Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and New Year. So wraps up the last of 2013 and I can’t think of any better way to see out the year than with the final chapter of the Kinslayer Chronicle. Yes, you heard me right, this is the last one. I hope and wish everyone had a celebratory winter break and got all they wanted and more with their loved ones.

Waning Winter by Walter Launt Palmer (1906)

Chapter 14 – The Finale

“And that’s what I learned,” Lafnis said.

She came to a stop at the edge of the Naupstern woods. The trees still crawled down the craggy hills but sporadically now. Few farmsteads tried to dig ferns from the blasted rock and the cold Janogradt winds pulled at their clothes. The Chronicler shivered beneath his cowl.

“Sounds like a thrilling tale,” he finally said.

“Well, you know how the bards are,” Lafnis shrugged. “I’m sure they have much better flourish. I’m no storyteller.”

“Nor bar maid.”

She didn’t retort. Her face looked tired and her eyes distant. She turned to the land and stared at the distant horizon.

“I suppose you are right, scribe.”

“So, what are you then?”

“What are any of us? A wanderer and a traveller. Perhaps, even, a little lost and looking for my own way. I’m no hero or villain. Just a simple woman.”

And in that moment she unclasped her cloak and handed it to him. The Chronicler looked at it with wide eyes and shook his head.

“I couldn’t!”

“Please,” she said, “it will be cold and there’s no use in you getting ill. I have another back at the inn.”

And she pressed it forcibly into his hands.

It was still warm to the touch. With reluctance, the Chronicler wrapped it about his shoulders. The fabric was heavy on his weary body but he couldn’t deny that it held the insufferable weather of that kingdom at bay. He couldn’t help but feel a little more comfortable and a little more safe.

“Thank you.”

“It’s really I who should thank you,” she said.

And he looked at her quizzically.

“You’ve made it clear that it’s time I moved on myself. My business in Talarheim is concluded.”

“What will you do now?”

“I don’t rightly know. What of you?”

“I shall head back to my quarters. My brothers will probably enjoy the story I bring to them. Most thought it foolish to seek the Kinslayer. Many don’t even believe him to be alive. I suppose this will lend credence to those accusations. It pains me to return home empty handed but maybe I can discover a new lead from my chapter’s monastery.”

“Ah, to return home.”

Once again, she looked wistfully over the horizon.

“Will you never return to yours?”

“I have few fond memories of it,” she sighed. “I do not think there is a place for me there.”

“And what fondness do you hold for it?”

“Well,” she thought for a moment. “I want to remember it like I did when I was a child. A small, quiet retreat in a waving sea of heather.”

She gave the Chronicler a smile and gentle bow of her head.

“Meili watch you,” she prayed and began into the trees.

The Chronicler stood, shifting his satchel and mentally preparing for the distance before him. As he his eyes scanned the scrubby, moss swollen earth, the last of her words lingered in the tickling recesses of his mind. A sea of heather couldn’t be found in these blasted lands. His initial impression of her origins must be accurate.

She had to be from the south. And the strange cadence in her voice almost sounded Memnon. Which would explain its confused cadences for they were a people that stretched over many lands. And then he began to think upon the weapon he had seen her with the night they met. And he began to consider her words a little more closely.

And Scarlet Heather did start to strike him as an odd name for a man.

Revelations sometimes dawn later than they should. He turned, his lantern swinging wildly on the staff as he ran quickly down the worn Crossroads. He was panting and sweating after a short while and had to stop, the weight and warmth of the cloak preventing him from making much progress. But he looked about for the young woman. There was no way she had outpaced him this much moving at a leisurely stroll.

As he stood hunched on the road, he couldn’t help but feel the neighbouring farmstead looked awfully familiar. Though there was little to distinguish the homes in Talarheim, this one looked remarkably like the same home he had run into Lafnis only two days prior. It was then wondered what had brought her out that dark evening. He recalled that wicked weapon and how she held it at the ready when she first accosted him.

And the air almost smelled sickly sweet as it rushed from beneath the trunks of the Naupstern Forest.

Taking one careful step after another, he moved from the road and towards the tree line. His fingers tightened about the length of his staff. His muscles tensed with worry. He could almost feel invisible eyes watching him from the deepening shadows and his heart held its peace as he took shallow breaths. Only the faintest footprints remained in the soft moss. It took much effort to follow them as they wove away from the tumbled road and away from any witness. The hill began to rise as the smell of decay grew more potent.

And then he caught sight of the tumbled stones. The ghostly visage of some faded hero stared up from the severed head that lay in the clutching weeds. The ancient monuments of a people long past barely struggled for air beneath the soft green carpet of the woods. Like great humps were those ancient stones, lying on their sides with furry green ferns and mosses hiding their skin. The remnants of an older stone circle than the one in Talarheim took vague shape. Even the trees seemed to respect the small hilltop, creating a short break in the woods. He paused on the outer limits, turning to see the stretching plains visible above the sharpened tops of the trees below.

Steeling his nerves, he braved rounding the single remaining stone standing in the centre.

He gasped.

Strapped to its front were charred remains. The cold remains of a long dead fire lay disintegrating beneath the charred feet. Neatly folded and laying upon a small mound to the side were the wet and prickled clothes. Leaves from the storm stuck from the cloth in every angle. Reaching carefully, the Chronicler sifted through the folds. The pockets had been emptied but tucked in the recesses of the shirt was a solitary piece of paper. He unfolded it and held it to the sun.

He was not expecting to see the face of Kodie sketched upon it. A list of crimes were scribbled in the margins but none of them were attributed to the Scarlet Heather. Most appeared to be rather harmless, with chief amongst them being the abandonment of time owed to a slaving merchant. There were other references to the releasing of unsold slaves and theft of property.

And he recalled her words.

“Even the greatest hero is just a man – nothing more and nothing less.”

The Chronicler began to believe one rumour about Scarlet Heather.

