Darlins! It's been a wild week and I've got a house guest (my wonderful fic wife is with us right now, and we are plotting up a storm), so I'm afraid there's no Chelen City today. I need more time to read and figure out how to pull off what comes next. BUT! I've got the beginning of another story for you, one I don't think I've shared yet. This is the start of a story I'm 40k into, no clue when I'll be done, and it's D&D-inspired, but it's better than nothing at all, right?
Right?
;)
***
Chapter 1
Pavel Songstring still wasn’t quite
sure how he’d found himself in the Twittering Toad that night, a tavern on the
northern edge of Kalios City, tuning his lyre as he prepared to play for a crowd
that looked more interested in drinking themselves unconscious than they did in
fine music. He’d meant to stop nearly an hour earlier, in the heart of the
city, but it seemed like every tavern already had its own minstrel, and Pavel—being
short of funds—knew he would have to play for his supper and a bed that evening.
After the fifth refusal, the kindly innkeeper
had taken a good look at Pavel’s undoubtedly down-trodden face and suggested
the Twittering Toad. “They don’t serve the most refined folk,” he’d warned, one
hand scratching through his beard as though searching for nits—and Gods of the
Divine, if this man thought the Toad’s people weren’t refined, they must
be one step above grubbing through the dirt for their dinner. “But even the
fisherfolk need a good tune every now and then, and there’s sure to be no
competition.”
“Thank you,” Pavel had said as
politely as he could manage. “And, ah…where is it, again?”
The innkeeper had laughed. “Just keep
going north, lad. You’ll see it.”
For all that Pavel had wondered if
the old man had been a little too deep into his cups, he’d been right. The
Twittering Toad was a big, well-lit building on the main road north, so close
to Lake Mormo that the back half of it was held up on piles driven deep into
the muddy waters. It even had a dock attached, presumably so enterprising
fisherfolk could dock here after a long day of catching flifflenippers and
slumplegarblers and drink themselves into a stupor over the monotonous horror
that was their lives.
The worst thing about the place,
however, was that Pavel wasn’t even the first minstrel to arrive there! Another
poor soul had been driven to similar depths of despair, and had been tuning an
honest-to-Laetona lute in front of the fire when Pavel arrived, not a simple
lyre such as he himself carried. Pavel had nearly burst with jealousy and
longing the moment he saw it before despair took center stage instead.
He was screwed. He was worse than
screwed, he was fucked. He couldn’t compete with a lutist! He’d gotten
here second! He wasn’t going to—
“Ah, a man after my own heart.” The
other minstrel had walked over and clapped him on the shoulder. “It takes fancy
fingers to work a lyre like that with any skill.”
“I—ah—”
“Let me stand you a drink!”
One drink over introductions—“Keris
of Gharaka, just across the lake from here”—“Oh, Pavel Songstring of the
Paladine Songstrings, very pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure”—turned
into a second one, along with dinner, all paid for by the other, very
personable man as he asked Pavel about his travels and where he’d learned his
trade.
“The House of Glory in Paladine?”
Keris whistled, impressed, and Pavel couldn’t help but preen a bit. It didn’t
hurt that Keris was a rather handsome man, in a slightly roguish way, with
short-cut brown hair except for a shock that tumbled artfully down the side of
his face and just enough scruff to accentuate the angle of his jaw and his enticing
lips. He was taller than many men, but lean instead of brawny, and his fingers
were calloused in all the places you’d expect for a string player, and some that
one wouldn’t expect. He must really know how to use the sword strapped
to his back, one with a simple steel handle and crossbrace. There was some sort
of symbol on the pommel, but Pavel couldn’t make it out. “The House of Glory is
reputed to be the best school in the entire Saumenian Empire!”
“More likely on the entire
continent,” Pavel said smugly. “After all, the empire is head and shoulders
above every other kingdom in terms of refinement and learning.”
“Fascinating,” Keris said before
taking a long, deep drink. “And what is a minstrel of such impressive lineage
doing in Kalios City?”
“Ah…” Pavel put down his mug. “Well.
I, ah…you know, I compose as well as play others’ works, I was in fact training
to be a true bard, and I happened to get an idea for a song one day—a very
catchy tune, too, very easy on the ears—and I worked it up into a decent song
and decided to give it a trial. It was very good! Even the Peryllian knights
were humming it as they hauled me away to jail.”
