The Fenimeldiyaan: Origins - Chapter 1

Ciracea DeGraaw put down her hairbrush and positioned the glittering tiara on top of her gleaming blonde curls. The rubies in the tiara matched the colour of her red velvet robes. Smiling to herself, she applied lipstick in the same shade. Appearances were important and she liked to look her best, even during her regular inspections of her prisoners in the dungeons.

Two guards wearing red tabards over their armour waited outside her door to escort her down the long winding staircase into the dungeons which had been constructed inside Broken Hill, beneath the fortress which Ciracea had claimed as her new base of operations.

She stood and smoothed her robes, taking a final glance in the mirror before leaving her elegantly appointed bedchamber.

The guards bowed to her and kept their demeanour humble while they prepared for the long descent.

“Not today” she remarked, smiling at them. “As a reward for good behaviour, we can take the short-cut”.

She grabbed hold of their arms and effected the translocation, saving both time and energy for herself and her guards.

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The four guards on duty in the dungeons stood and snapped to attention at her dramatic arrival. She laughed, enjoying their discomfort. When she chose to walk, they would at least have advance warning, hearing footsteps on the stone floor. By translocating, she had the element of surprise, hoping to catch them in an idle moment, not paying attention to the prisoners.

Most of the cells were still vacant. She had only recently established her headquarters at the Broken Hill Fortress and there was much work yet to be accomplished before she could put the next stage of her long-term plans into operation.

The young woman in the first cell sat on her bunk staring at the floor, pointedly ignoring Ciracea.

Moving close to the bars, Ciracea spoke in a menacing tone. “I will break you, little flower. You can act as sulky as you wish but you’ll swear allegiance to me eventually. A high-profile Carpathian Lady such as yourself be aware of how the game be played. And you can forget about your dear old Uncle Claude arranging a rescue for you. He has no idea where to send his operatives and after all, he has many other nieces and nephews. You be expendable to him and you know it”.

The young woman remained still like a statue, refusing to give any noticeable reaction to Ciracea’s threat. She had heard it all before and it meant nothing to her.

In the second cell, a tall, dark-haired man in a leather tunic and breeches reclined on the bunk. If not for his grim surroundings, he might have been sunbathing on a beach. Since he had been captured three days ago, he had pretended not to care, taking his cue from the young woman in the cell next to him.

Ciracea smiled at him. “Fitzgerald Hunt, always a pleasure. Since you have no particular allegiance, I ask again, will you lend me your sword and your strength? Will you fight alongside my loyal soldiers? I can be most generous. You’d earn more in a month of fighting for me than you could pick up in a lifetime of grubbing around like you were before I found you”.

The man shook his head. “Not interested. I came to this forsaken place for a bit of peace and quiet. I’ve done too much fighting lately”.

“Such a pity” Ciracea purred. “But I believe you’ll have a change of heart very soon. Idleness doesn’t sit well with a man of action like you”.

He muttered something under his breath in his own language. It might have been a curse. Ciracea smiled and moved on to the next cell.

The dishevelled teenage girl sat on the bunk, her legs tucked up close to her chin and her arms encircling them, hugging an old book which she refused to let go of.

“River Meer” Ciracea cooed. “Favourite and most valuable of all my prisoners. I hear you knocked two of my guards unconscious with one of your energy strikes earlier”. She stroked the metal bars as if they were strings on a harp. “Didn’t make a dent in these though, did you? Focus my dear, tis what you lack. But I could teach you. Together we could do amazing things”.

The girl made no verbal response. Instead she gave a vigorous head-shake.

“Still in denial of your powers, eh?” Ciracea mused. “So tragic, what happened to your poor brother. You’ve no idea what I be talking about though. But I can help you remember. Curiosity be a strange beast, my dear. It tugs on the mind in disturbing ways. In time you’ll be begging for my help”.

The girl stared into the distance, past Ciracea, gazing at something that only she could perceive.

Ciracea gave her a benevolent smile before continuing on her rounds, visiting the less interesting prisoners. She gave a little speech to each of them. Some of them responded with pleas to be let out, others swore at her and a few of the most stubborn ignored her.

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The portal opened up, spitting out two young men who hit the ground with a dull thud. Groaning, the dark-haired one sat up, brushing his long hair behind his ear in frustration. “Did we really have to come here?” he complained, not for the first time. “I mean, Gerald told us in no uncertain terms that he can ‘handle himself’.”

“Considering that it was your faulty portal that sent him here, you really shouldn’t be complaining,” Morgan Shadowbinder’s cousin, Apollo Lightbringer, replied. “Besides, poor Elsa is fairly out of her mind with worry.”

