The power of his shame made Cloak weep, he had condemned the man, his careless words spoken aloud when he could easily have stayed silent. His part in the Teller’s capture was the talk of the town but the full tale would never be repeated, his father guardian swearing him to silence. The Sword of the Keep had heard the story true, no preposterous lies no exaggeration, word perfect. Cloak would stay silent, he would bite his lip, ignore the taunts and the barrage of questions and would fulfil his promise. If only he had done so before now.
---
Every child of the crested kingdom knew that fortune telling was a heinous crime. The punishment was maiming and imprisonment for life. It is one of The Seven Unforgivable Deceits in the book of God and King.
‘A veil-foretell is more than just a series of lies and lucky guesses deigned to fool, tempt or deceive an honest but foolish man out of his coin.....’ quoted Priest Master Treat Musk, ‘.....it is an attempt to tamper with fate, it is a persuasive spell deigned to make a man take an action he might feign from or diverted him from his doing and thus change his fate, or worse, change the fate of others, many others’.
‘Your fate is determined by god and god alone,’ continued the Master of the Temple, ‘it is he who determines your future, gifts you each with a crest and a talent for the king to command. Between the mighty hidden hand of God and the just and righteous wisdom of the King the lot of the crested folk is determined for all time. And so ends of The Third Lesson of Place.’
Master Musk finished his recital and closed the book of God and King with a purposeful and weighty thud. ‘A lesson to all,’ said the Master of the Temple solemnly. ‘Foretelling is an insult to both God and King and as a result of this it is dually punishable under the law. In this age we live in, new truths about our world can still be found but what lies beyond the veil of time is the preserve of God and is revealed only should he will.’
Cloak had heard The Third Lesson of Place many times before and like all lessons from The Cynosure he had memorised it and recited it verbatim many times. Failures in punctuation and cadence were punished with the prefect’s cane and this particular passage was famed for being long and dry as well as being one of the most tiresome and irrelevant. Or so it used to be. Until last week it was the truth as Cloak knew it, had ever known it. Until last week he would have rather listened to one of the Worshipers Trial Parables contained in the Book of Ministry that Temple Master Treat Musk recited on God Day, but today...............today was so, so different. Up until the last moon quarter, lessons on the evil of foretelling were nothing more than pointless trials. None in long living memory had ever heard of any who had dared foretell and guided by the good book, the folk of the crested kingdom knew any who claimed openly to do so were no more than shallow liars and deceivers. Until now that is. Today, this passage on a dark art thought long dead was more than just significant.
Today Master Treat Musk’s familiar dirge had been replaced by an uncharacteristically florid reading, his recital full of relish. Instead of his usual rote like rendering of The Third Lesson of Place, the Master recited a much embroidered version of The Cynosure, a version full of added references, parable and historic examples. This was the authoritative version, the high version, a version normally reserved for the learned of the Inner Court and High Ministries. Cloak suspected this was perhaps the first time in living memory that this rich text had been read out to the common folk. Not surprisingly, today’s poetic recital had every student in assembly wrapped in awe. Not so Cloak, for him there was no comfort in the words, only shame and guilt, a guilt that gripped his guts and twisted his bowels.
The assembly of the academy had been called at short notice, the master’s herald having made the announcement only the day previous. The pupils, staff and patrons of the academy sat rapt for well over an hour, their eager ears keen to soak up the myths and traditions, particularly those relating to the Laws and Penalties of Telling. Today, The Third Lesson of Place had never had such an enthralled audience, but today was unique, today a Teller would be publicly maimed.
The book of God and King prescribed that all such corrupt persons must be publicly maimed. This was the way of the book and as such this was the punishment the good folk expected to witness. Beyond the spectacle, the mob cared little about what happened to Blacksky, his transportation to the capital, his torturous interrogation by the King’s Inquisitors..........and his death.
