Soul of the Prophet: The Elder of Edon Book I

by David Angelo

  As was the case with a Faranchie named Fin.

  Fin was the first member of the home to wake on that chilly winter morning, as a bright bar of sunlight came through his open window and hit him square in the face. It was a habit of Fin’s to keep his curtains open so that the morning sun could fill his east-facing room with light. This would wake him before anyone else, which was exactly how he liked it. Despite working behind the bar downstairs into the wee hours of the morning, and having drunk his fair share of booze, Fin typically got up at dawn to clean the dining room from the night before. As in every downtrodden Faranchie ghetto like Notnedo, patrons would stop by as early as ten for some poison, so it was important to be ready to serve as soon as possible.

  While Fin’s eyes adjusted to the light, he recalled the pigsty of a mess that was waiting for him. He dreaded what he would find and was tempted to pull the covers over his head and go back to sleep.

  “The bar’s not going to clean itself,” Fin grumbled. He kicked his blanket off, letting the gleam from the window illuminate his lava-red skin. Streaks of blue ran up and down his body, culminating in a pattern of triangles that lay parallel to either side of his dorsal spines. As it is with every Faranchie, the colors on Fin’s scales were inherited from his parents. Had Fin been born a girl, the arrangement of his colors would have been blue with red markings. Gender is the defining factor of which color becomes primary and which becomes secondary. So, even though Fin had never met his parents, he could conclude that his father was mostly red and his mother was mostly blue.

  Fin pulled himself out of bed and looked at himself in a nearby mirror. His long, narrow face and large yellow eyes stared back at him in the glass. He straightened out the pair of thin, wiry frills that ran over his eyes on either side of a nearly two-foot-long black spike that protruded from the back of his skull. While he was only eighteen, Fin looked years older, allowing him to pass for someone in their early-to-midtwenties with ease. It was a physical trait that had come from many a late night, which had resulted in dark circles that always settled beneath his eyes, never to fade away. This often came in handy on difficult nights. Argumentative drunks are less likely to give their bartender a hard time when they appear older than they actually are.

  Opening the door of his room, Fin shivered as the frosty air swept over his unclothed body. But his skin rapidly adjusted to the temperature, and before long, the shivering stopped, and he continued out into the hallway. Unlike Cullidons, who are rarely seen without some article of clothing, Faranchies wear nothing at all most of the time, because they are able to retain their body heat more efficiently than their cousins. The only time Faranchies wear any clothing is when the outside temperature overpowers their ability to warm themselves, or during the most formal of occasions. The only two articles of clothing that belonged to Fin were a winter parka and a moth-eaten old vest, neither of which he had any desire to wear right now. Besides, like most Faranchies, Fin preferred to keep his ornate markings as visible as possible.

  Fin pinched his forehead to massage away a slight headache, caused by both lack of sleep and possibly a hangover, and entered the dining room. Dolefully, he took in a scene of chaos; barstools, chairs, and tables were knocked over and strewn across the floor, and glasses sat on every surface, some of them still partially filled with liquid. The remains of last night’s roasted quail lay atop pewter dinner plates left behind by the waitstaff, slowly attracting a swarm of flies. Mud from the dirt road outside was caked into the cracks in the wood floor. A large pile of charred ashes lay at the bottom of the stone fireplace to Fin’s right. At least the booths near the front windows were still bolted to the floor, which was usually not the case after a hard evening.

  Fin shook his head at the mess that lay before him. He then grabbed a large bucket and collected all the food scraps and broken dishes. After heading to the kitchen and depositing the bucket’s contents into a pit in the floor, he cleared all the surfaces of mugs and plates, piling these into the bucket and setting it aside. He stacked the stools on the bar and proceeded to sweep the floor, pushing the dust and debris out the front door and into the street. While he was outside, Fin straightened the wooden plaque that hung over the entrance. It displayed the pub’s name, The Deacon of the Meadow, in gold letters over a painting of an open stein brimming with frothy brew. Fin went back inside and grabbed the bucket of dirty dishes, taking them into the backyard to be washed at the pump.