Morgan looked sulky. “It’s his own fault for asking me to send him to Dundar to see his mother,” he replied.

“I’m beginning to question if the portal accident was really an accident at all,” Apollo observed, sliding his white staff into the cradle on his back. “Be serious for once, Morgan. We haven’t heard from Gerald in four days. Whether you like it or not, Elsa is his wife, and she’s understandably worried. As am I. And as should you be. Because if you don’t bring Gerald back home safely, she’s going to stab you with that knife of hers.”

Morgan swallowed. “Too true,” he admitted, looking around. “Say, this is an interestingly dark forest.”

“Not as interestingly dark and creepy as that fortress up there,” Apollo replied, pointing.

Morgan followed his point and narrowed his bright green eyes. “You know what we should do before going to the dark and creepy fortress?”

“I have an idea of what you probably want to do,” Apollo answered, rather heavily.

“No you don’t,” Morgan retorted.

Apollo looked back at Morgan cynically. “Eat and sleep?”

Morgan deflated somewhat. “How do you always know?” he asked.

“Maybe because you never change,” Apollo answered. “But I agree. We shouldn’t charge into anything. We’ll eat and rest for the night, then see if we can find any local villages or towns to see who’s dwelling in that fortress.”

“Do you think Gerald’s there?” Morgan questioned.

“Knowing Gerald?” Apollo asked with a sigh. “Most likely. Let’s eat.”

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Once Ciracea had gone, Gerald Hunt rolled back onto his bunk, digging into the pocket of his leather coat. He produced a silver coin with an eye etched onto it, running his weathered thumb over it. The last thing he wanted was the sorceress to see it and take it from him. Knowing her, she would use it as leverage over him. Sighing, he flipped it up and caught it, putting it in his pocket before standing up again.

There was nothing more dull than being locked in a prison cell. He leaned his forehead against the bars and heaved a sigh. More to give himself something to more than anything else, he went down on the floor and started doing push-ups. It was just something to do.

In the other cell, little River Meer curled up on her bunk. Her brown curls slid over her face. Being mute, she made no attempt to communicate with her fellow prisoners. What was the use? She knew that no matter how much she tried to fight Ciracea, the woman would eventually get what she wanted. No matter how much River tried, she would fall eventually. She just wasn’t strong enough to fight it.

Tears trickled down her cheeks. Why was it that everywhere she went, people tried to take advantage of her?

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Laughing quietly to himself at the conversation he had overheard, the skinny little man cancelled his invisibility spell. “Morgan Shadowbinder and Apollo Lightbringer” he muttered under his breath. The names meant nothing to him but he had heard the young man named Apollo expressing a wish to visit the Broken Hill Fortress. He hoped that they would not get in the way of his mission to the same place.

He rummaged in his rucksack and brought out a set of black priestly robes which he put on over his black jumpsuit. He pulled the hood of the outer robe over his head, shouldered his rucksack and set off again, heading in the direction of the fortress.

It took him roughly an hour to reach the fortress due to the need for stealth being more important than speed. Running into a squad of patrolling soldiers would not serve him, even in his priestly disguise.

The climb up the hill to the main entrance of the fortress presented no difficulty for the nimble little man. He hoisted up the hem of his robes while he ascended the steep slope and even gave a cheery wave to the guards stationed in the battlements.

One tug on the bell-pull caused a loud booming ring to reverberate all around the fortress, inside and out, alerting everyone within to the arrival of a visitor. The huge granite slab which served as the entrance gate creaked open and a guard peered out, only his eyes showing through a slit in his full-face helmet. “State your business!” he barked.

The man in the priestly robes bowed his head. “I be Fhadre Alberto Demarco of the Ordo Justo, come to minister to the prisoners”. He grinned at the guard. “Blessings of the Goddess be upon ye, now and for always”.

“Blessings won’t get you very far in here” the guard growled, opening the door a little wider. “But a man of the cloth be permitted under the Governess’s laws”.

Fhadre Demarco followed the guard inside. The guard beckoned one of his colleagues over. “Show the priest to the dungeons. He wants to preach to the prisoners, what little good it’ll do them”.

The second guard nodded. “This way”. He gestured towards a corridor on the far side of the huge empty entrance hall. His heavy boots thumped on the stone floor while the sandaled feet of the little priest made no sound at all.

By the time they reached the bottom of the long winding staircase, the guard was perspiring beneath his armour but the little priest showed no signs of exertion.

“Try not to linger after the sixth hour” the guard warned. “Governess starts her inspection rounds then and she likes her private time with the prisoners”.