But torture and purification at the hands of the king’s inquisitors was not god’s will, it was the king’s will. God perceived all and knew all, god did not require the hacking the Teller’s crest, nor his torture and the purging of his memories. This was not the justice of the good book, this was a punishment devised by man, it was theatre, a glamour designed to distract the folk from the truth and in doing so hide some other hidden purpose. If so, what greater evil did the king wish hidden?
As the minutes passed, Cloak’s shame continued to weigh on his mind. His heart pleaded with him to cry out, condemn the book and defend the Teller, but he could not, he was a gutless jellyfish, a coward of the highest order, a spineless nob head who would never crest as a warrior. As vivid visions of Barebranch’s maiming filled his mind, prickles of sweat beaded on his back, a cold sweat, the sweat of guilt, the sweat of a clype. He could not and did not wish to imagine the searing pain of the blade slicing across the bony spines of the Teller’s crest, how could he, he was just a moon headed boy.
To Cloak’s great relief, Master Treat Musk finally chanted the closure. The welcome sound of the great book closing echoed off the walls, the sermon was over and the lust for justice had been duly inflamed. The assembled classes rose and filed out in orderly pairs. Cloak took his place and walked in silence, head down. Chatter was forbidden when walking between the courts but today, heedless of the prefect’s canes, the chatter was endless. As they neared the rear courtyard Cloak jumped and swore as a swift cane swipe aimed at the small boy behind him missed its mark and sliced him across the back of his calf. His glower at the prefect was returned with a sneer. It was generally not wise to posture or curse, threats, hollow or otherwise would incur retribution, a disproportionate punishment dispatched with relish. Despite this, in his present mood a futile fight against a bully seemed both a sound and just course of action. He would be detained, thrashed and held in a cell until the Master of the Academy called for him. Cloak turned and walked on, such an action was the coward’s way out, today he would stand, watch and pray for forgiveness like a man.
Leaving the confines of the academy, the assembly climbed the steps from the Tutors Hall to the Elders Court and entered the cobbled area that lead up to the Low Masters Gate. The clack of boots on the granite cobbles echoed around the walls, a crump, crump, crump sound akin to a small army of warriors quick marching to war rather than six score moon headed boys and girls eager to witness an outrage. As the files stepped out from the sheltered lane into the expanse of the great courtyard, the noise of their boots diminished, the sound eclipsed by the noise of the crowd. To Cloak’s eye the scene before him was more akin to a fayre day, the maiming no more than a festival jolly. Ahead, the crowd parted as the Master of the Academy led the assembly to their appointed places.
Several hundred had gathered. The townsfolk packed into the great court were mostly in good humour, some seeking out a high vantage on the surrounding walls of the square, some hanging from upper windows but most chose to gather close. Cloak averted his eyes, staring down at the cobble stones and the boot heels of the boy in front. Those in the raucous crowd who recognised him jeered and hooted, pointing him out to others. They did not seek to insult him, he was a nobody, an adopted son whose birthright was unknown. No, their barbed calls were not aimed at his young heart, they’re mark was a grander target, his guardian father, the executioner, the Sword of the Keep.
The Crier’s Plinth that sat in the middle of the great square stood ten feet high, the top of the stepped stone platform large enough to take three gallows sid
e by side. Flanked by his deputes, the Master of the Academy cut through the crowd and led the train of boys beyond the inner circle of guards. Shuffling anxiously beyond the tight ring of soldiers, Cloak and his peers were quickly ushered across the centre of the court and placed in neat ranks just to the side of the Guild Masters and just in front of the militia drummers.
He had attended the academy from the age of six, each year reading, reciting and remembering chapter after chapter of scripture from the book, copying out and translating exacting passages written in a the long dead language. He had been taught about good and evil, law and precedent, crime and punishment and where ethical or moral questions arose, listened attentively as his tutors sought out and recited the appropriate passage. No question was left unanswered and he had believed in the rightness of the words..........but not now.
