CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk

by Russell Thomson

  Cloak ran for home in a state of panic, slipping and tripping in his haste. He had toyed with the idea of entering the temple half way through the sermon but knew such an action would not lighten the punishment, more likely it would rub a sore and make matters worse. Cloak cried outwardly and fumed inwardly in equal measure, this was unfair, this was not his fault. His mind had been distracted and filled with froth. He had been tempted with a tale of his own cresting and had swallowed Blacksky's sweet scented words whole. He could see no way to get himself off of the hook, and his threat to tell the wardens, a bold threat at the time, now sounded more than a tad hollow. As the minutes passed Cloak’s anxiety engulfed, he had no plan and realistically, nothing of value to barter. Cloak wept, he was doomed.

  ---

  Cloak bit down hard again and again on the leather gag. The anger took a long time to leave his father guardian’s blood and the beating meted out was long and harsh, leaving Cloak weeping and bleeding. The welts form his earlier beating soon burst, each new stoke of the birch agony on agony. He had offered his father guardian no excuse, preferring to stay silent and take his whipping. He had learnt over many years that bleating lies or truths was viewed as a sign of weakness, fuelling his father guardian’s anger and extending the penalty. Silence was the warrior’s way and like it or not Cloak would be expected to pay for the shame he had brought on his family. He had shamed his guardians, but not in the way they thought, this punishment was not about being late for scriptures, it was about his bad choices, his vanity and his own moon headed stupidity.

  ‘Your conduct today was commented on by the Master of the Keep. He made a point of drawing my attention to your lack of respect and in doing so drew the eyes and ears of others.’ The Sword’s voice was ice cold and devoid of any emotion. ‘I assured him you would repent before the end of the day.’ The Sword of the Keep wiped the birch clean before laying it aside. ‘Firstly, you will return to the temple where you will pray on the steps of the altar until the next high tide has turned. Mistress Faith will be in attendance and will measure the exactness of your recitations. Whilst you are away, your guardian mother and I will consider what further punishment should be dispensed. Go now boy, get out of my sight before I reach for the birch again.’

  When his guardian father silently gestured for him to leave, Cloak gathered up his things and turned for the door. Sending him to the temple to recite scripture for six hours was indeed a foul punishment but Cloak knew it was more than that, it was also a way to let the heat of his anger dissipate lest in his fury he struck too hard and for too long. He had been birched before, but this time had been different, as if the Sword had not just been angered by his disobedience and lack of respect, but also angry with himself, at his own failure as his guardian father to shape him as he had done his brother Fortune. The Sword did not take failure lightly, indeed, in his role as Sword of the Keep, he had never been known to fail. He was Odium Nail, Sword of the Keep, a Blade Master who had never been bested.

  As he walked from the room Cloak kept his head high but not haughty,…he had learned that lesson the hard way, pride had its place but it was not worth another stroke of the birch. For the next six hours he would read scripture and pray; a penance that was good for the soul but a torture on his bare knees. What lay in wait for him when he returned home..........only god knew.

  The oil lamps that lit the main avenue to the temple glowed a slickly yellow and sent slippery shadows across the slick cobbles. Cloak took his time but did not dawdle, walking slowly to the temple forecourt before climbing the side steps and entering the transept by the Beadle’s Gate. At the far end of the nave Mistress Faith stood waiting, a look of patient resignation on her face. In her role as junior cleric Cloak’s penance was also her burden, the Master of the Temple delegating to her nothing but the choicest of the tedious and thankless tasks. In her turn, she would task Cloak with the recitation of nothing but the choicest of the many tedious and tiresome passages from the book of God and King, a testing role that required obedience, patience and his absolute concentration.

  ‘Shoes off,’ she commanded. ‘Roll your trews up above your knees and step forward to the altar steps. You will first recite The Proclamation of the Remorseful and Repentant.’ Her voice was flat and tired. ‘After you complete the proclamation, I will join you in prayer on the steps of the altar where we will both kneel in prayer and praise. We will begin with the first book of prayers, The Asseveration. I expect nothing less than a perfect recital. For each error, I will add a minute to each hour.……………begin.’