So Derek has been on holidays for almost a week now and there’s no sight or sound of a post from him. But fear not, dear reader, I still appreciate you. I wouldn’t leave you in the cold and alone. Even with blessed Christmas but two days away I will still give you your weekly dose of Kinslayer Chronicle. Because I am the one that cares. I care.

And I am here now.

Pirates Fighting at Sunrise by Horace Vernet (1818)

Chapter 13 – The Story of the Fallen King

Larkin was an admiral, if reputation is to be believed. Commanded a sizable fleet off the shores of the breaking coast for King Alderman. That was, of course, until the kingdom’s downfall during the Memnon conquests. Legend has it that the good admiral was waging a battle with most the fleet against a neighbouring crown and when he arrived bloodied but victorious he found a throne usurped and a leader beheaded. His men and his ships were captured upon docking and were led to the keep’s dungeons. It is said they were held for five years before they received their release and they emerged into a land they didn’t recognize.

Larkin had no crew, no ship and no liege. Worse, the strange ways and customs of the Memnon invaders had replaced all that was familiar. The five years behind the dark bars had locked him from much change. Foreign tongues wagged upon the piers and merchants dealt in unfamiliar coin. All he had was confiscated during his incarceration and he was left coin-less and destitute upon the streets.

But a sailor, even conquered, is a valuable commodity. Especially to those naval nations. And the Memnon were a widespread empire looking to expand the scope of their trade even further along the coasts. Despite his tongues languidness in their speech, he still proved a capable worker. He secured a position on a trade vessel and while it was no longer at the helm, he was upon the seas. It was a slow career though and the Memnon captains could be harsh masters especially to the conquered people.

There are many stories of mutinies. So common are they you would think that all Memnon vessels were lost to foreign hands. But by most accounts, the captain was a fair man. Harsh in punishment but generous in reward, he ran his ship with just as much skill as one would expect. Truthfully, the stories of mutinies are often less about gross abuse and neglect as they are a series of unfortunate choices and circumstances. By the bard’s recount, the Memnon ship had made port in a distant land. What their purpose there was likely an exchange of goods since nothing else but war would attract them. However, whatever the original agreement was it was not fulfilled. For whatever reason, the Memnon ended up with a cargo of slaves to be sold on the distant markets.

The captain was furious and not just because of the change in agreement. One did not take a Memnon contract lightly. But the captain accepted, though they were ill supplied for the journey. Their food stores were low and now they were tested further with the addition of a cargo that required sustenance. The captain judged they had enough to make it to their port of call.

He was wrong.

Three days into the voyage a terrible storm knocked them off course. By the time they had recovered, they had lost nearly five days into the trip. Storms are bad on their own. Sailors see them as ill omens and the danger of capsizing is ever present in their mind. So dangerous is the profession, that any sign of ill pleasure from the gods can raise tensions on the cramped quarters to fevered levels. That is when the skill of the captain is put most into question.

But this wasn’t just a storm that plagued the ship. They were in unfamiliar waters. Isolated and worried, it was a question of making landfall to see if they could scavenge or press on in the hopes they could ration and make port. It’s impossible to know which is the right decision for you will never know the potential problems of the other choice.

What did happen, was they began to grow hungry. A Memnon is a dangerous bedfellow in these trying voyages. The captain ordered the slaves receive nourishment even as his crew were rationed less and less. Perhaps he had feared a mutiny from the cargo and overestimated the loyalty of his crew. Perhaps he wanted to insure the slaves would bring good coin if kept healthy. It matters not. All it did was breed resentment amongst his men. Talk began that he favoured his own profits over the lives of his crew. And when left on the seas with nowhere to go, you don’t want those ideas taking root.

It’s difficult to say who is to blame. Perhaps the captain could have made better choices. Maybe there was true betrayal in the ranks and a rival was seizing upon an opportunity to advance beyond his station. Or maybe the honeyed words of the captives finally won over a hungry and thirsty keeper. Sometimes all it takes is just the worm of the idea to escape one lip and then all the rest think some plan is in motion. In such cramped quarters, you didn’t want to be caught on the wrong side.

While the legend says that Captain Larkin led the mutiny, your precious truth is likely lost to the waves. What is known is that the ship never made dock. The captain was never heard from again. And there was a new ship on the seas with a motley crew of ex-slaves and conquerors roaming the waves.

The life of a pirate is perhaps less exciting than imagined. For the most part, the ship was more like a merchant vessel. Only that their cargo was contraband and other items of ill-repute that more honest dealers would never risk carrying. Even though many of the crew were once slaves themselves didn’t prevent them from carrying others to be sold into servitude elsewhere. Honour is rare amongst those that needn’t be beholden to governing laws. And there’s much of oneself that will be sacrificed to insure food on the plate and a warm bed in the eve.

But you wish not to hear of Dread Pirate Larkin.

The important note is that Captain Larkin wasn’t unwed. While he had served his king, he had married a young thing. During the conquest, she had been led to believe he had died and was left to tend to his children. Thus was her surprise when he returned one day, a lavish ship moored in the cove and bearing gifts for his sweetheart. Perhaps you expect her to have sought the love of another in his absence, but she had held true for her husband. Though that didn’t ease the shock of his arrival.

He lavished her with the attention he felt was overdue. But he never disclosed his new position. He maintained that his business was of legal barter. Whether she knew or suspected otherwise was unimportant. She lived the lie, enjoying what time they shared while his ship lay anchored in the waters and when he had to leave she would wait patiently for his return once more.

The years passed and his children began to grow. They were raised to believe their father an honest merchant. Their curiosity for the sea was always stifled when he was on shore. They would watch his ship come in but only he ever left its deck. They begged and pleaded to be with him, to join him on his vessel, but such a request could never be granted.

And it was inevitable that they learned the truth some day.

It was the Memnon guards themselves that arrived at the small inn who revealed his terrible secret. How they learned of Captain Larkin’s quiet little secret is impossible to say. There are those that suggest it was the same old treachery of a close confidante hoping to usurp his ship and his business. Perhaps he had grown too bold and was infiltrated or followed by one of the trained Memnon men. All that is known is that they arrived at the small family inn and Captain Larkin’s wife was held helpless as she entreated the men who waited patiently the pirate’s return.