In the book of God and King, the appropriate punishment for every known crime was clearly prescribed; a day and a night in the stocks for bawdy drunkenness, a public birching for fighting in the street after dark, six moons in prison for a pickpocket, six years for a thiever or a pirate, the gallows for a murderer, and,..............the cropping of the crest, interrogation under majic, torture and death by fire. He had stayed silent, afraid to speak up, never questioning the rightness of the book or the severity of the sentence.
Today the first part of Blacksky’s ordeal would take place, the application of the law witnessed in all its gory glory. Fuelled by his angst, anger and shame, Cloak’s guts twisted with nausea. Chastising himself for his weak liver and boiling gut, Cloak clenched his jaw and bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, the taste of fresh blood soon mixing with his bitter spittle. As he stared up at the Crier’s Plinth, Cloak’s back once more prickled with cold sweat. The position chosen for the boys to stand witness was just scant yards from Criers Plinth, this was the Master’s special treat, arranged with the Magistrate in order that the students could benefit from viewing the consequences of law breaking and therefore better understand and appreciate the ceremonial punishment. Stinkhole steam thought Cloak, this was no lesson about respect for law, this was a lesson about fearing the law. Was he the only one amongst the hundreds assembled who gagged on the sickly smell of hypocrisy? Cloak’s thoughts returned to the unanswered questions, why such an elaborate deceit and what did it hide?
At a signal from the keep, the militia drummers raised their mallets and pounded out a funereal beat. The Keep gates swung back and from the shadow of the gatehouse the first of the pikemen stepped out, faces masked, their leathers brightly burnished, their sickle blades mirror bright. Every head turned to watch, every head except Cloak’s. Led by the Captain of the Keep the troops marched into the courtyard, the noise of their boots on the cobble drowning out by the hammer blows of the militia drums.
The opening of the great gate was just the raising of the curtain, soon now the main characters would appear and then the first and final scene would be enacted. Around him the assembled commoners and clan folk cheered loudly, the crowd clearly eager for the drama to unfold. They did not care that this was a puppet show and that the strings were being pulled by powers from afar, why should they. The Temple and the Court had done their work well, the masses accepting without question the teachings from the great book of God and King, a book perceived to contain truths beyond question. Once more Cloak fought down the urge to cry out, to stand up and cry a halt to the farce, to stand atop the Crier’s Plinth and shame the town, his town, his folk, but again he could not make his muscles move. He had no crest, he had no talent and worst of all, he remained a coward. As his father guardian had oft said of him.....................he had big words, big ideals and small balls.
As if punishing himself, Cloak bit down again and again on the inside of his cheek, his penance drawing forth two stream of fresh blood that dribbled from the corners of his mouth and painted his parched lips red. As his mouth filled with bloody spit the ache in his head suddenly worsened, the pain causing his vision to blur and fierce nausea to build in his gut. Cloak tried to swallow but could not, the very thought of the bilious mixture swirling in his mouth causing him to gag. Tilting his head back and massaging his throat Cloak tried once more to swallow but his half hearted attempt failed as his stomach lurched in violent revolt.
Desperate to retain what was left of his pride, Cloak dipped his head and spat. Spitting in the square was strictly forbidden, and if caught, a birching from the prefects was guaranteed. Puking however would mean detention and a birching in front of next day assembly, an punishment which his father guardian would most certainly be advised of. He could raise his hand to request leave, but this too would only serve to draw attention to him, drawing the eyes of the crowd, the Sword and the Teller. Thrice unacceptable, shame on shame. With those around him distracted, Cloak willed his body to hold true for a few minutes more. To no avail. The bile rose and fell, rose again and swept from his mouth coating the cobbles at his feet. Clearing his throat of the bitter taste, he hawked and spat, dropping a further glob of soupy spit onto the cobbles. Heads turned.