  Kneeling before the altar, Cloak drew a deep breath and began his recital. He made no mistakes and having finished, bowed his head and awaited Mistress Faith’s verdict. Kneeling on the bottom step of the altar dais was painful and a full tide would leave him in real pain and bruise his knees to the bone. Cloak wondered how the mistress and masters of the temple managed to do kneel for so long, day in day out in time with the ebb and flow of the tide. Perhaps, thought Cloak, they had a sect prayer or a piece of small majic that dispelled the pain, a curative that after only the first half hour of prayer he was already in need of. Cloak cleared his mind and began the long recital of The Asseveration. The Proclamation of Forbearance came next followed by a poetic prayer called The Trial. As he began his next recital, Mistress Faith laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Halt and rise a moment Cloak.’ Cloak rose, wincing more than once in his efforts to stand straight. ‘This is not the first time you have had a kneeling penance is it? But, it is the first time that the Master of the Keep has compelled The Sword to impose such a punishment. In times past you were treated like a child, this time, although you remain crestless, the Master expects you to act like a man not a moonhead boy.’ Mistress Faith held his gaze. ‘You’re not a stupid boy, you are well aware that your lack of a crest puts tremendous pressure on the Sword, others covet his position and your lack of respect and self discipline reflects directly on him. By the morrow, the high officers and the warders will have heard, some will talk in whispers, try to blacken his name and he will lose face. Unless you impose some self discipline they will sneer behind their hands and plot behind their doors. Be aware, the Sword knows this already and it will irk him even more. Listen well Cloak, you are a late moon, you are tall and well known across the town. Everywhere you go the folk ken you, not as a young warrior or young artisan but as the smooth headed son of the Keep Sword………………hark my word’s well.’ Mistress Faith stepped back from the altar. ‘Step forward Cloak and kneel.’

  Cloak obeyed lowering himself painfully down onto the smooth stone step at the foot of the altar. ‘It was not my fault.’ The excuse sounded weak and false even before the last word left his mouth. ‘I have been losing track of time. My mind has been in a state of flux these last two days. My days and nights have been filled with dreams, whether I’m out on the flats, in the fens or in the garret of our tower my mind is constantly drawn to my cresting and no matter what I do these thoughts dispels all other.’

  Mistress Faith tucked her hands deep into her cassock and exhaled a deep breath. ‘All children dream about cresting, unfortunately, you have had a little longer than most to dwell on it. For now, let the future stay behind the veil, if you are lucky, in a few months time, a year at the most, all should be well.’ Mistress Faith knelt beside Cloak, facing forward her head tilted up towards the lectern that supported the giant gilded book of God and King.

  ‘With god’s mercy my crest will grow within the next half moon.’

  Mistress Faith frowned and shook her head. ‘Cloak, it is best not to set firm dates. If you draw such a line in the sand you will only be disappointed when the tide washes it away it,’ said the cleric sympathetically.

  ‘But I know my cresting is nearly on me,’ said Cloak enthusiastically, ‘and when it happens great things await me, I’m going to be unique, indeed I’m to be blessed with a Peerless Crown!………………that’s why I’m so distracted, that’s why I
was late’

  In the blink of an eye the young cleric’s expression changed, the smile on her face disappearing, replaced now with a bitter mouthed frown. ‘Where did you hear that term Cloak?’ Cloak’s expression remained blank not fully understanding what Mistress Faith meant. ‘Where did you hear the term ‘Peerless Crown’ boy, tell me, where did you hear this phrase, who put that thought into your head?’

  Cloak hesitated, aware now of his error, his eyes focussing on the smooth stone below his knees. ‘It was telled to me…………’

  Mistress Faith’s face blanched. ‘Telled,’ she yelled, ‘foretold, are you saying someone sought sight of your future beyond the veil, here in Delta Crossing? What tosh boy, don’t you dare indulge in such a lie. If you are trying to impress me all you have done is make me trust you less.’ Mistress Faith held up her hand to silence Cloak before he could mouth a reply. ‘Don’t bother to answer,’ said the young cleric angrily. ‘Your lies have rent what little faith I had in you boy and like it or not when The Sword hears of this devilry he’ll likely birch you black.’

  ‘That’s unfair Mistress, unfair. It’s not a lie,’ insisted Cloak, clamping his mouth shut and letting the sentence drift.