His ship docked and he came alone, as he always does. She couldn’t warm him. Her children were being held as ransom. Thus, he entered and was greeted by a smiling wife. Even if the smile never reached her eyes. Before the startling truth could be revealed, he was surrounded. As with any pirate captain of note, he knew there was only one end for him if he were captured. Piracy, especially of the Memnon, was high treason. There would be a trial but he would be hanged. Likely in a metal cage over the harbour so his body could be picked at by the birds as he starved. It was the favoured warning of the Memnons to others foolish enough to entertain the thoughts of crime against the empire.

He fought as most are apt to do. A less experienced guard ran him too far through and the Captain would have his desired death free of humiliation. His children watched the struggle and death of their father just as they learned the reason for his death.

The Memnon’s then seized upon the ship, sailing their own into the bay. It is said that the cannons rang well into the night; the fire lit the black sky as they laid battle. It is impossible to say how many died or even how many managed to escape. But the ship was captured and those still drawing breath were hauled away for their executions.

Of course, that left the troubling case of the children. The mother pleaded ignorance but the Memnon are thorough. She was taken in place of the husband to stand for his crimes. The children were turned over to the empire, too young to be persecuted by their own laws. They were able to bear witness to their parent’s case, however, though they were spared watching her punishment.

As to be expected, there are but two outcomes for such a history. One, a child grows to resent and loathe the parent’s destiny. Feelings of ill will and revenge harbour in the heart even as a mouth is fed and mind taught at the murderer’s table. The other is to accept what has occurred, to come to peace with what happened and to move on.

And you could see the difference in approach between Captain Larkin’s children. Poul, the eldest, immersed himself in the trappings of his conqueror. Along with their fleets came their way of life and that included the training and education of the city’s orphans. These children of the empire were raised to be magistrates and officials in the court of their oppressors. Poul was the ever vigilant, ever obedient agent for his Shaiki. He did much in his service, rooting out resistance and threats to the empire while adjudicating trials and disputes between the Memnon and their conquered people. He had a reputation for ruthlessness and disregard for common empathy. While the Memnon argued that leaving the choice of their disputes in the hands of one of their own made the decision more even-handed, so often only those most devoted to the empire’s cause would be granted their positions.

And Poul long favoured his master’s side. Those seeking grievances dreaded being brought before him, knowing that their fate was sealed by the mere colour of their skin. ‘A matched set is an ill pair,’ came the saying. But this devotion won him more and more favour with those that occupied the throne.

The power of an empire as large as the Memnon, however, could not last. Their unrepentant warmongering garnered few allies. And striking deeper and deeper into cultures so unlike their own alienated the surrounding nations. These crowns feared their very way of life was at stake beneath these hostile fleet of armed merchants. They refused co-operation. Many struck deals with age old enemies to unite against this common threat. Skirmishes broke along the great length of the Memnon borders and their soldiers and coffers were stretched thin trying to maintain their expansive reach.

Their most recent conquests were the first to fall. You would expect Poul, with his reputation, would have been executed along with the Memnon invaders. But that would be underestimating the man’s insidiousness. All those years of obedient servitude was to gain the trust of his masters. When the gates were being stormed, he was there in the inner chambers running his dagger through the throats of the men he’d shared dinner with the night before.

The liberators awarded his actions by maintaining his magistrate position in the wake of the city’s freedom. But this just replaced a foreign interest with a local tyrant. For while he loathed the Memnon as much as the rest of his people, he hated his subjects just as much. He saw the conquered as weak willed and supplicating, willing to turn over for a strong ruler no matter how abusive he was. He proved his position by ruling even worse than the Memnon. For, it seemed, the Memnon expectation for him to conform to their ideals kept him in check. Now, there was nothing preventing him from carrying out the cruelest, harshest sentences for even the lightest crimes now.

It seems that there are more ways to commit piracy than sailing the high seas. And the children of Dread Pirate Larkin had piracy in their blood.

But now there were none to defend the populace. Where once there were constraints and restrictions, Magistrate Poul was unhindered and unbound. All his detractors were quietly eliminated during the siege and reformation afterwards. He filled his administration with sycophants and fearful servants. The guard bowed to his will and the liberators excused themselves from the city. They were not interested in the day to day interactions and so long as taxes continued to fill their coffers and the Memnon were deposed, talk of a tyrannical magistrate was just not a priority. All hope seemed lost.

Until the returned of the prodigal Scarlet Heather. For all this time, the other Larkin child had been missing. The bards sing of the deeds now, but to the people Scarlet Heather was perhaps just a fleeting memory. Some remembered that there were two children and not just the indomitable man sitting in the keep. Which worked to the Scarlet Heather’s favour. For, you see, Poul’s spies were none the wiser. They kept not watch for kin but dissenters and debtors.

And a terrible truth carried the Scarlet Heather. This was before the epitaph Kinslayer. This was before all the stories. While a name was made by action, few would put much stock in far off deeds. What would be one more unknown adventurer in a town that had seen conquerors and Shieki.

And while I would like to say that the Scarlet Heather returned to finally bring the freedom long deserved, an ulterior motive was at play. For, it seems, contrary to the Memnon story, the Larkin’s mother hadn’t been slain. The trial had been carried out but the punishment had been stayed. The famed pirate’s wife had been whisked away along trade routes and ship passages to distant shores and distant borders. She was presented before the great leaders of the Memnon and inducted into their harems. She was just another trophy to be paraded before officials, a symbol of the conquered people in the farthest corners of their empire.

But worse than this revelation was after her rescue, the Scarlet Heather learned that Magistrate Poul knew of this duplicity. His masters had informed him and he’d merely laughed, saying such fate befitted a woman foolish enough to resist the empire.