Keris’s eyebrows rose. “Jail? Whyever
for?”
“Um…ah…the song might have
been a slightly satirical one,” Pavel confessed. “About the inaction of Divine Peryllos
and how his corresponding Infernal, Reamon, was so appropriately known as the
Demon of Sloth.”
To Pavel’s surprise, the other man
began to laugh. He laughed so hard, in fact, that he almost fell off his stool.
Pavel reached out to steady him, but somehow he missed. It didn’t matter—the
man righted himself, then buried his head in his hands, still laughing.
“Oh, you’ve set ‘im off now,” the
bartender, a heavy-hipped woman with graying hair and rather impressive biceps,
said with a good-natured sigh. “Played into his favorite joke, you have.”
“What joke is that?”
“Anything impious. Makes this foolish
creature laugh like he’s been rolled through a field of sillyweed.” She looked
indulgent rather than intolerant, though. “Oof, he’ll be useless tonight.”
“No no,” Keris said, lifting his head
briefly. “No, I—it’s so perfect though!” He dissolved into giggles again, and
Pavel had to laugh with him.
“Isn’t it?” he agreed. “And the
Peryllians are so, so formal about everything, and they—honestly, next to the paladins
of Laetona, they’re the most inflexible Divine servants I’ve ever seen.”
Keris’s laughter dried up quickly.
“Mmm. Yes, but I don’t think anyone out there is quite as inflexible as a paladin
of Laetona. Bunch of uptight bastards,” he muttered before drinking again.
Pavel looked around nervously. “You
can’t just say things like that!” he whispered. “People revere Laetona
and her paladins! You could get us both thrown in jail!”
“Not this far north,” Keris retorted.
“People worship differently up here. But ah, you’re not wrong.” He shook his
head. “I should be kinder to them. After all, I owe my life to such a paladin.”
“You do?” Pavel was about to ask for
the tale when the doors opened, and a fresh flow of fish-smelling patrons
streamed in. Ah well, then. The fun was over. “I suppose I’d better try to find
another tavern for the night,” he said regretfully.
Keris looked confused. “What for?”
“Well, you’re working this one, and…”
“Oh, no. No, you’ve greater need than
me, and I’ve been playing here for several nights in a row. These people are
tired of all my songs. No.” He shook his head. “You take the stage for the
evening, Pavel Songstring, and tell us a story to turn heads and touch hearts.”
“Oh.” Pavel was surprised. “Do they
like ballads here, then?” That was promising…
“They can be surprisingly tolerant of
them! Only after a few folk songs, though.” Keris winked, and Pavel hoped he
wasn’t blushing too brightly. “The filthier, the better.”
“How quaint.” Well, his “Rural Tunes
and Folk Songs of the Lesser Lands” class would be getting a workout here.
“Very well.”
It was a little unnerving to be the
center of Keris’s attention while Pavel readied himself to play. Or
rather…Keris could see that he actually wasn’t the center of the man’s
attention. He smiled at patrons, charmed servers, cajoled the bartender into
giving him a third drink…he was busy with far more than Pavel. But every time
he looked this way, Pavel seemed to feel the weight of each glance like a
chord, vibrating through him and investigating his every nook and cranny.
Perhaps Keris would be open to
sharing a room tonight…
“Ahem.” One of the fisherman coughed
loudly into his fist as he stared at Pavel. “Anytime, bard.”
“Minstrel,” he corrected
unconsciously.
“Minnow, more like,” one of the other
men muttered, causing his tablemates to laugh.
Pavel flushed. He was petite,
not a minnow, or tiny, or titchy, or any of the long list of rude things people
had called him over the years. Fine. They wanted music? Something ribald? They
would get the most ribald song in his entire arsenal.
“A Soldier’s Prayer,” he announced
before diving into it.
I don't want the good lord’s shilling,
I don't want to be shot down;
I'm really much more willing
To make myself a killing,
Living off the hearty pickings of the Ladies of the Town;
Don't want an arrow up my bumhole,
Don't want my cobblers minced with steel;
For if I have to lose 'em
Then let it be with Susan
Or Meg or Peg or any whore who’ll welcome a man’s eel,
Gorblimey!