As he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth Cloak’s head exploded in pain as first one then another prefect’s cane caught him square and hard on the neck and the side of the head. Plucked unceremoniously from his fellows and half dragged through the line of drummers and into the crowd, Cloak only caught the most fleeting glimpse of the ragged and barefoot Teller before the noisy crowd closed tightly behind him and masked the plinth from view. With his arms painfully twisted up his back Cloak stumbled several times, clumsily bumping into folk as the prefects hurried him through the crowd towards the entrance of Academy Lane.
To his relief his passing turned no heads; two bully boys dragging a puke stained moonhead with cracked head was no match for the spectacle about to take place on the plinth. Cloak sighed, of those assembled in the square today he was clearly the only one who believed the punishment unjust. Did no one else sense the wrongness of it or was he just seeking to salve his own conscience, find some balm to ease the shame until the memories faded?
Cloak did not need to see in order to know what was happening in the square. The drums had stopped, the crowd quickly silenced as Lord Heart, Master of the Delta Lands stood aloft the plinth to read out the decree. As the heavy gate below the Low Masters Tower close behind him the crowd cheered once more as, his appointed task complete, the Master of the Keep now called on Temple Master Treat Musk to lead the crowd in prayer. Soon, too soon, the climax of the show would arrive as the masked figure of the Sword of the Keep, resplendent in his polished leathers stepped up onto the plinth and drew his long blade.
The short corridor leading to the Prefect's Confines stank of cleaning salts, their powerful stink causing Cloak’s eyes to smart. The denial of freedom was just part of the forfeit, next would come pain then humiliation but he did not care, he was more guilty than they could know. As his heels clipped the threshold of the cell Cloak closed his eyes, tensed his body and waited for the first lash of the cane, but it did not come. Dumped hard on the flagstone floor, Cloak heard the door slam hard shut and the bolt slip home. The noise of running feet on the stone steps and the slamming of the outer gate told its tale, it was nearly show time and the prefects were late for the theatre.
In the darkness of the cell and with only his tortured thoughts for company Cloak covered his ears and pressed his eyes tight shut. To no avail as, try as he might, he could not banish the mental images that plagued his mind.
---
The Master of Sword stepped forward, his face covered by a black gauze mask, his deep red leathers polished, his silver buttons and buckles burnished mirror bright. A high crest warrior with a unique talent, there was no other man living north of the Inner Sea as accomplished with a blade. The Odium Nail, Master of Sword was light speed fast, clinical, accurate and well able to maim a man exactly as prescribed in The Cynosure.
Atop the Crier's Plinth, his razor sharp sword gripped with both hands the Sword stood rea
dy, his blade raised high in readiness for his single perfect stroke. It is over in a heartbeat; a silver blur, the blade cuts an arc, the Teller screams and as the spines of his crest fall to the ground the crowd draw a collective gasp. Some amongst them turn away as the Teller falls to his knees, his visceral screams clawing at their collective consciences and piercing many a heart. The show is over and the crowd turn away, the law has been upheld and justice has failed.
Alone in the darkness of the cell no one heard Cloak scream as agonising spears of acid pain stabbed his skull again and again. Convinced a pain so powerful could only have come from god Cloak begged for mercy, but none came, only more agony on agony before finally unconsciousness dragged him into a black sleep.
---
The promise of a public maiming had drawn a huge crowd, the townsfolk of Delta Crossing packing into the square, their numbers so vast they spilled out into the surrounding avenues. Smiling, laughing faces looked up at the plinth, a carnival atmosphere, a freak show, a once in a lifetime event never to be missed, never to be seen again. Looking out over the vast crowd of assembled townsfolk, Barebranch smiled inwardly. The telling had been given life, a waypoint had been reached and his role in the great scheme was about to change. As if acknowledging his own fate, Barebranch bowed his head, an action that signalled both his own contrition and his signal to Button to leave. He had never set in motion such a momentous tell before and the inevitability of the events it would trigger made him shudder. He had told the boy very little, given his fate no more than the gentlest of pushes, yet, he had told him enough to ignite events across the world.
CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk Page 8
