from his previous employer and now sought a sale in the capital or further beyond the horizons of this small isle. All he needed was the right time to threaten, steal or murder and he'd have whatever was on offer in his possession. The glory of his captain and crew before him, all for the taking. Yet the Order. An added urgency he'd expected yet hoped not to encounter. A simultaneous duality of waiting threat. He'd need to hurry now if he were to beat them to the prize. Plus there was always the possibility the mark would choose to return elsewhere to where he'd stayed the previous fortnight. Turning into a side alley opposite the Ship’s Delight he kicked a small metal catch releasing a ladder up to the roof tops. A fire escape, yet it would suit his purposes of sneaking and evasion. Readily he climbed, energetic and limber. His hands scraping the cool steel of the iron rungs as he ascended. Cold to the touch yet nothing compared to the breeze of the altitude he was used to upon the Kite. Once atop the building he found himself on a second floor roof. Flattened, like many others in this district he found it to be a useful walkway for purposes of menacing and tailing. Considering the reputation of the area he was surprised to find them mostly empty. Slowly he made his steady way across the first roof watching the street below. He'd yet to catch up to the trail of his mark yet he heard enough gossip from the few street vendors below to pique his suspicions. Remaining hidden behind the angle of the roof he strained to hear.

  “Yes but what of the asylums, since Prince Johan took the throne there's been less funding for them from public coffers. Poor sods like that can't get the looking after!”

  “Well,” replied his friend, “ways I see it is this, poor sod he may be and as like it's not his fault but surely the responsibility falls on the family of people like that, ya know, they breed em they take care of em, or just leave em for the drakes to take care of, kindness at its heart!”

  “You really are a heartless curr,” responded the original.

  It sounded as though his mark had been through this way. To anybody unaware of what had befallen him in the tavern he supposed insanity was a sensible possibility. It certainly made more sense than religious zealots casting curses in broad daylight.

  Rolling away so as to remain hidden he stood and jumped the small gap to the next roof taking care not to trip on an assortment of broken tiles as his heavy boot landed upon the stone. Fortunately the masonry underneath remained solid. Crouching he steadied himself with his hand before moving swiftly across the roof, past the disrepair and to more solid footing. Jumping to the next he realised he needed to hurry. Quickening his pace he crept along the rooftops in the direction of the dockside. Above he heard the distant calls of Desigulls or thief birds as they were often referred to among the crew. Here they were more of an annoyance, stealing food from vendors and customers alike. On the open skies a true danger, capable of growing to five times the span of a grown man and as stupid as a rabid dog in heat they had crashed many a ship into splinters casting the sky-sailors on board to their dooms. Shuddering he pulled his jacket about himself entirely unsure as to whether he was feeling cold or fear. He continued the rooftop roadway before him.

  Below he heard commotion and not the common commotion of early vendors peddling their wares. Something unearthly, dangerous, other. Clattering and crashing below he saw the mark. Somewhere between a state of disbelief and panic, everything the old priest had predicted befalling him all at once. Jak only stared in wonder as he clambered along the rooftops watching the man and the fate that had befallen him, wondering if he would even survive as he steadied himself once or twice crossing the loose debris.

  It was difficult to feel sympathy toward the man as he bumbled about below, painfully addled and yet all so aware of his surroundings. Before this he'd held an arrogance and an aura of dislikability about him, now that aura became more potent, as of the curse had strengthened it somehow.

  He attempted to make his agonising wormlike way across the town toward the quarters he'd taken. Each step a stumble and each breath preceded by a low wheeze which gave the distinct impression of a man whom, without serious medical help, would not be long in the land of the living.

  “Watch where you walk!” Complained a merchant below, picking his wares off the busying street. The mark did nothing by way of apology, concerned more with self preservation than with social propriety. Further along a young child screamed at the sight of him, not the usual childlike cry so sure and confident of the reassuring safety a parent provides letting them know all is well. Instead a deep terrified wail, guttural and reaching to the core of all whom heard. This caught the attention of its parents whom pulled it to safety from the monstrosity before them. The mother did her best to mollify her young while the father pushed the mark further into the cobbled roadway. “Clear off!” He yelled. The mark, the accursed could do nothing to respond.

  At the rising commotion Mitrick cowered low. Partially from the embarrassment of his condition and partially due to the agony of his situation. Stumbling and shambling, unable to breathe, to drink, to right himself of the wrongs. Powerless, broken. Excitement crept across Jak’s face. Whatever had caused the priest to inflict this upon the man was certainly severe. Severe enough to indicate he'd been right to tail him, this man, who had held himself oh so proudly as he'd attempted to blend into the people who so despised him. If anything were severe enough to warrant this kind of punishment he knew it to be warranting severe payment. If he were to interfere correctly he'd strike gold and most importantly, infamy with the captain. It would require the right people at precisely the right time. Only then would he strike.

  Below, the shell of a man now stumbled incoherently into the ramshackle inn he'd been making home in for the fortnight since his arrival. He would move on from here or he would die here. The Order would be on his tail, pulling a small roll of parchment and a charcoal from his pack he wrote a quick account and manifest of what he needed. The Kite could win big this day. Steadily he whistled, two excited fingers between his lips. Down came a crow at the sound. Securing the note to its leg he bid it on its way. Hunkering into a nook on the roof he waited. It would not be long.

  ***

  Terror! Not the passing kind that momentarily holds a person underwater simply to allow them to rise shortly after, offering a mere taste of drowning. But pure abject and permanent terror gripped him now like the hand of some invisible specter grasping the outside of his heart and squeezing tightly.

  The curse upon him he tried to think. To turn his mind back to a time
he'd believed, if he could convince himself, perhaps he could break the binds and free himself. It was a matter of conviction and convicted he was. Remembering the three. Their embrace upon him, cradling his darkest moments and pulling him to their motherly bosom. The times he'd felt emotion, the praise he'd given, the pain and the moments he'd sought comfort and clarity. The joy and the sorrow, the anger and the pleasure. All of them. It was no use. He wheezed. The gasping made meditation difficult. There was a difference between the mind and the heart. In his head he desired nothing more in that moment than to believe, to hold them close to him once more and free himself. A barrier! The subtle veil between knowing and believing! He stumbled against it again. Yet in his heart he found himself to be faithless. An atrophied soul in a differing body, incapable of changing his situation. In his ignorance the Three had turned their backs upon him and he was alone.

  He could give the map back to Arlandus. He expected it wouldn't be long until he came knocking anyway. His young brainwashed acolyte in tow ready to save the day and play the hero. Recovering the artefact and restoring order. What would become of he? Mitrick Tenebris. Chances are he would be taken into custody and after a lengthy, embarrassing and public trial during which all his character flaws, curious peccadillos and embarrassments were to be revealed, he would be killed. Executed slowly, painfully, publicly. He didn't mind the thought of dying. Compared to a life of this curse he'd take it any day. Yet, the humiliation of painful public execution. He remembered the hangings he'd been taken to witness as a child. How the faces turned purple as the suspended men danced their dying jig upon the gallows.