CLOAK - Lost Son of the Crested Folk

by Russell Thomson

  A’Skla prince of the Airless Citadel and eighth grandnephew of H’Zel Q’Zel King of Water, Air, Earth and Fire, Emperor and Lord Dominant of the Bountiful Southlands stood next to the Lake of the Mother Star and gazed down over the narrow finger of water known as the Lake of the Daughter Moon. No river flowed out from the mother or her daughter, instead, the damned waters of the mother were piped to an underground chamber where the channelled flow fell in a vast misty cascade two hundred feet down into the chamber known as The Thunderous Swallow. Some miles south, a second set of falls at the tail of the daughter lake mirrored those of her mother, the daughter’s own broad flow raining down into an equally grand cavern called simply the Chamber of the Falls.

  The construction of the dams and the majic wards needed to funnel the tells into the channels had been a vast investment, all courtesy of the king’s gold, a loan that he had yet to pay and was unlikely to honour for some years to come. His plea to his sister was a last resort, her hefty retainer and her ‘finder’s fee’ only adding to his woes. Nevertheless, as his sister had pointed out to him on more than one occasion, debt was better than death.

  ‘One more thing brother,’ said A’Quoo as she paused at the door of the chamber. ‘I intend to sift and harvest your coven. I will weed out the weak and promote to my coven any strong talents that I find. It is to our mutual advantage to have the strongest fishers searching the top falls. What remains of your own coven can then be deployed downstream to the Chamber of the Falls where they can filter the mists and retrieve what little my own coven failed to capture.’

  As A’Quoo left the room, her close guard could barely conceal their smirking faces. His sister had rubbed his face in his own shit, deliberately belittling him, twisting concessions that he was in no place to refuse. If such was the price he had to pay to save his own life then so be it. Some day he would take his rightful place at court, call her before him and hang her by her heels over a pit of coals.

  As the vials containing the captured visions began to arrive at Airless Citadel A’Skla could do little but wonder at the skill his sister’s mist fishers. Under A’Quoo’s tutelage, the success of his own coven had improved dramatically but by comparison, they remained novices in the presence of masters. What shocked A’Skla more however was the sheer wealth of tells that dwelt at the bottom of the lake, more secrets, more hidden knowledge than he had ever imagined, and judging from the early results, more tells than could ever be sifted in a lifetime.

  A’Skla had watched mesmerised as his own coven of fishers methodically combed the cascade, their long pointed finger charms delicately coercing the memory bubbles free of the icy mist before trapping them and bonding them within a charmed vial. He had complained bitterly at first when his sister commissioned new wands for his own fishers, each engraved silver needle lightening his purse by two gold pieces. The results however proved him wrong as day after day the fine majic wands drew forth tell after tell.

  Late on the third day of the fifth week A’Skla and A’Quoo sat alone in the library high up on the southern face of the main tower. In the distance the daughter lake shimmered invitingly, its rich secrets harvested before flowing on through the Chamber of the Falls and thence into the Airless River. A’Quoo ignored the view, the dowager princess staring instead at a small vial filled with grey swirling mist.

  ‘Brother,’ said A’Quoo, ‘have you any idea how valuable this tell is to our king?’

  A’Skla shook his head, the young prince trying hard not to tally his share of the wealth.

  ‘Too valuable. So valuable in fact that whilst only six people including you and I have heard the tell, know the future, the names and the places, the king will cull everyone within ten leagues of the citadel to keep this to himself.’ A’Quoo sighed. ‘No matter what we do they are doomed and we brother will only live if this tell dies…………..which as you know is a problem.’ A’Quoo examined the charmed vial, holding the small glass tube up to the light. ‘Each and every vial is numbered, each unique. You could heat it in a furnace and strike it with a farrier’s hammer and it would not break, and worse, it is charmed. Keep it or hide it and the king will still find it.’

  ‘We could free the tell from the vial?’ said A’Skla, regretting his words before the last left his lips.