Thus, the city’s citizens saw Scarlet Heather’s return as the final hero they had been waiting for. But the pirate that had followed in dreaded Larkin’s footsteps cared little for their plight. It was personal revenge that brought the sails into the twice walled harbour. Beneath the banner of kinship, the Scarlet Heather was brought to Magistrate Poul’s residence. They feasted and they talked. And in that moment the Scarlet Heather decided that dear brother Poul had to die.

Of course, no such things are easily resolved. It would not do to simply grab the butter knife and assault the magistrate’s jugular. Despite entreating his own, Poul was still a cautious individual. All weapons were stripped upon entry and guards stood watch. So long had the siblings been separated and so much had the magistrate evaded that he wouldn’t let his guard down even for his sibling. The two departed on seemingly amicable terms, but behind the smiles deathly plots danced.

Magistrate Poul’s hand played first. Scarlet Heather’s ship was set alight in the middle of the night, burning like a terrific pyre in the centre of the water. Archers awaited on the piers, arrows notched for any body that attempted to flee the blaze. Hoodlums were blamed, as was the magistrate’s ways, but most knew when the city watch observed there was to be no interference until the blaze ran its course.

The ship was a marvellous foreign construct of rich dark wood and terrific sails. But despite its exotic construct it still carried the traditional carved prow of a ferocious serpent. Long had that fabled creature guided fellow vessels to safe harbour. And for its reward, it was burned to ash. Rubies sank to the bottom of the harbour that night, but none dared dive for them while the steely eyes of the archers watched the waves.

Of course, such brutish response was expected from the magistrate. Scarlet Heather was no fool and knew well in advance of the magistrate’s reputation. Little did either sibling anticipate the war that would be waged in the streets. Much is said, both good and ill, of either sibling. And when kin fight, so often are innocents caught in the crossfire. While many citizens would call the guard corrupted and sinful, the truth is many of them were just doing a job. They had family and mouths to feed alike and tyrants are not want to distinguish between their subjects. But that didn’t stop the Scarlet Heather from doing the pirate’s deed. Attack bred retaliation and both sides began to feel the sting of conflict.

Though the bards sing of the final hours. The street war, which by most accounts lasted for five bitter months, carried atrocities on both side. It came to an end not with one sibling claiming advantage over the other. Instead, it was the simple arrival of a pilgrim that sheathed swords. She rode up with little escort to the beleaguered city gates. And when she announced herself, none would deny her entry.

It was a sight to behold. It felt like the entire garrison had come forth, lining the streets with the strict order to let the pilgrim pass. Citizens gathered, fearful of what may come but curious at this sudden display of security. Some members were pressed into beautifying the path, baskets of flowers supplied the petals thrown like thick flakes of snow at the weary horse’s feet. Grim reminders of the sibling’s struggle were either removed or blocked from the procession’s view. Finally, a peace had come to the city the likes of which had only been seen during the winter pageant’s All-Father’s feast. Whispered questions of this emissary’s identity abound but no announcement was made until the pilgrim and her troupe arrived to the doors of the magistrate’s home.

There, she dismounted, handing her horse to a faithful servant. All expected her to turn and make her way to the temple to pay her respects. Instead, she turned to the crowd, unwrapped her wimple and revealed herself as Dread Larkin’s wife. She announced that she had finally arrived home after many long years of servitude to the Memnon. And she was to be a herald of the freedom the city had long deserved.

The people cheered as the guards opened the gate and ushered her in.

Who knows what possessed her to reveal herself to the crowd. Surely, few would have recognized her on her own. Her admitted relation to Magistrate Poul should have, by all accounts, turned opinion quickly against her. But so stirring was her tale, so certain was her speech that the populace was won on sheer conviction alone. Long had they waited for a sign of the end and that sign had rode in right through their gate.

There are some that suspect a less benevolent motive. Given her son’s reputation, her announcement and adoration from the crowd may have served to dissuade the magistrate from performing his own matricide. Tension was strong in the air and the struggle with Scarlet Heather had stirred much resentment towards the once feared ruler. Harm to the elder Larkin could have been the final catalyst that would set his people upon him.

And so they dined. Many waited outside the gates expecting to her the mother’s strangled cry from the open windows. But the elder Larkin’s guard stood proud and strong. What they lacked in number, they made up for in experience. Perhaps Magistrate Poul was considering a more subtle approach for once. Certainly, there could be no love between mother and child. And while she played the doting parent, it was clear both were changed after so many years. The bonds of blood were diluted and the issue of politics a terrifying wedge. In order to keep power, it seemed obvious that the magistrate would have to remove his mother.

It was then his guards began to whisper of disloyalty and mutiny. The signs were drawing clear, much like the Memnon captain who’d lost his vessel to Dread Larkin, Magistrate Poul was losing his people to the charm of Mother Larkin. She exhibited such courtly grace, humility and piousness unmatched by anything seen in those halls before. For years in the Sheiki’s harem had taught her skills unknown to her offspring and she used these new talents to great effect.

For twelve days she resided in his estate and for twelve days Magistrate Poul wrestled with how to eliminate her. Finally, he stumbled upon the solution. There was no way for him to gain the trust of her fellowship and sneak in himself. Delivering the blade was too tricky a proposition. But none would suspect treachery from her own retinue. And while some hearts are won through love and loyalty, most are gained through cold, hard coin. It was just a subtle matter of placing the right amount in the right hand.

And one of Magistrate Poul’s talents was finding that hand. A special kind of courtship began, one where wine and favours were directed with specific intent. Trust and character were carefully tested and examined, like a siege force prodding the walls of a city. When at last the weakest point was found, a clandestine meeting was arranged. A plot was laid and the fate of a Larkin was sealed in blood and gold.

What followed was a brutal betrayal. But not for who you’d suspect.

For the elder Larkin did not come to the city of her own accord. She was pressed into service by another. And the following day, Magistrate Poul would learn the startling truth. The assassination was foiled and a rabble were at the gates as elder Larkin stood protected by Magistrate Poul’s fiercest guards.

