As a child, I always knew I was different. Indeed, those who knew of the mysterious circumstance of my birth would stare and whisper in my presence. But from an early age, I could feel Seletoth’s presence, as if He was an ever-present father helping to raise me. Then He began to speak to me, and from Him, I learned that I was capable of manipulating the elements of the land through magic. He showed me that this was a talent also latent in my peers.
As I taught them how to manipulate Nature and Her fruits, many others came from afar to learn too.
By the age of sixteen, I was the closest our dispersed community had to a leader.
And by seventeen, they made me king.
The Truth, by King Móráin I, AC55
***
Fionn sat in the council room of the house of the Triad. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his lap with both hands clasped. He kept the heel of his left foot raised, and his left knee jittered with anxiety.
What’s taking them so long, Bearach asked. Surely, they would have arrived by now?
The atmosphere of the council hall indicated the others present shared the same concern as the knight. Members of the council surrounded the table, some sitting, others standing, all with eyes fixed upon the single crystallographer sitting at the far end.
The crystallographer tended to a curious apparatus roughly the size of a hand-organ. Embedded in the centre of it was a chunk of white crystal. Filaments of wire encircled the crystal and reached out to connect to the rest of the box at various spots. Through a hole on the side, the crystallographer rested one hand; the other held a Simian-inkpen, ready to relay whatever message came.
Magic in one hand, Simian technology in the other, thought Fionn. He had a rudimentary understanding of how the crystal amplifier worked, though its name was somewhat of a misnomer. At any moment now, a moment for which everyone waited with bated breath, that crystal would begin to resonate with a pattern sent from one of the ships sent out to Point Grey. Using a code known and understood by both crystallographers at either end of the communication, this would be translated into a word, phrase, or even a full report. The pattern of a resonance crystal would typically be too fast for even the most talented mage to read, but the amplifier would take the signal from the crystal and send a slower version to the crystallographer’s hand via a prodding rod. With the fingers of this hand, the crystallographer would be able to speed up, slow down, or repeat specific parts of the message, all while transcribing the message with the other hand.
Fionn had always struggled in the translation part, let alone interpreting and communicating a message simultaneously. Playing with fire was a far more interesting use of magic.
Although all in the room eagerly awaited the message from Farris, the knot of anxiety in Fionn’s belly had been tied by a different source. In his breast pocket, he held a letter. An unexpected letter from an unexpected source.
What would the zealot want with us? asked Sir Bearach. And why so much secrecy?
Fionn shared Bearach’s curiosity. He had found the letter in his chamber that morning, signed by Ruairí of the Sons of Seletoth, with instructions to meet him in the Silverback’s ward at dusk today. He was instructed to come alone and tell no one of this meeting.
Just go now, lad, said Sir Bearach. The sun will set within the hour, and what use are you here?
Fionn looked around. Of course, the crystallographer would relay news of Farris’s success or failure, and the councilmen of the Triad were already aware of what actions to take either way. Fionn’s eyes then met those of Chief-Sergeant Bernice, a towering female Simian with auburn-coloured fur contrasting her dark gaze. She’d surely set out to share the message with the rest of the awaiting army, so what use had Fionn here?
He slowly stood, giving the rest of the council an opportunity to react if they wanted him to stay. When none did, he made his way to the door.
“Firemaster,” said Bernice as he passed. “Do you not wish to see the outcome of Plackart’s trip south?”
“I do,” said Fionn, slowly. “But I have other business to attend to in the meantime.”
Bernice didn’t respond immediately, but Fionn could swear he saw her eyes narrow, ever so slightly.
“Don’t go too far,” she said. “We’ll need to reassess our situation if their mission fails. Though if it were up to me, we’d fly south regardless of the outcome.”
“Then the people of Penance can be thankful that it’s not.”
With this Fionn left, walking down the hall at a pace faster than he would typically be used to.
Glance back, lad, said Bearach. She might be following us!
Not likely, said Fionn, stealing a look over his shoulder anyway. Only an empty corridor lay behind. These military types are often slower to disobey chain of command than their attitudes would imply.
Let’s hope she’s like the others, then.
Fionn ascended a marble set of steps, passing a large mural of the Tower of Sin the extended from floor to ceiling. This artist’s depiction showed the tower as tall it had been before the Fall, piercing the clouds farther than any other mountain in Alabach.
Was it pettiness that drove Seletoth to tear it down? wondered Sir Bearach. Or something else?