  ‘Handing it over would mean death but freeing the tell would mean torture and then death. Not torture of the body, not fire and blade, torture under majic, torture of the mind, torture without time brother, do you understand? He will not care that we scream out the truth in the first minute, he will seek revenge on us, for years…………………..possibly forever.’

  A’Skla watched as tears welled in her eyes, the first time in his life he had ever witnessed his oldest sister cry. She was the daughter of his father’s first wife mother and he from the egg of the his third wife mother. As the oldest child it had been A’Quoo duty to tutor him and whilst there was no love lost between the pair, the sibling bond remained strong in his blood.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ said A’Skla, pulling a strand of sweetly oiled hair from his brow

  ‘I suggest brother that we each shave out heads, cultivate a crest and go north in search of this crested youth.’

  ---

  The slaver port of Sparse Harbour sat on the southernmost edge of the crested lands deep in the lea of a broad peninsula. Kissing the horizon and barely visible except on the clearest of days lay the smudged line that marked the northern shore of another king’s land, the Southlands, a plain name for what was a rich and powerful kingdom.

  Offshore from Sparse harbour a scattering of small rocky islands peppered the vast estuary and to the east and west, shallow skerries scarred the low shoreline. Despite these hazards it was a well charted and well used port with a deep harbour, a vibrant slave market and importantly, access to the barge basin whose locks linked the inner tidal harbour to the brackish waters of the Bull’s Tongue Canal.

  Since their arrival in Sparse Harbour the weather had progressively worsened. A storm approached from the north east, the bitter gusts forcing the last of the old season leaves to lose their grip and fly from the branches. Standing on the towpath of the canal A’Skla and his sister A’Quoo adjusted their long woollen coats and pulled their hoods tightly over their new formed crests. They had been waiting in line for nearly an hour to board the broad beamed barge Aspiring Arrow, a blunt nosed cargo carrier set to plough west to First Oak, a large market town at the junction of the Great Snake Lake and the Whistle Canal.

  Since their arrival over two weeks ago they had remained indoors, acutely conscious that their Southland lilt, amber skins and forced crests might draw unwanted eyes and ears. They need not have worried, low ports such as Sparse thrived on the transient, the eye of authority turning blindly away, palms greased, beds warmed and future favours chalked up.

  It had taken A’Skla and A’Quoo two painful months to cultivate a crest. Their heads shaved, each had carefully carved the spell into the others scalp before bringing the circlet of sacred words to life with a yellow majic. The thread released from the charmed vial bound itself to the words, the majic biting into their skulls as it induced their faux crests. Smooth of pate the pair had wept at the loss of their long dark locks. If being as bald as a slave was the price they must pay than they would pay, but knowing that it would not grow back until the spell was removed left them both feeling bereft.

  A’Quoo had thought long and hard about the choice of crest they should bear, finally suggesting they both grow a simple clan crest, a sect they could both adopt without resorting to any talent other than their own senses. A’Skla had at first been aghast when his sister suggested they feign the role of bookkeepers but was soon won over by the logic of her choice. They had silently left the Airless Citadel before the week was out, travelling in secret to A’Quoo’s monastic retreat on the tiny island of Crust. They travelled light and fast, retained only two bonded slaves each before finally drowning the poor hack heads on the last pha
se of their journey. The river town of Just sat several miles inland close to the top of the tide. The houses were built of wood and reed thatch and sat on stilts driven into the mud. At high tide the air stank of fish and on the ebb the black mud exuded a sulphurous odour, nevertheless, the coastal village provided them with what they needed, a six oared gig and a rendezvous offshore with the gaff rigged cutter Pearl Eyes, a smuggler running freshwater pearls and clear crystals south out of Sparse Harbour in exchange for white snort, black weed and sweet resin.