  The backyard of the pub was covered in a soggy layer of snow, which in the morning sun had begun to thaw and wither into slush. The old pump squeaked when Fin jerked the handle up and down to get the water flowing, and for a moment Fin feared that the pipes had frozen. But eventually cold water gushed from the tap, and Fin began rinsing each glass and plate. It was still early in the season, and they had yet to experience their first major freeze. About midway through the chore, Fin’s frills perked up when he heard a horn bellow in the distance. He stopped what he was doing and turned the water off. When Fin heard the horn a second time, he could make out the unsteady melody, which could only come from a conch shell. Fin squeezed the handle of the pump until his knuckles turned white. Every Faranchie, young and old, knew what the sound of a conch horn signified. It meant that representatives from the Cullidon parliament were visiting, and this was their way of alerting everyone in the village of their arrival. Parliament representatives only visited a ghetto when something bad had happened, and it was not an event that the average Faranchie looked forward to or enjoyed. While Fin had been told that there were decent Cullidons in the world, those who respected the plight of the Faranchies, he had yet to meet one in the flesh.

  “Shit,” Fin growled. Even if he managed to avoid a confrontation with a Cullidon, Faranchies always seemed to want to drink more when their archenemies were present. This meant that the bar would be mobbed by midday, it would need to stay open past closing time, and none of the staff would get any sleep that night. There was also the grim possibility that a Cullidon would march through the door and demand a drink, and there was nothing worse than a plastered Cullidon to make an already hard evening even harder. Fin dropped what he was doing and ran back inside just as another wail from the conch horn bellowed across the horizon. He opened the front door and stood at the threshold, leaning out and looking down the road to his right. The pub and its neighbors were located on the main road that cut through the heart of Notnedo, and if the Cullidons wanted to get everyone’s attention, they would surely take this route. Other Faranchies were already poking their heads out of the windows and doors of their homes and businesses, anxiously waiting, while the lips behind the conch horn let loose a very long, drawn-out note, signifying to all that the procession had passed through Notnedo’s main gate.

  “What’s going on, Babe?” someone asked through a yawn. Fin turned around and saw Scarlet, his sweetheart, standing in the threshold of the dining room. The yellow of her skin appeared to glow in the dim, hazy light, an illusion offset by a handful of brick-red stripes on her back. The light from the door illuminated her face, making the bony, brick-red crests that sat atop her head resemble a pair of sunburnt mountains.

  “Parliament’s paying us a visit,” Fin replied.

  Scarlet groaned as she made her way into the dining room and sat down in a booth by the front door.

  “I hope we have enough mead in the back,” Fin said.

  “Alto bought a stack of barrels the other day,” Scarlet said, massaging her temples. “We won’t run out. At least I hope we don’t.”

  “Yeah, really,” Fin replied with a nod. “You have any idea why they’re here, anyway?”

  “It’s because of poor Dorval,” said an old yet warm voice from behind them. It belonged to Alto, the owner of the pub and the head of the group home where Fin, Scarlet, and a few other Faranchie youths lived and worked. Alto walked to the door and stood next to Fin, the sunlight enhancing his leafgreen skin and emerald markings.

  “He’s a friend of mine,�
�� Alto said as he looked out. “He got into a confrontation with a Cullidon big shot in a village not far from here. The bastard tried to rape his daughter, prompting Dorval to intervene. As a result Dorval was arrested by authorities and tried in front of the high judge, with an all-Cullidon jury, for assault and sentenced to death. They’re going to hang him in the town square today.”

  “When did this all go down?” Fin asked.

  “About a week ago,” Alto replied, “in the village of Westingmore. They’re executing Dorval here because this was his birthplace, and this is where most of his family lives.”

  Scarlet glanced up. “Whatever happened to his daughter?” she asked.

  “I have no idea,” Alto said with a shrug. “I pray she’s okay, though.”

