Ten years after we landed, our settlements across the south grew in populace and size. Unfortunately, any attempt to press our borders northwards were met with hard resistance from the natives. At the time, if we had engaged in open-field combat against them, we would have won an easy victory, with their primitive weapons no match for our magic. But it seemed that they were always aware of this, only choosing only to fight us when the advantage was on their side, through ambushes and short skirmishes.
But ten years in, some progress was made. Some natives had learned our language, very quickly, I might add, and began to treat with us. These ones seemed to know it was only a matter of time before the land was ours, and provided valuable information regarding the movements of those plotting against us.
So once more, we set out northwards, with some natives on our side, and our own numbers stronger than before. This time, we knew, we would find Seletoth.
The Truth, by King Móráin I, AC55
***
Argyll’s chair rattled with each cobblestone they went. Ruairí cursed the lack of paved basalt roads in the Dustworks of Penance. Seemingly, Argyll had ordered a new chair—a design of his own of some sort, though it would likely still need Ruairí to push him around.
We’ll get what we need soon, he reminded himself. The Simians will get their freedom, and we will get our knowledge, and all shall see the face of God.
The night was growing late, with the streets occupied only by revellers on their way home, and those with more sinister motives that still lingered in the streets.
And there’s no motives more sinister than our own, thought Ruairí, taking a turn from the main road into a darkened alley. This had even more cobblestones, from which came even more rattling. It was illuminated by several dimmed oil lamps, attached to the stone walls that stood tall either side.
“You’re sure he’ll be here?” asked Ruairí.
“Yes,” said Argyll, stern and still facing ahead. “He risked far more than this the night the horde came.”
It was a strange thing, to speak to someone before you, without expecting them to turn around to speak back. Ruairí found he had to strain his ears to listen to Argyll more than before, for the Simian’s strong voice was difficult to hear when projected in the wrong direction.
They passed a group of youths, loitering beneath the window of a tavern. They stopped what they were doing, abruptly turning to look at Ruairí and Argyll as they passed. Argyll turned to stare back at them; something the Simian often did to fill the hearts of others with fear. Despite his condition, it had the same effect now as it always had.
Just bored children, thought Ruairí, shaking his head. Nothing to be concerned about.
Eventually, they came to their destination: the back door into The White Rose, a regular meeting place for Argyll, and those who served him. The front of the tavern was closed, of course, given the time of night, but as Ruairí knocked on the back door, it opened slightly at first, then fully when the proprietor saw who was there.
“He’s here alright,” the landlady said, ushering both in. She was a robust Simian, toughened by dealing both with the clients of her establishment and the associates of the Silverback. Bruna the Beauty, she had been called once, but never to her face. As Argyll had once put it, she had been loyal to all of his causes, from the days of the Guild of Thieves to the more recent plans to dismantle the Church and the Crown.
“Madame Bruna,” said Ruairí with a nod. “I hope business is going well."
“It would be going better if I didn’t have to close early!” she snapped. “Your man is inside. Far side of the bar.”
Ruairí nodded and pushed Argyll through the empty tavern. It had a low ceiling, held up with thick stone columns draped in red curtains. The floor was made from concrete, and smooth to move over, much to Ruairí’s relief. Wooden tables with low, iron cushioned stools lined the left-hand wall, with a long bar of marbled stone to the right.
There, sitting on a table adjacent to the bolted-shut front door, was a lone Simian, cradling a glass of thainol.
“Edward of Engine Alley,” said Argyll. “Or Ned the Liberator, as you are more recently known.”
“I am called both,” said the Simian. “You require no introduction.”
“But perhaps you need a better one.” Argyll rested his hands on the table and turned to look up at Ruairí. “Do you know what Ned the Liberator did the night the horde came?”
“I do not,” said Ruairí, adding an air of amusement. Of course, he did, but this was part of the act. The more time he spent with the Simians, the better he got at playing their games of deception.
“The Basilica has both men and Simians in their ranks,” began Argyll. “Due to the needs of the local population here in the Dustworks, Simians make up the majority of their numbers. Regardless of their own beliefs, these Simians are loyal to the Arch-Canon, the Trinity, and the Church.”
“Traitors,” rasped Ruairí. “Traitors the lot of them.”