  ---

  Keen to leave Sparse Harbour, brother and sister climbed aboard the next westbound barge and quickly secured a sheltered spot behind a stack of barrels. Aspiring Arrow offered no cover for its travellers, it was a working craft and as such was without small comforts including seats, hammocks or cabins. Rain or shine their next ten days, dawn until dusk, would be spent in the open, something neither relished. At night, the barge would berth at a bank side hostel. They had been warned not to expect places of quality and equally warned to mind their coin and possessions at all times. Not wanting to draw attention to themselves and reluctant to engage in idle chatter, brother and sister eased their anxiety with a cup of cold tea before taking turns to read silently from the sacred creed of the crested folk..................the Book of God and King.

  They had both studied the book for some weeks, improving their knowledge of the folk in readiness for their journey. They had quickly found that their apparent piety shielded them from idle chatter, a stark contrast to their own land where to display The Sacred Tome of the Gods was an invitation to participate in a discussion on morals and ethics. Their shoulders wrapped in a shared blanket the pair watched as the last rope was cast clear. As the eight great drays pulled the barge from its torpor, brother and sister exchanged a knowing glance, they had thrown their dice and gambled their lives…………….there was no turning back.

  As the wind rose, A’Skla fought the urge to shiver. ‘Look around you sister,’ said A’Skla quietly. ‘It is not our skin colour or our accent that threatens to reveal our true origin. It is our lack of tolerance to their weather. My hide is already turning pale from the lack of sun and even when fully clothed my skin puckers like a plucked chicken.’

  A’Quoo laid down the book. ‘Patience brother, our auras are masked and any staring eyes exist only in your imagination. We have knowledge of the Teller’s vision, we have our little hive of spies to call on and we have our superior senses. As long as we travel with purpose and do not draw attention to ourselves, what could go wrong? As for your shivering, no one will be any the wiser unless you let your teeth chatter. Take heart brother, the days lengthen quickly and spring will be here soon.’ A’Quoo stilled her brother’s shaking hand. ‘Remember this while you shiver brother...............better to relish the cold than return to the comfort of our own warm lands empty handed. Our great uncle will already be aware of our flight and will have set a few dogs loose to sniff us out. If we fail, H’Zel will torture us with majic before charring us on a spit. However, if we succeed, he might just strip us of rank and allow us to live in the sewers.

  ---

  First Oak was a thriving town. Avoiding the larger inns around the main square, brother and sister chose instead a small family tavern called The Trumpet and Harp. Their stay at the inn provided a welcome relief from the discomfort and monotony of the barge, the meals were hearty, the beds clean and warm and the laundry house that sat at the end of the lane provided hot baths, a flannel towel and a small bar of hard soap for a large penny.

  As their own names had no common translation they had taken new ones more appropriate to their sect, A’Skla adopted the name Ink Lark whilst his sister had chosen Quill Crow. Their skin had lighted markedly and with some effort, they had muted their distinctive southern lilt. Avoiding awkward small talk had proven hard at first but not for long, their adopted profession now embellished with a plausible tale...........bookkeepers to a cartel of slavers, employed to scour the garrisons and the low lord’s prisons in search of suitable hack heads and ne’er do wells for their clients. Most chose not to socialise.

  Their rooms at the Trumpet and Harp sat on the second floor and faced north over a sea of thatched roofs. Night came early, darkness swallowing the sky shortly after their early supper. Settled in their room and with the shutters closed and the door locked A’Quoo removed the star shaped charm that hung down from the chain around her neck. The star, no more than an inch wide was concave, the dished surface lined with fine script whilst the reverse was etched with symbols of power. Her vial of majic in hand, A’Quoo lowered the tip of the small glass tube onto the edge of the charm. As she pressed the charmed cap, a fine thread of majic slid from beneath the lid, the thread adhering to the script before flowing down and coiling like a babe’s hair on the bottom of the dished star.’

  ‘I see it,’ said A’Skla excitedly. ‘It’s so beautiful...........’ The majic faded.

  ‘Beautiful, precious and powerful,’ whispered A’Quoo. ‘The charm was created by none other than Princess B'Qela O'Zel herself, a gift to her mother or so I was told. The star tricks the majic into revealing itself, useful if you wish only to dispense a small amount. Unfortunately it does not last. When the majic is warm it appears for no more than three beats of the heart. Where it is cooler, it last perhaps double but eventually it returns to its invisible state.’