And standing before the crowd with the proof of Poul’s misdeed was the Scarlet Heather. So blinded was he with his double crossings that he didn’t sense his worst enemy behind the helmet. With evidence in hand, there was no recourse left to his mother but to condemn him for his actions. Whether she knew of the plot or was finally convinced of his sinister intent is unclear, but the condemnation she raised was sincere and more powerful than any wizard’s spell.

The gates were torn down and not just by the citizens. Guards joined the mass, charging the few who held their posts. Most abandoned their weapons, forfeiting their fate to the crowd. Magistrate Poul turned to the last course left. He fled.

But Scarlet Heather gave chase. A terrible and trying pursuit erupted through the Magistrate’s estate and into the streets. Both siblings made to finish the other. All pretences were done. One would die that day. One would pay the ultimate price for the sins of the family.

They burst from the city gates into the country-side. And there, over the cliffs that rose above their old inn the bards sing they finally came to conflict. The outcome is clear, if by name and not deed alone. All that can be said is that Magistrate Poul was not seen there again and the Kinslayer had been born.

This is the homestretch on the NaNo novel. Only 10k words to go and a week to finish it off! I’m not super behind this year either! Only trick is keeping up the motivation. But at least I have Kinslayer Chronicle chapters to keep posting for the rest of you.

Bragi by Carl Wahlbom

Chapter 4 Part 2 – The Roots that Grew

When you are raised on the wagons and ships of a roving Maen Nkowainn band, privacy is a foreign concept you can scarcely afford. Rooms can not be spared to provide a recluse for a growing child. So, I bore witness to all life had to offer. I slept beneath the beakers and bottles of our resident tinker, watching him work deep into the night with whatever curious contraption had consumed his thoughts that day. While he worked, I would question him. What is in those beakers? Why do you wear such thick goggles? Why does that fire burn blue? How did you turn that liquid solid?

Each question led to another and he tolerated my presence, as if my enquiries helped focus his mind and keep him from wandering off in his own experiments. The more I learned, the more difficult my questions grew. Why is water blue? Why is a triangle the strongest form? Why does a curved lens make things bigger? Why does the sun and moon ride overhead? How do we extract pure minerals from the rocks mined from the ground?

What he knew, he shared. What he didn’t know, he postulated. What he couldn’t imagine, he confessed. The world stopped working through the mystical touch of the gods but began to be a series of interactions that could be proven through exacting method and precise tools. He demonstrated the fragility of the elements. He set metal on fire, creating the coloured flames we often employed for our more spectacular performances. He showed how he could make a metal disappear in little more than water, producing great light and heat the likes only ever seen by a wizard’s fingertips. Through the eyes of his tools I saw the distant planets revealed in the dark of the night sky or the mountains and valleys hidden upon the surface of a leaf. He showed me the unseen just like the Caenn, but instead of inferring these invisible existences, he brought them in full view with the glasses of his craft.

And I would fall asleep amongst his ingredients and herbs, my mind swimming with the information he shared in those late hours by shaking candlelight. My dreams were complex mathematical calculations and proofs of intricate natural theory. My young mind thirsted for these answers and when my questions grew too ambitious for the lessons, he would wave me away until I had proven his latest question.

“Why does a bird fly?” he would ask. And no matter what I requested, he would not share until I had formulated a theory to explain that phenomenon. Sometimes, I would sneak into his room, hiding amongst his things just to listen to him whispering to his self to gleam some grander piece that he was keeping from me. It was all a puzzle and the world was the picture I had to create through his pieces.

So quick was I with his studies, that he began to allow me to assist with his technical work during our performances. Few roles were available to us children, so when we rolled into town, ours was to help with unloading of props and costumes. We stayed behind the curtains waiting with wigs and bottles as the adults prepared for their next entrance. Our greatest performances would call on the tinker’s abilities, giving astounding powers to the wave of mighty Njordr’s hands as sparks or lightning shot about him. Explosions of fire and light were his speciality and sometimes we would have whole shows devoted to his colourful displays that would light the night sky. He trusted no one else with those performances. No other Maen understood the dangerous interaction of sulphur and saltpeter as well as the charcoal, copper, sodium, calcium and other powders which gave them their colour. I would run amongst the launching jars, inspecting the proper amount of powder and insuring their lines were secured.

Because I was so small, it was easier for me to work and see amongst the tangled knots of lines he held. Each had to be lit in the proper order or else his performance would be ruined. It was dangerous work, one mistake and the small square of field bearing our materials would become a crackling, sparkling inferno of pure heat and light. But we never had a mistake and even our troupe would watch in rapt admiration as our jars popped across the black grass, leaving sparkling trails as the sky lit with showers of flame and light.

Those were good performances, if only because they were so rare.

But my need to learn couldn’t be satiated by the tinker alone. The troupes of the Maen Nkowainn offered far more than any village. Beneath my father’s gaze I learned how to control my voice in ways that would seem magical to most. His soft fingers showed me strings and chords on the lute that would weave a spell over the hearts of those that listened. Song is just as powerful as the arcane to those that know how to use it. And my father was a master.

He taught me all the old tales, each pluck of the lute conjuring an almost unending narrative from his mind. The memory of a performer had to be impeccable. Nothing could sour an audience faster than a favourite line forgotten or a clever jest mistimed. But, much like everything else, there is a trick to the bard’s unfaltering recall.

The key was to break the tales down into acts, my father explained. Then, he simply paired an act with a chord. The music was his mentor, the notes whispering him his lines as he played. He taught me to listen to the notes and to turn their voice into my own. The lute became an extension of my speech and you could accompany the performance of one with the other. He even taught me how the lute could shore up your mistakes. With a timely sharp note you could mask a missed line with enough song that the audience wouldn’t even notice.

Those were the most interesting lessons. I sat before my family’s fire many nights, my father’s lute balanced carefully in my lap. I knew I had to be careful any time I borrowed it. A performer’s instrument is his closest confidante. But my father would leave it in my care on the nights he spent with my mother in their wagon and I would practice the innumerable songs and tales that he had left me to memorize. But the note of masks intrigued me the most. Learning tales was far too easy. I desired to learn more.