“Not quite,” said Argyll, turning back to face Ned. “They only serve the Church because the Basilica’s presence in the city leaves them lacking so much. It is such a disgusting thing the Church has done. First, they tax the poor to pave their own walls with gold. Then, they hire the same poor to defend those same walls. Humiliating.”
“You do not have the full picture,” said Ned. “But by and large, this is true.”
“Yes,” said Argyll. “But you chose to defy the Church when a real threat emerged. You chose to release those imprisoned in the Basilica, rallying your fellow Churchguards together to defend the Dustworks, not the Church, from the undead.”
“It was not my idea. A prisoner helped me understand what I needed to do. He deserves as much praise as I do.”
Argyll looked back at Ruairí. There was a strange glint in the Simian’s eyes, as if he shared a secret Ruairí should know too. But Ruairí didn’t. He had heard of Ned the Liberator but wasn’t aware of who was actually imprisoned in the Basilica. Argyll had imprisoned Farris when the king arrived, though that was just to appease the Church.
No…. Argyll now smiled openly at him. Farris? Farris actually convinced his captors to set him free? Of course, Ruairí had come across Farris at the Dustgate that night. He hadn’t quite questioned why Farris had been accompanied by so many Churchguards.
The mastery that Simian has over subterfuge knows no end.
But Farris was likely dead now, along with the rest of those who tried to defend the Lady.
“This may be true,” said Argyll, turning back to Ned. “But this prisoner would not have gone far without your co-operation.”
Ned snorted. “I did what I did to protect my family. Because of that prisoner, they are still alive. As am I.”
“And still in the job, if my information is correct.”
“True. The Church chose not to dismiss those who abandoned their posts that night, considering it an extraordinary circumstance.”
“And the others…” said Argyll, leaning in towards Ned. He lowered his voice. “How have they received our message?”
“They received it well. Their faith in the Church has been shattered given all that has happened. Rumours have spread that an evacuation of this land is planned, should she who brought the horde choose to return.”
“Correct, and only with your help, Ned the Liberator, can this be achieved. We have three long distance ships ready, but the Church still holds the means for us to fly.”
“Blue focus-crystals. This much I am aware of. The vaults of the Church are filled with many treasures and secrets, along with many crystals storing Human magics. Even with snow filling the sky, and with the Eternal Sea itself frozen, the Church hoards crystals capable of supplying us with heat to see us through this strange winter.”
Argyll nodded. “Speak with your fellow Simian Churchguards, and you will be free to plunder all the riches of the Basilica.”
“That will be trivial,” said Ned, frowning. “But what about the Humans?”
“They will not come to our side easily. I understand Simians in the Churchguard outnumber Humans two to one.”
Ned folded his arms. “You’re saying there’ll be violence?”
“Violence in our favour. After the riot at the Basilica last year, the battlemages in the Church’s ranks were sent to Dromán, so you’ll face no magic.”
Behind them, Ruairí shook his head. Argyll’s plans often involved a very high rate of success, with little room for error or variance. Even with the Simians of the Churchguard on his side, there was still a chance things could go awry.
Perhaps there is something I can do to help….
“Either way,” said Argyll. “We appreciate you coming to meet us tonight. Dead drops and secret messages can only communicate so much.”
Ned looked puzzled. “Is that all?”
Argyll nodded, as did Ruairí.
The Simian Churchguard slowly stood, then left without saying any more. Ruairí slipped into seat where Ned had sat, now facing Argyll. When the back door opened and slammed shut, he spoke.
“He seems confident. We were concerned that the goals and the needs of the Simian Churchguards wouldn’t align with our own. But are you concerned about fighting off the Humans in their ranks?”
“No,” said Argyll, with a slight pause. “Between the Simians in their ranks, and the Sons within ours, the odds favour us strongly. How many Sons are still in the city?”
“Some four hundred,” said Ruairí. “Though the fervour of our faith has grown significantly since Diarmuid died, so that number is ever-increasing.”
“And why would that be?”
Ruairí paused. This was a rather strange question for the Simian to ask. Likely one that he already had the answer to. Ruairí took a breath, then answered, slowly, choosing his words carefully.
“Because the king’s death shows that the power of the Trinity is not as the Church claims. If Diarmuid is not a god, then how did you kill him?”
Argyll learned forward. Something akin to a sneer laced his lips. “Because… he has an heir.”