  The horn sounded again, this time accompanied by the sound of hooves on the muddy dirt road. As the sound came closer, Fin saw two large, black horses appear, towing a massive carriage behind them. A Cullidon conductor sat atop his perch, a black cloak covering him from head to toe, the leather reins grasped tightly in his hands. A second Cullidon, clad in matching attire, sat to his right, brandishing the conch shell, which he blew from time to time to produce that obnoxious, earsplitting squeal that every Faranchie loathed. The carriage approached the front of the pub, giving Fin a chance to see the ornate wood carvings on the sides and the top, which were painted as black as the steeds that pulled it. Massive, spiked wheels ripped the muddy roads to shreds, leaving a pair of deep ditches in their wake. As the rude cavalcade passed by, Fin looked through the barred windows and saw the face of a blue Faranchie staring at the floor.

  “A few old pals of mine are going to pay Dorval his respects today at his execution,” Alto said. “Because you two are the oldest youths here, I’ll let you come if you want to. But I must warn you, hangings are graphic. Trust me.” Alto paused while he gazed in the direction of the carriage. “I’ve seen enough of my friends hanged to know.”

  “Alto,” Fin replied, “thanks for the offer, but I’d rather stay here.”

  “Same with me,” Scarlet said with a nod.

  “I don’t blame you two,” Alto replied. He disappeared into the back for a second and returned wearing a tattered old vest. “I’ll be back in a few. Wake the rest of the house, and tell them to get this place ready to serve by noon.”

  “We’ll make sure of that,” Fin replied.

  Alto crossed the threshold and headed into the street but stopped halfway, turned around, and said, “I didn’t think you two were ready to see it.” Pausing, Alto looked down at the tracks left behind by the carriage and pondered his next words. “I don’t think I’m ready to see it,” Alto continued, “but I need to go. Dorval was my friend, and I pray you never have to go through something like this in either of your lifetimes.”

  For a moment Fin thought he saw Alto shed a tear as he turned away from the pub and proceeded down the road.

  3

  THE PLENTIFUL SUNSHINE OF the morning gave way to overcast skies by the afternoon, and by nightfall a wintry mix of rain and snow was coming down on the pub’s thatched roof. Just as expected, the day had been a busy one, with depressed Faranchies packing the cramped dining room to drink their sorrows away. When the sun went down, more customers came in, and much to the dismay of the employees, the pub was forced to stay open past its closing time. Fin had not left his post behind the bar since noon, handing out glasses of ale and mead until his fingers nearly bled from flipping keg taps. From where he stood, Fin surveyed the sea of patrons seated at every table, bathing in the warm glow of candles and oil lamps. The sound of a hundred conversations filled the air, mixed with the steady patter of rain on the roof. Outside the reflection of the street lamps shone through the wet blown-glass windows, forming their yellow glow into distorted and abstract shapes. Fin’s reflection looked back up at him in the large cherry-oak bar table, while the sparkle of wineglasses and beakers twinkled on the underside of the cabinet above him.

  Looking behind his shoulder, Fin saw his reflection caught by the dozens of different bottles containing a vast variety of liquors. They were arranged in order, with the tallest bottles standing in the back and the smaller ones in the front. Under this shelf sat three large wooden kegs of ale and mead, with metal spouts protruding from their bottoms and a gutter under their taps. This collected the excess liquid that fell with every pull of the tap. Throughout the day, whatever landed in the gutter would be cleaned out and distributed among the members of the house. It tasted like garbage, naturally, and Fin was the only one in the home who would drink it. He was, as a matter of fact, the only one in the home who had any sense of tolerance, and over the years, he had come to enjoy the sickening concoction. This had a lot to do with the fact that it gave him a nice buzz, and on nights like tonight, maintaining a buzz was the only thing that kept him sane.