Fionn considered the question. Many scholars believed that Seletoth had every right to punish the Simians for their Sin, though others framed it as arrogance. The counterargument was that trying to project Human emotions unto Seletoth was folly, as we could never truly comprehend His will. And besides, He surely had a good reason for doing it.
Based on what Meadhbh had said, however, Fionn perhaps understood the Fall of Sin a little bit more.
She had said the only Humans were bound by Fate and that Simians were free to do as they wish. If the Simians who built Sin did so out of their own free will, perhaps Seletoth’s destruction of it was an attempt to bring the Simians back in line with what Fate had predicted. After all, the Fall of Sin itself was seen by many Simians as a rallying point against Human rule. If not for the Fall of Sin, Penance, and indeed Alabach, would look very different.
On the next floor, Fionn walked through another corridor before arriving at a row of doors leading to several wards. He passed Cathal’s old ward and stood before the door to another.
“Hello?” said Fionn, stepping inside. “Ruairí?
This ward was similar to Cathal’s, with its square shape and drab interior. Its bed, however, was much larger, and in it lay Argyll the Silverback. A robust Simian, he still held the room to attention with his presence, as he always had, even when unconscious. The many tubes and instruments that tended to Cathal’s state were absent here. In fact, Argyll seemed like he was only sleeping, his complexion and composition no different to how they were when he was awake.
Beside him sat Ruairí. The Son of Seletoth wore a brown waistcoat over a grey shirt. His usual necklace hung round his neck, emblazoned with the symbol of the Sons—a trio of crooked, interlocking circles. It hung heavy on a silver chain, which glimmered in the weakening light of the coming evening.
“You’re early,” said Ruairí, whispering, as though not to wake Argyll.
“I wasn’t needed in the council hall,” said Fionn. “They’re just waiting to hear back from Point Grey, so they can wait without me. Besides, it seemed like you required my attention more than they did.”
Ruairí sighed. “I don’t require anything from you, Fionn. I just wanted to have… a chat.”
Fionn frowned. “Is that so?”
So why was it important we came alone? asked Sir Bearach. Why the secrecy?
“And what would you like to discuss?” asked Fionn. “Anything in particular?”
Ruairí stood and strode across the room. A fur overcoat lay strewn over a chair beside the window. Next to this, was a leather pack. Ruairí squatted down next to it, and produced two cups and a bottle of wine, its colour a deep ruby.
“Bhuaím Blackberry Red,” said Ruairí, cradling the bottle in both hands as he turned to face Fionn. “This was gifted to me from a friend in Terrían, right before the horde came. Could very well be the last bottle left in this frightening new world.”
Ruairí unsealed the bottle and poured himself a glass. Fionn tilted his head as he watched. Something was certainly off. Ruairí usually exhibited incredible confidence as he spoke, even at the council meeting yesterday. Confidence edging on arrogance, if Fionn was to be perfectly honest. But now, Ruairí’s voice seemed weaker, not just from whispering, but as if it was frail. As if he was frightened.
When his cup was full, he held out an empty one to Fionn. “What would you say to a toast? To Farris’s success in Point Grey, and to yours whenever you reach Dromán.”
Fionn instinctively reached out for the glass, but then paused. He turned an eye towards the unconscious Silverback, still motionless in his bed, bar the slow rise and fall of his massive chest.
What do you want? thought Fionn. This was the type of thing Farris or Argyll would have done with ease, navigating strange conversations, unravelling others’ intentions while concealing their own. Fionn, had much less experience in that realm of politics, despite his time on the council.
“Sure,” said Fionn. “Regardless of Farris’s outcome, tomorrow will be a long day for me. So, just one for luck.”
Ruairí smiled weakly and poured a glass for Fionn. He handed it to him, holding it between a delicate thumb and forefinger, as if afraid of cracking it.
Both Fionn and Ruairí raised their glasses and took a deep drink. The taste came first as a sharp burst of fruits and berries that quickly turned dry in Fionn’s mouth. As he swallowed, it a left bitter impression, like scrumpy set to ferment for too long. He went to raise the cup for a second taste but met Ruairí’s eyes instead.
“And to Argyll’s health,” Fionn said, giving another awkward salute towards the bed. “Is there any update on his condition?”
“No,” said Ruairí. “The healers reckon he’ll awaken by the end of this moon, but they still dare not speculate on what condition he’ll be in.”
This brought a lull to the conversation, as the two drank in silence.