No! Ruairí’s mind reeled. He cursed himself. So many times, he had felt he was one step ahead of Argyll, holding on to one piece of knowledge outside of the reaches of the Silverback’s network, but so many times, without fail, the upper hand was quickly lost.
“A… what?” was all Ruairí could manage. To stall for time. To hope Argyll would elaborate.
“An heir,” repeated the Simian. “Farris, in his work with in Cruachan, proved to me that Divine Penetrance is true. If the king was to bear a son, the power of immortality would pass on to him.”
Ruairí shook his head. But Argyll had denied this for so long, dismissing Farris’s work as sloppy and biased. Could that alone have convinced him? Does he know about the boy?
“No,” said Ruairí, trying not to let his own trail of thought be shown. “The Church has denied this power for generations.”
“The Church denies many things. When Morrígan claimed the soul of Diarmuid, she became a god. If he was a mere man, this would not have happened.”
Blasphemy! thought Ruairí; a thought almost reflexive. There is only one God. And Seletoth is His Holy Name.
Argyll pressed on. “But Diarmuid died when I slew him. With a simple dagger, no more. Therefore, there must have been some power within him for Morrígan to take, even if he did not possess Divine Penetrance.”
Ruairí leaned forward. “What are you saying?”
“Firemaster Fionn,” said Argyll. He leaned back in his chair. “The illegitimate son of our late king. It has been a very well-kept secret for his whole life, and I made sure to keep him close at hand, in case the need every arose. If we were to challenge the authority of the Crown, and if they did not capitulate as we planned, then I was to present Fionn and his Divine Penetrance to the world and hold the kingdom ransom until the needs of Old Simia were met.”
Ruairí wanted to cry out loud, to violently display his disdain for the things that lad’s mere existence drove him to do.
I tried to kill him, muttered a voice from deep within. Ruairí quickly began to pray, to drown that voice out, but it spoke truths far greater than those within the verses and passages of his faith. I laced his glass with poison, so see if what the Earthmaster claimed was true.
Ruairí closed his eyes tightly. Earthmaster Seán had been a Son, devout as any, but kept his faith a close secret. For someone so brash and so loud, the Earthmaster kept many secrets. But when he came to Ruairí with knowledge that Fionn might be an heir of King Diarmuid, based on some very faint whispers in the Academy of Dromán, Ruairí had to act. For the lad’s life represented something both incredibly important to the Church, and something incredibly profane to his own faith. If he really was immortal, then the entire gospel of the Sons was in question.
So Ruairí had to find out. An act he took no pride in. An act that left only two options: to kill an innocent young man, or to prove his entire faith a falsehood.
And since Fionn had not died to the lethal dose, the latter and worse of the two outcomes was realised.
Ruairí realised that Argyll was studying him severely now. Indeed, all attempts Ruairí had previously made to mask his true intentions were attempted no more, for those feelings were too strong to be restrained in the Simian’s game of subterfuge. His motives too plain to hide.
“This may come to a surprise you,” continued Argyll. “But you must not let any challenge to your faith shake your allegiance to your cause. The population of Penance could very well rely on us these coming days.”
Ruairí nodded, remaining silent.
“Furthermore, you would do well not to forget what our cause has done for the Sons so far. The riot at the Basilica, the information we spread in its wake. With our goal shifted now, is your allegiance still firmly with us?”
“Of course,” said Ruairí.
“And what of this voyage? Do you still wish to leave this land, promised by your god?”
“Yes,” said Ruairí, perhaps a little too quickly.
This wasn’t the full picture, however. That much he would show Argyll later.
“And do your followers wish to leave too?”
Ruairí closed his eyes. A shudder ran through his body.
Lord Seletoth, I seek forgiveness. For I shall find your Truths and read them. Lord Seletoth, I seek courage. For I shall find Arch-Canon Cathbhadh and slay him. This I promise. In your most Blessed and Holy name, I—
“End your prayer and answer me!” barked Argyll. Ruairí jumped with fright.
“Yes,” he said. “We follow your orders to the letter.”
“Then take me home.” Argyll, gestured to his chair. “We have much to do tomorrow.”
Ruairí stood and prepared Argyll’s chair for the return journey.
Seletoth hear me. Soon we shall destroy the Church and the false gods they hold. And if your grace is good, and your love for us is true, we shall succeed.