  ‘Not a lie, but I suspect not the truth either young man,’ said Mistress Faith sternly. ‘I think it would be best if you raised your hand to the good book and confessed your lies. Let god be the judge.’ Cloak remained silent and still, intending to say no more. An act of defiance he knew would lead to further punishment. ‘So be it boy……’

  As Mistress Faith mouthed the Incantation of Confession the tiny Revelation Charm she wore around her neck glowed faintly. Unable to resist the majic Cloak felt his will wither. ‘There is a teller in town, his name is Barebranch Blacksky.’ As if freed by the majic the sinful truth escaped from Cloak’s mouth. ‘He parted the veil and he told me of my cresting…………..’

  ‘Enough,’ snapped Mistress Faith, the glowing charm darkening instantly. ‘Your confession fouls the air boy and I for one do not want the stench of your sins to taint me any more than they have already. Your kneeling penance has just increased by an hour. The Apologia, begin. If you complete it before I return, wait in the nave. Do not leave the temple until I return’. Mistress Faith’s footsteps echoed around the temple walls as she strode briskly down the nave and out the transept towards the Beadles Gate.

  Left alone, Cloak cursed and cursed his moment of weakness. What had he done? Compelled by the majic the words had left his mouth. He had unmasked the teller and had blurted out his name like a bullied baby. Yes, the dastard had filled his head with porridge, but even so, he had never planned to thoughtlessly incriminate himself so fully. Pressing his smooth head down hard on the top step of the altar Cloak wept, the long tears dripping from his cheeks forming tiny pools on the polished stone. God would surely punish him for his sins, perhaps even curse him. Please god, pleaded Cloak, do not destine me to be a moonhead forever.

  FIVE: The Maiming

  Suspended from the academy for the remainder of that moon phase, Cloak found himself banished to the garret. A full eight days had now passed since the teller had been captured, for Cloak, eight long days locked fast in the tiny attic store at the top of the tower house. The room was mostly filled with dusty crates and wicker baskets, all comforts bar a low wooden pallet, a wash bowl and a chamber pot.

  Every day, weather permitting, Cloak spent much of his time out on the roof. From his high vantage he spied down on the streets below or spent his time scanning the outer harbour and distant delta flats. Time passed slowly, so much so that by the fourth day he would have gladly exchanged a further birch beating for another day alone...........imprisonment was by a far the worst punishment he had ever experienced. Tomorrow he would return to school but with every man, boy and dog aware in his part in the arrest, Cloak had mixed feelings about his return. On one side the boredom gnawed at his mind, on the other, his return made him fret and sweat and with less than a week until the teller’s trial, he knew the whole academy would talk of nothing else.

  The first message bird had been dispatched within hours of Blacksky’s arrest, the response arriving from the King’s Capital within the week. Another and yet another of the swift raptors soon arrived until the day before last, when two giant carrier eagles arrived over the town each carrying a bundle the size of a tinkers pack. The golden giants had caused quite a stir as they glided over the town, small children chasing after their smokey shadows as they criss-crossed high above the inner wall. Late in the afternoon and with barely a flap of their sail like wings, the eagle pair held station above the keep. Minutes passed. On some secret signal from below the eagle’s dived, dressing their wings back as they dived towards the keep. Banking hard around the upper tower the birds plummeted towards the keep’s upper roost, rapidly slowing their descent at the very last second with massive downward strokes of their wings.

  Cloak watched in awe as a single golden feather floated free from the lead bird’s wing, the long slender plume pulled free by the power of the last violent down sweep. Fluttering free, the feather pirouetted slowly in the air, whilst in the streets and courts below, rapt onlookers locked their eyes on the dancing plume. The feather was both a rare prize and a valuable one, a majical trophy that seemed to cast an enchantment on the crowd below. The teller forgotten, the eagles forgotten, the attention of the folk now focussed on the capture of the golden feather that drifted high above the rooftops. The chase for the great bird’s plume was now on.

  From his lofty perch atop the garret Cloak watched as the teasing feather lead the folk below on a merry dance, first drifting south, then east and finally northwest back over the town towards the Wharf Road and the fens. The riot that ensued caught the Wardens unaware and what started off as a good natured chase, soon turned grim as the many small bands converged into larger groups. Streams of folks divided, sought out shortcuts and re-merged. Those that managed by luck or good judgement to get ahead of the crowd were always chased down and it was not long before the first scuffles broke out. Brothers rescued fallen brothers, fathers fought to help their sons, sisters took petty revenge, old feuds were recalled and aggrieved families fought back.