So I would play and play, trying to mimic his skill. I wanted to get the lute to speak for me, to have it say all the things I could not. It took many long sessions, my fingers blistering in the deep night, but I began to learn a most amazing technique. With the right cadence and melody, I could hide my own voice perfectly within the song. At first, I thought it was only my inexperienced ear getting lost in the melody, so I called for my Caenn to listen.

I played a raucous ballad of the Shattered Realms’ incestuous lineages all the while reciting the basic components of alchemy that the tinker had been teaching me that week. The Caenn laughed and clapped at my performance until I stopped halfway through to ask if he heard what I was saying. He looked at me strangely. The question confused him. He congratulated me on learning the ballad, noticing that my father had only started teaching me it this morning. But I shook my head, telling him I wasn’t singing its lyrics.

I explained to him what I was actually doing. He laughed unbelieving.

And so I played again.

Only this time, I would pause during certain chords and melodies, stilling the quivering voice of the strings with my fingers. However, I kept my recitation, never skipping a single word. At first he was uncomprehending. It wasn’t until I was in the third stanza that he his eyes lit and he stood, walking over and asking for the lute in soft reverence. I passed him my father’s instrument and he began to strum the chords, watching my lips closely. After a few lines, he began to play off tune.

And then he burst into a great roar of laughter.

“Wait till your father sees this!” he exclaimed. Without another word, he rushed to their wagon. A few minutes later and after a loud exchange within, my father emerged lute in hand, hair dishevelled and breeches held up with bare fingers.

But he didn’t look at me with anger or scorn. Instead, there was wonder in his eyes.

“Is it true?” he whispered. “What Caenn Aodh says? You can speak beneath the song?”

I knew my face flushed in the shadows of that firelight. My father had always been proud of me, but there was weight to his words then. His voice was filled with wonder and marvel that I had only ever heard once before. That tone was only conjured when he whispered of our people’s greatest hero: Iomhair.

I nodded meekly and he handed over his lute, not even aware that he held it brutishly by her neck as if she were little more than a plucked goose. I took the instrument. It felt heavier in that moment than it ever had before. I could feel my throat grow dry as I looked from my Caenn’s beaming face to my father’s expecting eyes.

My mother emerged just as I took a seat on the moist grass, she robed in the lanky shirt of my father. She looked like a spirit drifting through the mists as she drifted to the flames. All eyes were on me as I began to pluck the strings. For a moment I worried that it was all in my head and I was going to make an enormous fool of myself.

But as I began to speak, I could see my father nodding slowly along with the tune. It was my mother, though who noticed first. She cocked her head at the first couple of lines then turned to my father and Caenn expectantly. But the Caenn waved away her question before it was uttered, watching my father closely.

It wasn’t until my fingers stumbled on a note that he stopped singing gently and turned to the Caenn. I stopped playing but he insisted that I continue without changing a thing. I resumed the song and he stepped close, standing over me with his ear turned towards the instrument as his eyes wandered absently amongst the stars.

And then he too began to laugh.

Our Caenn joined in on the joke, their bawling stirring some of the other clansmen from their nightly business. My mother watched from the outside but she did not laugh. She only stared at me with haunted eyes.

More Kinslayer Chronicle as the month of November marches inexorably towards its end.

The Ship by Salvador Dali (1943)

Chapter 4 Part 1 – The Roots that Grew

There are those that would slander the name of the Maen Nkowainn. Thieves and liars, they say, a people with nothing good to their ways but glib tongues trained only in loosing men of their coin and women of their virtues. Their bright head is a warning, their jewelled eyes a honeyed trap. Many take to the reputation, playing the part of vituperator and villain. But not all bands are so bent to scandal. Some turn their reputation to an advantage. For there is but one place that those of questionable fibre can find refuge.

And the troubadours and bards are celebrated the grander their reputation is no matter what that reputation carries. To be known is a power that carries more weight than coin. And the Maen Nkowainn are a prideful bunch. Many turn their minds to the oft celebrated soothsaying. People put stock in the elderly Maen sight and the old mothers needed only but a beaded scarf and some reflective surface to turn their sight to the aid of villagers and townsfolk desperate to know the success of their crops or secretive pining of fair maidens. And the best part is the predictions don’t have to be true – they just have to be true enough until the caravan has packed and sailed elsewhere.

It was on these creaking ships I was born. It was among my people’s songs that I had been raised. The Maen Nkowainn caravans are tight communities. We care for each other because no one else will. We represented the standard caravan: part opportunistic merchants, part wandering criers, part entertainers and storytellers and part rabble-rousers. My father was the leader of our bardic troupe, and the greatest actor amongst his kind. His performances were legendary. So stirring was his rendition of the Death of Bauldr that it was said to warm the heart of Queen Elizador enough for a single tear to freeze upon her cheek. So lascivious was he, that courtiers kept their daughters and wives from the King’s hall when he came to visit. They say he could charm the ring right off a lady’s finger.

But many times the Maen Nkowainn mystique does much of the work. People see the hair and the eyes and they are apt to believe everything else. However, my mother was not one of our people. So few take to the caravans, for while brief courtships can leave treasured stories in their passing, few people would wish to adopt the lifestyle. For every maiden and sir that fell for the comforting embrace of a Traveller, there were double as many who wouldn’t so much as toss a rope to save one floundering in a river. But my mother was no ordinary woman.

She never spoke of her past. Not to me, at least. My father only said that they met under circumstances so fortunate that they had to be arranged by Gefjun’s own gilded touch. He said that it was a daring rescue that brought her into the folds of the troupe. And while my young mind conjured many a fanciful tale for an explanation, despite my best protests and pleas they would divulge no further information.