“Was there anything in particular you wanted to ask me?” ventured Fionn. He rotated the cup in his hand, his grasp on the stem awkward with his severed third and fourth finger.
“Nothing more than looking for some insight as to what’s going on.” Ruairí sipped from his drink.
Fionn snorted. “You think I’d have a better idea than you? You’re the Silverback’s right hand after all, aiding him in all his duties with the Triad.” Fionn leaned back, ready to take a triumphant quaff. “And if I understand it, in matters far more important than that too.”
Ruairí’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me how much you know, then.”
“Garth told me most of it, on the way back from Roseán. The rumours that the Silverback has been leading a covert rebellion against the Crown and the Church are true. The Sons of Seletoth have been aiding him due to the involvement in the latter. Garth was mapping the Glenn for the Silverback, but he didn’t elaborate on why. He also alluded to powerful weapons that Nicole had been working on, which I assume were the automatons and firearms we used to fight back the horde. Now, based on these, conjecture would lead me to conclude that these covert operations of the Silverback’s were close enough to boiling into outright rebellion. Perhaps the massacre at the Basilica was part of it. Perhaps the death of Borris Blackhands was part of it. But as I said, that much is conjecture. And I’d wager that much is but a small portion of what you know.”
Ruairí had kept a straight face during this, but after a moment, he smiled. “Such a clever lad. You and Farris would have gotten along very well had circumstances been different.”
“What do you mean?” said Fionn. He had only really spoken to Farris a handful of times, and most of those times he had been using an alias. “Is he involved with the Movement too?”
Ruairí reached for the bottle to top up his cup. Then offered to do the same to Fionn’s.
“As the Silverback tells it, there would be no Movement at all without Farris.”
Fionn accepted the drink and turned his eyes up to Ruairí as he realised what he meant.
“Farris? Really? But he always seemed so… quiet.”
“The Silverback describes him as a mastermind. Never to his face, mind you. Farris earned the name ‘Silvertongue’ some four years ago. Before Argyll got involved in politics, he was the leader of the Guild of Thieves here in Penance. They started off as a petty gang, slowly growing into an organised crime syndicate with all the right people in all the right pockets. They had some connections over in Cruachan, so Farris was sent to set up another operation there. Another ‘Guild Chapter,’ he’d call it.”
“Sounds like a big task,” said Fionn.
“It was. Farris set up a network of thieves and smugglers throughout the city but ran into a host of problems. The City Guard of Cruachan was already corrupt, see, but to another group—Smugglers who named themselves the Black Sail. Farris’s work was encroaching on theirs, and a war of sorts broke out. Hideouts were ransacked and burned, footpads were killed on the streets, and many of those once loyal to Farris turned their cloaks to the Black Sail, who had a much firmer grasp on the City Guard than the Guild had.”
“Sounds like it was a terrible idea,” said Fionn, feeling more confident with every mouthful of wine. “To have such a strong operation in Penance, why spread your resources to another city so far away, competing against others with far more experience and connections than your own?”
Ruairí laughed. “That’s exactly what any intelligent Human would see, but not an intelligent Simian. Against all odds, Farris proved that the Silverback was right to trust him.”
He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a giddy whisper. “Farris rounded up those that had betrayed him, and those who were planning to, and removed their heads.” Fionn gasped, and after a long, dramatic pause, Ruairí continued.
“Then he went and presented them to King Diarmuid, claiming that he alone had routed out the Guild of Thieves. All the while, Captain Padraig Tuathil was standing beside the king, well aware that these were the Black Sail’s newest converts but couldn’t say a word because they had been paying him off! Farris didn’t even ask for any compensation. His plan was to continue the Guild’s operations in Cruachan, with everyone believing they had been completely disbanded. See, he told the King that these were the heads of the Guild’s highest captains and lieutenants. Again, Tuathil knew this wasn’t true, but couldn’t say and word. All he could do was watch on as King Diarmuid, seeing that Farris had refused payment, went on to offer Farris a job.”
Fionn guffawed. “He did what?”
“King Diarmuid had been chasing down the Black Sail for years, with Tuathil leading the charge. But since Tuathil was already bought and sold by the Sail, the king thought him incompetent. Then along comes Farris, apparently eliminating a separate criminal organisation without any hassle, and without any promise of pay. It made perfect sense, then, to hire Farris to track down the Black Sail, and put Tuathil on other duties throughout the city.”