  Before the hour was out, the crowd had reached the West Gate. Fisticuffs had long since given way to the use of low majic, curse charms replacing brawn. The feather remained aloof and aloft, drifting slowly but by luck or magic retaining its height. What had started as a light hearted chase across the town had now turned into a lawless riot as three hundred or more folk fought each other for the right to claim the prize. By the time the Wardens had locked shields at the first pontoon, the feather had already passed overhead and was moving off towards the web of channels and reed beds that marked the edge of the delta. Still full of fighting spirit, the mob pressed on intent on commandeering the punts and rafts drawn up above the tide line. Despite the press of bodies, the Wardens line held fast but not before the bully boys leading the charge had been sent sprawling into the shallow waters.

  As if being drawn along by some magic force, the feather continued drifting, countering the onshore wind before finally disappearing from sight. With their view of the floating plume gone, the heat of the chase left the crowd. No one with sense would dare enter the waters of the delta on a full ebbing tide and with the feather now drifting out of sight, the crowd merely gazed at the sky a few moments more before turning back towards the town gates. The feathery prey was lost, free.

  ---

  As the chase for the feather wound its way out of sight, Cloak’s attention returned to the king’s birds. Too large to land on the small raptor roosts, the eagles chose to land on the broad balcony below. Quickly relieved of their burdens the great birds took flight once more, their piercing shrieks splitting the air and sending a shiver around Cloak’s scalp. He had tried for days to forget the Teller and his Shill but the arrival of the royal birds had brought all the memories flooding back, every small detail remaining clear, but was
it the truth? Was it just a tall teller’s tale, or was the tell a truth he could rely on?

  There would be no trial but there would be blood. The sovereign’s law was theatre, the punishment, the cropping of his crest, more an act designed to assuage the lust of the common clan folk than to demonstrate high ‘justice’. Ghost Wolf Heart, Lord of the Delta Lands would of course head the proceedings. His lordship was no fool, he would ensure that the good folk of the Delta had no doubt that he strictly followed the tenets of the good book, upheld the King’s Law and defended the ancient honoured traditions. He would listen attentively to the evidence, conferring with the Master of the Temple and the Master of the Laws on issues of canon law before finally pronouncing the Teller guilty.

  His guardian father had told him the Teller had admitted his guilt. Whether this was under torture or not he did not say, it mattered not, he was guilty and he would be punished, here, in Delta Crossing, in the great courtyard outside the main gate of the keep. Foretelling was a sin against both God and King, the sentence if found guilty laid down in The Book of God and King for all to see..........maiming, the public cropping of the crest. Worse, as Sword of the Keep, his own guardian father would be charged with administering the Teller’s punishment.

  From the roof of the tower house Cloak looked out over the outer harbour. There, swaying at anchor sat ‘The Compass’, a sleek two masted war galley with twenty pairs of oars, with its blue sails neatly reefed and the colours of the king hanging from the masthead. From Delta Crossing the fine ship would return swiftly west to Long Cliff Haven from where High Lord Winter Hinge, the king’s Inner Court Justice would take the chains and escort him personally to the King’s Capital.

  Cloak’s final disgrace was not yet over. He knew without being told that he would be forced to watch but now realised that his father guardian expected more, he expected…………participation. The ceremonials leather worn by the Master of Sword lay on a cotton sheet at the far side of his room. He had worked since dawn polishing the leathers before burnishing the silver buttons and buckles. Both leather and metal now shone mirror bright, a testament to his efforts for which he was praised, his guardian fathers compliment a cruel lash that only served to increase his feelings of guilt. When Odium Nail, Master of Sword, Sword of the Keep stepped up onto the Crier’s Plinth all eyes would be locked on him. When his flawless blade arced wide to clove the spines from Blacksky’s crown, the charmed steel would appear nothing more than a blur, the single precise stroke cutting barely a fingers width above his skull, a mutilation, a humiliation. The cuts would be near bloodless but the pain would be excruciating and Blacksky’s screams would be deafening.