And while the lips of the Maen love nothing more than the kiss of a good tale, my troupe seemed particularly reticent in releasing this one from their sealed throats. I did gather pieces here and there. For even Maen children are wily. I knew she had been of noble birth. I also knew that she had made a decision and that had barred them from ever returning to her home or her family. But this seemed not a source of bitterness. The caravan admired her for this action and by her own admission she saw herself as having no other family than those that shared their ships with her.

Many a day I wondered if her heritage made me some fanciful noble. I made the mistake of voicing these thoughts to our fol. Bradain laughed for days and took to calling me his ‘Little Majesty.’ And while he teased and japed about it, producing many chuckles from the rest of the troupe, I knew I never received an answer from him. Nor anyone else for that matter. And with the Maen, there is as much to learn from that which isn’t spoken as there is with what is.

But if I were to learn more, it wouldn’t be from my parents. They were happy with their lives and had no intention of settling in some stuffy court. For them, their kingdom was the Crossroads. The inns and taverns were their fiefdoms and the children gathered before the fairs their subjects. But we didn’t just entertain small towns. Our name was held with much esteem and there were lords who delighted in us gracing their halls. And while their patronage was good, I knew where the love of my family lay.

For them, there was no greater joy than the small towns. The people who crowded muddy hillsides during the worst rains just to catch a glimpse of the colourful jugglers with their bells or the soothers hidden behind their shining curtains. There was such glee in their faces, a marvel and astonishment over the simplest slights and the basest pyrotechnic. Nobles often took to trying to puzzle a trick on stage or dictating the staging of a play in a show of their own intellect or power. But the villagers rarely made such demand. And there were times when my mother and father would roll out the carts for performances with only some bushels of oats or baskets of roots as pay.

I thought those performances were beneath them. They had the skill to be court performers. More than once a lord had asked for singular patronage but each time they refused. Even though my father had the best songs and my mother wrote the best lyrics. They would take the days of meagre porridge and bitter mead as we scrounged for a place to perform if just to hear those nights of pure adoration from the crowd. To see a tavern full of rugged sailors standing to their feet in applause with tears staining their cheeks.

All in all, it was a pleasant childhood. It was certainly better than some remote farmstead. I grew up in a fair. And while at the time I thought it humdrum, I now look back on those days as some of my fondest. So much is wasted on the ignorance of youth. Only now can I sympathize with my mother and a life on those rocking ships whose wheels had a tendency to fall off no matter the state of the road. At the time, all I could think of were Kings and Queens with silly fantasies of golden crowns and mighty feasts. But what child doesn’t fantasize about being a prince? My only quirk was never imagining being a bard.

But though I may have harboured dreams of something greater, I never loathed the life I had. How could I? Every day was filled with juggling and merry-making. There was much to learn on those creaking ships as we sailed from town to town. There was, of course, the obvious lessons on how to handle a Maen craft. People sneer at our ships, laughing that we must sail upon the land because we can nary afford the horses to pull our wagons. If only they knew half the truth. Our landships are a source of pride. Each morning, we raise the bright sails in quiet reverence for the lands that were lost. A common Maen tale goes that the fabric which pulls our ships is made from the sinew and marrow of our ancestors. That’s why the lead vessel is always red. The bodies of our parents pull us along the roads we must travel, guiding us down the paths that will one day bring us home once again.

And harnessing the winds of the land require all the help we can get. Unlike the oceans, we have to contend with hills and mountains. Of course, we have horses to pull us when the wind is weak or the weather uncooperative. But when it is right and the path laid bare, there is no feeling in all the realms than being at the helm of one of those vessels. The sails envelope the skies and you glide as if you were all but soaring through the clouds like a great bird. The wind washes over the decks in refreshing gusts, and you man the pulleys and ropes, working as one of the troupe in staying the course.

Those ships are much like performing a play. Every member has a part and we each rely implicitly on the other to do their role. There is no question of skill or competency. If the Ceann Fine says you are to tend the aft rutter, none will raise any doubt. Even if you are not but a child. For any member would gladly demonstrate his skills if asked. And I was an incurably curious child. They say the moment I could walk, I was waddling to the main throws and watching the twist of the ropes over one another as if the Maen were braiding a giant’s mane. Every time we lifted the sails, I was there and as I grew older and I older my questions became unending.

Our Ceann Fine was the first to let me practice. I remember standing upon the deck, watching as his hands gripped the main levers that controlled the primary sail. He seemed to focus more on the cloth than the road ahead, the wind blowing through his long hair as if it was a brilliant red banner stretching from his scalp. He saw me, smiled and motioned towards the controls. Hesitantly, I approached. By his direction, I attempted to make the slight adjustments.

“Watch the wind,” he said. “For a moment’s notice can turn the sail and steer us off course.”

I nodded, though I didn’t know exactly what he meant. But I looked over the rails, intent on seeing that which had no form. He laughed, resting a hand on my shoulder and pointing with his weathered finger.

“The important thing about directing is looking for signs which no one else sees.”

He was pointing me to the trees and I immediately gathered his intention.

“The leaves, they bend with the wind.”

He laughed.

“Precisely, my boy. We need not wait for our sails to catch when the land is more than willing to warn us of its own accord.”

He showed my the levers, indicating where and what they controlled. By easing the tension in some cords you could produce more or less slack in the lines. This, in turn, adjusted the sail’s resistance to the sky’s breath. Through this careful interplay could the fickle wind be captured for our great ship.

“It takes many years to understand the language of the heavens,” the Caenn Fine said. “I remember my dad sitting me upon the deck, spending hours discussing the stars, clouds and birds. When navigating the invisible currents, you must learn to read every little clue you’re given. Your crew, nay, your people are relying upon your judgement. Just like I trust in my throwers to catch their lines if things come loose, so too do they trust in me to chart them the smoothest, safest course.”

I nodded, though I didn’t truly understand. But there was a determined look in my eye which my Caenn Fine saw and he laughed as he lifted my hands to the smoothed wood.

“Why not give it a try?”

“Are you sure?” I asked. My voice soft and weak like the child I was.

He nodded.

“Do not fear. I shall be at your side the entire time. Nothing will go wrong.”