Fionn’s eyes widened. “So, with that one stunt,” he said, slowly, “Farris had routed out traitors of the Guild, allowed the Guild to appear disbanded in the eyes of King Diarmuid, got himself a job with the Crown to take down a rival gang, all while also making Tuathil a less valuable inside man by taking him away from their case.” Fionn had been counting off each of these on his severed hand but had run out of fingers doing so.
“Tuathil was outsmarted every step of the way, and never stood a chance,” said Ruairí. “Though, fate would have it that he would wind up in here in Penance by Farris’s side once more.”
“True, but She said that none of this was fated to happen,” said Fionn, without thinking.
Ruairí stirred. “Who said this?” he snapped.
Careful, lad, said Sir Bearach. He wasn’t there, remember? Does he even know the Lady lives under Dromán?
Fionn frowned. His religion would dictate She doesn’t live at all.
He quickly considered his options. None who had seen the Lady had been sworn to secrecy or anything like that. Sure, the Triad’s army were planning to fly out to defend Her in the morning. So Fionn reckoned surely more than just those that spoke to Her knew She existed.
“The Lady Meadhbh,” said Fionn, simply. “We met Her after the Battle of Penance, in Her tomb near Dromán. That’s why we’re flying south. To protect the Her.”
“Is this true?” said Ruairí.
Fionn paused. “Of course. Why would—” He smiled and placed his glass down onto the ground, then folded his arms. “I see. This is why you wanted to speak to me alone. You don’t believe in the Lady.”
“Not as the Church teaches,” said Ruairí. He turned his gaze to the floor. “Perhaps what you saw was a spirit, or an illusion.”
Fionn laughed. “You’re clearly an intelligent man in the know of what’s going on in this city, but your faith is blinding you on this one topic. Why does even it matter what we call Her? A spirit, or a demon, or a god, or—”
“She is no god!”
Ruairí’s voice rose so quickly and so sharply, it caused Fionn to jump with fright.
“How do you know?” said Fionn, his heart still racing. “I was there, Ruairí. She said things that nobody had any business knowing. I had never seen anything like it before.”
“I have,” said Ruairí, “in my Seeing of Seletoth. The teachings of the Church are hundreds of years old and comprise many conflicting scriptures and sources. Perhaps Seletoth spoke directly to King Móráin the First, but whatever He said has since been passed on and filtered through generations of men, twisted and distorted to suit their own needs. And those of the institution of the Church. The tenets of the Sons of Seletoth, on the other hand, come directly from His lips to our ears.”
“Perhaps,” said Fionn. “I witnessed someone having one of these Seeings, you know. My old mentor, Firemaster Conleth, right before he tried to kill me.”
“I remember,” said Ruairí. “You came to the Council to tell us of his death.”
Fionn grimaced as the memory came back. The shrillness of Conleth’s raving. The heat of the flames that tried to consume Fionn. The smell of Conleth’s flesh as it burned.
“Wait…” said Fionn. “In his ranting, Conleth spoke of chaos, and disorder….”
“This much is consistent with those who have Seen,” said Ruairí. “It sounds like he saw too much, though, and it broke his mind.”
“No…” said Fionn. “It wasn’t entirely nonsensical, looking back now. He said Penance was a cancer… a cancer on the Tapestry of Fate. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but the Lady said that everyone is bound to Fate. Everyone but Simians, who can break free. She said that Morrígan was fated to end all life, but because the Simians here fought back, they disrupted the Tapestry of Fate. And now there’s hope that we can win. That must be what Conleth saw! He saw that Penance, a city full of Simians, was capable of disrupting the Tapestry of Fate before they even did so!”
Ruairí didn’t respond. He moved his mouth slowly, as if repeating what Fionn had said to himself. “And after that, did he say anything else?”
“Not that I can remember. His last words were ‘you have no idea what you are,’ whatever that means.”
“No!” cried Ruairí, standing so quickly it caused his glass of wine to smash on the floor. “You must be mistaken. The Lord surely did not show him such blasphemy.”
Fionn narrowed his eyes. He had never seen Ruairí act like this. In fact, he had never seen Ruairí be so… emotional. Before he could respond, however, the clinic door swung open. Lieutenant Bernice stood in its frame.
Fionn struggled to find an answer. Before he did, however, the clinic door swung open. Lieutenant Bernice stood in its frame.
Maybe she did follow us after all, said Bearach.
“Firemaster Fionn,” said the Simian. “We have received word from Plackart. The mission to Point Grey was a success. Ships full of provisions are on the way back here. We fly south at dawn.”