It wasn’t precisely true to the original song, but Pavel was
modifying it with his audience in mind, and sure enough they began to stomp
their feet and sing in time almost immediately. The next few verses went well,
and by the end of it—at which point the titular soldier had, in fact, died of a
disease he’d caught from one of the very whores he lauded—most of the crowd was
laughing, and the applause was quite…well, after a long, cold, and generally
underwhelming journey, it was rather heartening.
Pavel went on to play another three
light-hearted songs, none quite as dirty as the first, before taking a break
and drinking some of the ale a patron had bought for him. Keris rejoined him
then, grinning broadly and clapping him on the back.
“Nice work! I knew a lad like you
could play a crowd like this.”
“Not a lad,” Pavel objected. “I’m
twenty-two!”
“Yes, very grown,” Keris said. Pavel
pouted.
“I am. I’ve been traveling the
lands for nearly six months now!”
“A third of a year? Not bad.”
“And I’ve seen many marvelous and
inspiring things.”
“Important fodder for someone with
the soul of a bard,” Keris agreed.
“I’ve even seen miracles,” Pavel went
on. “Mostly Laetonian ones, but just the other day I witnessed a terrible
accident in the street only one town over from here. A cart ran over a young
girl, absolutely smashed her leg. She was bleeding terribly, and her father
took her in his arms and raced to a temple. I thought it would be to Laetona, but…it
was to Undique instead.”
“The Gray God. Interesting.”
“Very!” Pavel agreed. “There’s no
worship of the Gray God in the Saumenian Empire, of course—the very concept of
him is quite heretical down there. But the farther north I go, the more shrines
I see. And when the man laid his daughter down in front of the god on the
temple steps and prayed, a silvery light flowed over her. A few seconds later,
the child was whole!”
“And the father?” Keris asked insightfully.
“He had a few more gray hairs,” Pavel
admitted. “I don’t know how much he sacrificed to the god in order to bring her
back, but his offering was clearly accepted.”
Keris nodded. “Then it was a good
deal.”
“But…”
“But?” Keris prompted.
“But why not go to Laetona?”
Pavel asked. “Or Peryllan, or Garamesh, or one of the other gods with healing
abilities? They wouldn’t ask for anything in exchange.”
“Oh, but they do.” Keris’s eyes were
bright. “They ask for something far more precious than a year or two of life.
They’ll only heal you for a piece of your soul, or the future of your child, or
the loyalty of your family for ten generations.”
“But…but it’s that sort of
transaction that guards against soul-incursions from the Infernals,” Pavel
said. “It’s accepted by all of society!”
“Is it?” Keris asked. “Do you accept
it when you learn that a household has been burned alive for failing to live up
to their promise to Garamesh? Is it just when a woman is stoned by the
followers of Mordacha because she slept outside of her marriage bed after her
husband prayed for her faithfulness? Is it right to bind people so ferociously
that the only path they have forward is obedience or death?”
“Uh…the…the paladins of Laetona
aren’t so strict,” Pavel said, knowing his own argument was weak but pursuing
it anyway. He knew he wasn’t wrong—it was far better to be beholden to one of
the Divine than to give in to the exhortations of the Infernal—but Keris also
had…a point.
“Aren’t they, though?”
“No! No one is punished for not
adhering to the strictures of Laetona. She is a goddess of pure forgiveness and
compassion!”
Keris shook his head. “There can be
no compassion when there is no repentance. If people don’t follow the
strictures of a bargain with Laetona, yes, most of the time they’ll get away
with it, although she won’t answer their prayers from then on. But her paladins
are the ones who deliver the miracles of that particular church, and it is the
paladins who accept the punishment for a bad bargain on the recipient’s behalf.”
“Oh.” Come to think of it, Pavel had
learned something about that in his studies. It was never really talked about,
but…the paladins of Laetona were some of the most powerful, most beneficent,
and most physically intimidating people across the whole of the continent. They
were beacons of light, guardians of generosity and kindness, slayers of
monsters and keepers of the unloved—
And not one of them was unscarred
that Pavel had ever seen.
“Oh,” he said again, quieter. “I
didn’t realize that.”
“The paladins of Laetona prefer it
when people don’t,” Keris said before taking a long drink. “They would rather
make martyrs of themselves than let on that their goddess is just as much of a
bargain hunter as the rest of them.”