  A’Quoo laid the vial aside and set the star spinning. ‘It is said that all majic prefers to remain unseen. Did you know that all crested folk have a talent fuelled by majic? Most draw on it without thinking, an act as natural as breathing. A small few have the talent to channel and cast but the vast majority are just like you and I brother, blind to the colours, indeed, even those with enhanced talents, even those with royal crests, seldom see the colours. Some fortunate few see the shade they draw from the earth, yellows, greens and blues…….…..but only a chosen few see the full rainbow.’ A’Quoo’s eyes remained firmly on the star.

  ‘The charm knows who we seek but I suspect our quarry may still be too far off for it to work, if so, we have a hard choice to make. There is no point us journeying further at present, the onset of winter will make travel harder and without some warmth in the air our hives will remain at rest.’ A’Quoo watched as the charm slowed and finally stopped, brother and sister both staring down intently into the dished star. ‘Nothing,’ said A’Quoo lifting the charm from the table and reattaching it to the chain around her neck once more. ‘I cannot hide my disappointment.’

  ‘Nor I sister,’ said A’Skla rising.

  As the prince lit another candle his elder sister carefully unfurled the silk map. First Oak lay on the southern flank of the Bleak Lands. Few roads crossed the featureless and sparsely populated grasslands and whilst its thin soil and irregular rainfall made it poor farmland, the rolling plains were famed for their vast herds of wild game.

  A’Quoo fingered a line northwards. ‘Presuming the map is correct, our choice is somewhat limited. The Whistle Canal cuts north of east to the holy town of Devotion. It’s the seat of the Scripture Sect and according to my sources the boundary is warded lest the unholy try to enter. I would seek to avoid testing such wards. The Bulls Tongue however follows the line of the Soulless Forest until it enters the Great Snake Lake. But here,’ said A’Quoo running her finger along a faint meandering line on the map, ‘is the old road that leads from Peas Fortune to the canal basin on the outskirts of Birdsong. From there we can take another barge north east to Squirrel Ring.................’

  A’Skla shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no, no,’ he replied. ‘You jest...................the risk is too great. The road from Peas to the canal basin travels dangerously close to Birdsong Citadel, the seat of the Temple Warriors and homeland of High Lord Flight. They say the man is mad, his priest warriors are wide eyed zealots and even his own sovereign does not trust him.’

  ‘Which sovereign do you mean brother, ours, of theirs?’ said A’Quoo raising her brow.
/>
  ‘Ours of course.........and both of theirs I expect?’ replied A’Skla.

  ‘Surely you mean ours and all three of theirs?’ suggested A’Quoo with a knowing smile.

  ‘Just three.............’ replied her brother.

  For the first time in months brother and sister laughed.

  ---

  The early spring weather progressively worsened as Ink Lark and Quill Crow travelled west from First Oak along the Bull’s Tongue Canal, their journey made more miserable by persistent heavy rains driven on by a cold easterly wind. Not yet acclimatised, brother and sister both developed snots and sneezes, A’Skla in particular growing sickly as the result of a bone chill. They had not intended to bide long in Peas Fortune but with A’Quoo’s star charm still showing no sign of their quarry, the pair decided to halt a few days in the bustling little market town, renting rooms over a glove makers shop in a quiet side street close to the town square.

  A’Quoo had planned to stay for no more than a week, a plan soon put into disarray by weeks of intensive rainfall that caused the rivers and canals to overflow their banks, flooding the low lying areas of the town and broad areas of the surrounding land. After almost a moon the rain finally stopped, the strong easterly wind easing to a breeze before turning to the south. The side street in which they lived had fared better than many others, the flood waters rising knee deep but stopping a fortunate few inches shy of the threshold. The muddy waters receded quickly, leaving behind a rank sludge that clawed at their boots, muddied their clothes and stuck to their skin. Bright though the weather now was, the road north remained claggy and impassable, coaches and carts sinking to their axels as the horses sank exhausted to their knees. A further two weeks passed.