I leaned on my toes, my fingers wrapping furtively about the levers. The Caenn kicked over a box, lifting me gently on its hard surface so I could comfortably hold the mechanisms and see out over the rail. I took a slow breath, the weight of my position heavy on my shoulders now that it was my hands holding the straining ropes.

“Don’t forget, watch the trees.”

“Right!”

I turned, my young eyes intently upon the tree line. The branches swayed slowly in a soft, rhythmic beat. With each bow, I could feel the accompanying touch of the wind brush against my cheek. By timing their sways with the soft beat of my heart, I was able to synchronize my breathing with the wind. Each exhale was as if it was my own lungs pushing upon the sails. I blew gently through pursed lips and watched as the sail above bulged in the centre and pulled our craft forward.

I turned to the levers. Having never been this close to them, I didn’t know exactly what they controlled. I gently released the clinch on the rope closest to my right. Almost immediately, the Caenn was at my side, pulling a few of the others and readjusting the lengths of the ropes to compensate for the slack I’d caused. I looked to him, worried I’d made some mistake. But he just kept his grin.

“You can’t just change one rope without realizing the effect it’ll have on the others,” he explained. “Everything is tied together. Pressure on one ripples through the whole.”

He manoeuvred a few more and I watched closely the ropes that readjusted to his actions. With one pull, a winch rattled and a line rolled above me. Looking behind, I could see the thrower reacting at the change as if he were no more than a cog in the whole device. Each worker kept careful attention on his own portion of the ship and took action at the first change to his charge.

I traced the remaining lines back to their source then took the levers in hand.

With a pull, I could feel the ship shake as the rigging above shifted and men sprang into action. A push in the other direction caused others on the opposite side of the deck to grab their lines. The Caenn was at my side quickly again, but as I worked the levers quickly, he stayed his hand from interfering.

The ship rocked and groaned, shifting from side to side upon the road. But my breathing was strong and though the first few steps were rocky, my ears seemed in tune with the lilting of the deck, the grunting of its workers and the creaking of the masts. The Caenn had been right, there was so much to see and hear to guide you that you didn’t need to see the wind itself. You saw it everywhere else.

And our landship swerved, taking a hard turn off the road and rolling quickly upon the hills. There were a few shouts of surprise but as promised, the men manned their posts. Each shift in the ropes sent the lines spinning quickly through their metal holds. The ship rocked and bounced, cresting the top of a hill and sending a small flock of grazing birds into the sky. We landed with a slight jolt but the wind held true.

Another breath and we sailed down the side of the hill, our hair wiping wildly about our faces. The heaven’s embrace was cold and crisp as we rushed over her land. I closed my eyes briefly and we sailed so soft and true that it felt like we had been borne upon blessed wings to take residence among the clouds.

The ship veered its course, heading for the sharpest hill. I expected the Caenn to step forward and take the controls from my hands. But his grin simply broadened as he pressed his hat securely upon his head. The hill rose above us, and for a moment it felt like we were drawing up against an unscalable mountain. Its shadow fell dark and cold. As we reached its roots, I could feel the ship begin to slow and the wheels grow heavy beneath their load. For a moment, I worried that perhaps I was about to lead us into capsizing.

But the Caenn had said that to steer was to trust. So I put my trust in his words, his crew, his ship and my people.

I took firm hold of the levers and I made my adjustments.

With a long, slow exhale, the wind built as we began to angle against our adversary. The sail grew taut and the ropes creaked beneath the strain. The fabric stretched against its rigging. The deck shook and groaned beneath the strain. But we rose and I watched as the prow raised, pointing heavenward as we all looked to the sky. The shadow of the hill retreated and our momentum slowed until that one moment when we balanced seemingly unmoving upon its tip.

For a moment, the land spread out before us and it felt as if we had been plucked from the earth to look down on this worldly domain from Freyre’s great throne. It lasted but a moment though that expanse seared into each of our memories. Then, there came the soft shift in my gut. It felt like my stomach was racing to my throat.

The prow of the landship angled down and I could hear the wheels begin to spin wildly beneath us. The wind rushed up as if mighty Freyre was trying to keep us in his lap. The Caenn laughed wildly and I couldn’t help but smile as the ship flew at such speed down the other side. Instinctively, my hands worked the levers and the sails adjusted and loosened letting the full descent fly us forwards. Such momentum we built, such speed we carried that I felt like I’d left all my thoughts and worries on that hilltop. They still rested in Freyre’s hands, looking out over the world while my body ran blissfully free.

We struck the bottom of the hill and the entire crew bobbed like a cork line cast into a river. The ship lilted on its side, the port end taking far more of the impact than the aft. I felt the deck angle and my mind quickly calculated the needed adjustments to bring us around. We tossed roughly from side to side but the sail snapped into form again and we pulled upon the road, joining the back of the caravan.

The Caenn then slipped his big, warm hands over me, gently prying my fingers from the levers. He smiled and directed me aside. I was still grinning and feeling my heart beat heavy in my chest. Never had I felt more alive.

It was in that moment that I heard the cheering. I turned, seeing the rest of the crew – my family – whooping and hollering upon the deck. Their fists raised triumphantly in the air and the same silly grin was mirrored on each their faces.

The Caenn brought us into a gentle roll in line with the other ships and looked at me.

“Never have I seen such grand sailing,” he said. “Not since the first of us had taken to the sail and great Illeare started us on the grand Wander. You’ve got a real talent, Koudi. You’re a natural Caenn.”

My mother and father came to me that night as we sat around the campfire. They had ridden their own ship that day and they laughed at my performance. My father was full of exaggeration and boasted about how well his son had first manned the helm. My mother started with practised concern and admonishment for the Caenn’s recklessness in permitting me to drive the jagged moors, but my father’s enthusiasm was far too infectious. By the end of the night, she had already started composing a few lines for a song she later titled Cygnet’s First Flight. My father presented it at the Fyrste’s court to standing applause.

But this was the story of my life.