“You’re going to get us strung up,”
Pavel said woefully. Keris just laughed. He looked like he was about to speak
again, but then the door opened, and—
For a moment, it was like looking at
pure light. Not sunlight, not the light of Laetona, brilliant and
all-consuming, but something that shifted into shadow and back again,
silvery-smooth and enticing. The radiance dimmed and resolved into a man.
Pavel, unusually for him, was absolutely struck dumb.
The man at the door was clad in
partial plate armor, with a polished steel breastplate, pauldrons, gauntlets,
and greaves. Beneath it was a layer of mail that rustled as he moved. His light
grey cloak, wet with rain, was drawn up over his face, obscuring the view, but the
polearm he carried was more than enough to distract Pavel from that
disappointment. It was like nothing he’d ever seen before, as tall as the
knight—for this must be a knight of some kind—was, but instead of ending in a
spear or axe, it had a semicircular blade on one side, smooth and likely
terrible sharp, while the other side was studded with three blades of different
lengths, the bottom one thick and short, the topmost one long and slender.
Then he pushed back his hood, and
Pavel forgot all about the man’s weapon. His face was…he was…he had to be some
sort of servant of the Divine, because no man could be blessed with a face like
this otherwise. His skin was dark brown, sun-touched despite their northern
latitude—perhaps he was originally from the Gard? His hair was twisted into
long locs, all of them bound together into a single tail behind his head. Despite
the youthfulness of his face, his locs were solidly grey—how old was this man?
Not that it seemed to matter to his visage—he had bright amber eyes that glowed
in the torchlight, delicate lips, and a profile that any king or lord would die
for. He was tall—or rather, he gave the appearance of great size, especially
through his very broad shoulders, but a second look informed Pavel that the man
was, in fact, probably not any taller than most of the men in this room.
How curious. “What god does he
follow?” Pavel asked breathlessly as the knight responded to greetings from
several of the fishermen with a dignified nod.
“Him? Oh, he’s a heretic.”
“What?” Pavel couldn’t believe
Keris has just outright said it. “That’s not—no heretic could live and look
like he does!”
“And yet.” Keris shrugged. “He is a
heretic. He doesn’t talk about who he used to follow, and nobody here’s quite
gotten up the courage to ask him about it, but there’s no doubt.”
“But…” Pavel looked closer at the
newcomer and saw that he couldn’t make out any distinguishing marks on his
armor whatsoever. There was nothing there, nothing that would name him any
particular god’s follower. Even his color scheme was bland—grey cloak, steel
armor with no flourishes or edging, nothing on the weapon... He was a total
mystery. “I don’t understand,” he confessed.
“Nor do I,” Keris agreed. “You’d
think his god would run him down and drag him home or, I don’t know, strike him
with lightning or something. But no. Apparently he’s been traveling these parts
for years, and somehow he remains un-struck.”
“Stop with your wildness now,” the
bartender said with a sigh as she tapped another keg. “Honestly, I don’t know
why you’re so impossible.”
Keris grinned. “You should ask my
parents, Madam, I’m sure they’d agree that I was unfortunately born this way.”
“Enough of your mischief!” She
flicked her rag at him, then set down a goblet of wine—wine! Real wine, made
from grapes and everything, and was that the faint scent of peaches Pavel
detected? She set it on the bar just as the knight came up, indicating it with
a smile. “For you, Sir.”
Was that a capital letter Pavel
detected?
“My thanks, Armena,” the knight said,
taking it with a smile. Pavel had to fight not to faint at the sound of the
man’s voice. He was…how dare he sound better than anyone who wasn’t a
bard—fine, a minstrel—had any right to? Before he could muster any more umbrage,
the knight turned to him. “Welcome to the Toad, young master.”
“Oh. Oh, I—thank you.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Keris said.
“Greeting you as though he owns the place—which he doesn’t, mind. The audacity
of it.”
“I see you’ve been putting up with
our resident pest this evening,” the knight continued. Pavel giggled, then
slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Hey! Don’t suborn my new friend! Go
find your own!” Keris said, laying a hand on Pavel and drawing him back
possessively.
“I—no, I’m, ah, I’m sure I can be
both your friends?” Pavel squeaked. The knight looked at him with concern.
“Are you ill?” he asked. “You sound
like you’re coming down with something.”
