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…”
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