  Things had begun to die down before the antique grandfather clock in the corner of the room struck twelve. A few customers had already left, but most of them remained where they were, drinking the night away with no concern for the morning. After Fin finished wiping down the tops of the bottles, he rested against the old shelf and yawned. He took a sip from the pewter mug that contained the last of the gutter drippings, taking it down in one gulp. The brew was warm, but like the trooper that he was, Fin swallowed it nonetheless. He figured it was probably the last time he would need to drink that stuff for the day. When he was done, he put the mug down and surveyed the dining room. Nobody had seen Alto in nearly eight hours, since he’d left with a few of his closest friends to the home of Dorval’s mate, with no clue as to when he would be back. Because Fin and Scarlet were the oldest members of the foster family, Alto had placed them in charge while he was away, just as he always did whenever he vacated the tavern for an extended period of time.

  Just as Fin was beginning to believe that the customers had stopped coming, the door opened, and in walked a Faranchie who was new to the ghetto. This stranger, who appeared to be in his thirties, was tall, standing above everyone else in the pub. He sported a physique that most Faranchies would trade for with the tips of their tails. His skin was a jumbled pattern of black and white stripes, which were so evenly distributed throughout his body, Fin could not tell which color was his base and which was his secondary. The crests atop his head resembled the halves of two dinner plates, sitting next to each other in a V shape and covered with the same pattern of black-and-white markings. While he looked like he could easily take everyone in the bar in a single fight, the stranger appeared uneasy, and he quickly made his way to the bar without bothering to make eye contact with anyone else.

  “How can I help you?” Fin asked when the stranger reached the bar.

  “What is the lightest beverage you have?” the stranger asked.

  Fin cocked an eye. He had never heard a customer ask for something like that in his entire life. “Well, we have a very mild wine that’s not very strong—”

  “I’ll take a glass,” the stranger interrupted.

  “Okay…” Fin replied, perplexed. He turned around and reached for a small bottle at the far end of the shelf, took a glass from the rack, and poured the beverage.

  “That’ll be a half rallod,” Fin said, sliding the glass forward. “Heck, for a half rallod more, I’ll throw in the entire bottle. You’re the first customer to order that wine in…Damn, now that I think of it, I can’t remember the last time someone ordered a glass of this stuff.” The stranger grinned while he dug through a leather knapsack strapped to his waist for the right amount of money.

  “Thanks for the offer,” he said, taking a gold coin from the bag, “but no thanks. I can’t say I drink that much. Alcohol ruins my concentration.”

  And that’s a bad thing how? Fin thought and smiled, pretending to understand. The stranger reached over the counter to hand Fin the coin, but when Fin opened his right palm to take the money, the stranger froze; it was like he was in some kind of trance. His eyes widened and locked onto something near
Fin’s hand.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” Fin asked. The stranger snapped out of his trance.

  “Oh…um…no,” the stranger said. “It’s just, how did you get that?” He motioned to a small, round burn mark on Fin’s palm.

  “That?” Fin asked, motioning to the burn. “I was being an idiot last week and grabbed a pot before it was finished cooling off. But it’s healed enough for me not to wear a bandage. Why?”

  “Nothing,” the stranger said abruptly. He gave the coin to Fin, turned around, and took a seat by the fireplace. He sat with his back against the wall, taking small, awkward sips from his glass.

  What was that about? Fin thought as he placed the coin in a collection box under the counter. Something was clearly off about this customer, from the predatory way he looked at Fin’s burn. Fin took a look at his right palm, at the crescent-shaped mass of scar tissue, and wondered what the stranger had seen.

  To take his mind off the situation, Fin reached under the counter and took out a small pipe made from carved cow’s bone. The rounded cup was already filled with a dried, ground-up herb that, when burned, created a smoke that produced a pleasant high when inhaled. Fin took a candle from the end of the bar and dipped its flame into the cup, igniting the herb. He then put the hollow spout in his mouth and inhaled deeply. He leaned against the shelf and exhaled, causing white vapors to pour from his nose. Fin took the pipe out of his mouth, letting a cloud of blue-white smoke spill from his lips. He coughed a little when the smoke bit the back of his throat, but not much. It made Fin recall the first time he had taken a hit of the herb, when he was only fifteen years of age. He’d coughed and coughed until his lungs ached, and then was floored by a high that lasted for a total of six hours. Fin was much more mature now, able to understand his limits and to better tolerate the sharpness of the heat that his pipe produced.