Pavel just stared for a moment as
Keris began to laugh again. “I’m not coming down with something!” he exclaimed.
“I’m just—I was startled, that’s all! I’m perfectly fine.”
“Yes, listen to him now,” Keris said,
“he’s perfectly fine.” There was an oddness to the way he said it, almost
mocking, but the knight didn’t seem offended.
“Then instead, let me ask if you’re
going to be playing anything else tonight,” the knight said before taking his
first sip of the wine. It wasn’t a long sip, but Pavel watched the action of
his throat with the avidity of the most sports-crazed fan catching a glimpse of
his favorite fieldball player.
“Oh, I…I’m planning on playing some
more, yes, but I haven’t decided what yet.”
The knight’s eyes lit up. “Are you
taking requests?”
“This isn’t Paladine,” Keris moaned,
drawing out the first “a” rather unnecessarily. “You can’t just ask for
anything from some random traveling minstrel this far north and expect them to
know it. He’s not quite a bard yet, after all.”
“Neither are you,” Pavel snapped,
annoyed that his new friend was picking on him in front of someone who he
wanted to think well of him.
“True! Very true, and happy to be so!
If I were a bard, I would also have to carry around a stick up my ass as long
as a—”
“I was wondering if you know any
songs about Undique,” the knight said.
“Oh.” Well, that was an interesting
request, although in retrospect Pavel should have seen it coming. This was the
Grey God’s territory, after all. The first new god in millennia, since the
Devastation itself, and like any newcomer to a mature garden, he was having to
fit in around the edges at first. No one in Paladine worshipped Undique, as
least as far as Pavel knew, but he had learned quite an amazing ballad back in
Darsha three months ago… “Actually, yes, I do have a song about Undique in my
repertoire.”
“Ooh, he has a repertoire
now,” Keris complained, but there was no malice in it. “A proper repertoire,
eh?”
“Only proper minstrels have them,”
Pavel said primly. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Now it was the knight’s turn to laugh
as Keris spluttered with false outrage. “Listen to this man,” he said, throwing
his hands in the air. “I take him in out of the cold, I water him, I feed him,
I give him my audience for the night, and this is how he treats me!”
“I’m very grateful for all of that,”
Pavel said, not wanting Keris to entertain the thought that he might not
be grateful. “Truly.”
The other man nudged his shoulder.
“Yeah, I know. I’m just teasing you.”
“Rude.”
“Inevitably,” Keris agreed. “So,
what’s this song of Undique you know?”
“It’s actually his modern origin
story!” Pavel enthused, going over the opening verses in his mind. Yes…yes, he
remembered enough of this to do it justice. “It begins by describing his priest’s
journey, since apparently more is known about him, but it morphs into a true
epic soon enough. It’s wonderful, I’d love to play it for you.” It wouldn’t
quite sound right on a lyre—Pavel had learned this one from a bard with a very
attractive lute—but he would do his best. “Do you…will I annoy the rest of the
patrons with it, though?” He leaned in a bit closer. “It doesn’t seem like
their sort of song.”
“I think they’ll put up with it if it
means listening to you sing for them,” the knight said, and Pavel felt like his
heart might just explode in his chest.
“Less charm, if you please,” Keris
said dryly, “or the lad will die before he gets to the song itself.” He pressed
another drink—this time water—into Pavel’s hands, then led him back up onto the
small stage. “Take your time with it,” he advised. “No one here will know if
you’re singing it right or not. I know how difficult it can be to play new
pieces, but I’ve got faith you’ll do it justice.”
“Thank you,” Pavel said, truly
touched by his fellow minstrel’s confidence in him. “I appreciate the support.”
“Good. Now!” Keris took a seat right
in front, crossed his legs at the ankles and his arms over his chest, looked up
at Pavel, and grinned. “Give us a song, minstrel!”
Pavel inclined his head regally and
strummed a few chords as the sounds began to die down. “As you wish, honored
sir,” he said. For a moment, his eyes caught the amber ones of the knight, who
was looking on with interest. “Tonight, I give you…The Lay of Sevriel! A tale
of adventure, boldness, intrigue, vengeance, murder, and most especially…” He
plucked a little trill. “Of love.
“Our song begins in the Marshes of
Tehar, where a young paladin of Laetona finds himself in a difficult position…”