The priest nodded. “Understood. Tis approaching the fourth hour now and I doubt I’ll need that long. No need to wait around for me. I be sure ye have other duties to attend to and I don’t want to take up yer precious time. I can find me own way out”.

He waited until the guard had ascended the first circle of the staircase before approaching the cell block. The four guards on duty briefly looked up from their card game.

The priest leaned over the shoulder of one of them, whispering “Colleague to yer right be cheating. Extra azo … I mean ace … up his sleeve”.

The guard’s forehead creased and his eyes widened in astonishment. “How can you tell?”

The priest gave the merest hint of a chuckle. “Standard sleight of hand movement. I do conjuring tricks as a hobby, y’see”.

He contrived to nudge the cheater with his elbow. “Sorry about that, pilgrim. No harm intended. I’d best be about me business. Blessings of the Goddess be upon ye all”.

The cheating guard nodded in acknowledgment of the priest’s apology, not noticing that the little man had removed the ace from its hiding place.

The priest dropped the extra card on the floor before continuing past the guards and onwards to the cells.

At the first cell, he bowed low in front of the young Carpathian woman. “Lady Fiametta, I be Fhadre Alberto Demarco of the Ordo Justo, come to pray with ye and offer comfort in yer time of need”.

On hearing the familiar Carpathian dialect spoken by the priest, she raised her head. “A priest of Iraevesh? How comes ye know me?”

“The Goddess knows everyone” he replied, giving her a sly wink. “She be watching over the faithful and the unbelievers alike. She sees all and knows all. I come to re-ignite the fragile flame of hope in yer tormented soul. Wind turns green and the Goddess smiles. Everything will be the right size”.

Lady Fiametta tried to smile. It had been a long time since she had last used her facial muscles in such a way and she felt as if she were learning how to turn up the corners of her mouth for the first time. “Yer words bring me great comfort indeed, Fhadre. I thank the Goddess for thinking of me”.

“Let’s pray together for a brighter future” he suggested, hoisting up his robes and sitting cross-legged in front of her cell. Along with the prayer cycle which he intoned aloud, he also projected a telepathic message. “I serve yer uncle, Lord Claudio Scalani, in the capacity of Spy Master. I promised him I’d find ye and bring ye back. I need to conduct more surveillance of the fortress afore I can attempt a rescue but ye have me word of honour as a Carpathian that I’ll get ye out”.

After he had finished the prayer cycle, he went to the next cell, observing the young leather-clad man going through his exercise routine. “Greetings to ye, Citizen. I know ye ain’t of me faith, but mayhap ye’d care to take some time outa yer busy schedule to pray with me”.

Gerald paused in the midst of his press-ups and stared at the little priest. The man had spoken to him in Vordellan. “How d’ye know me language, priest?”

The priest chuckled. “Ye’d be surprised what we learn in the Holy Temple. In order to reach out to people, we of the Priesthood have to be good communicators. Tis no good only being able to speak to our fellow Carpathians”.

“Carpathians?” Gerald questioned. “Never heard of ‘em”.

“No reason why ye should have” the priest replied. “Far as I know, none of me people have ever been to Vordelle, Dundar or anywhere else in the Meldin Galaxy”.

“Ye’ve heard of Dundar as well?” Gerald eyed the little priest with suspicion.

“Only in passing” the priest answered. “But I couldn’t help noticing that faint Dundarian accent which ye try to cover up. It has similarities to the Middle Virian dialect, which I be rather more familiar with”.

“Ye ain’t no ordinary priest” Gerald accused. “For a start, ye got a reaction out of her”. He gestured to the young woman whom the priest had addressed as Lady Fiametta. “No-one else has managed that”.

“Tis the power of the Goddess Iraevesh being channelled through me”. To Gerald, it sounded as though the priest might be joking, but he could not be certain. He laughed anyway. It felt good to have something to laugh about.

The priest joined in with the laughter. “Tis good to meet ye, Citizen”. He introduced himself, followed by a formal bow from the waist.

Gerald followed suit. “Good to meet ye too, Father Alberto”.

They chatted for a while longer, until the priest moved on to the cell containing the silent teenage girl.

River Meer lifted her head from her knees when the priest approached her cell. She had recognised the Vordellan dialect and followed the conversation between him and Gerald. Taking a stub of pencil from a pocket in her ragged dress, she opened her book and began writing.

When she had finished, she held it up for the priest to see. “Will you help me?” she had written.

He nodded and smiled. “Aye, of course I will. None of ye deserve to be in this place. How did ye come to be here? What does the Governess want with all of ye?”

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River watched the priest thoughtfully, but as she started to write, it was the young man that answered. “I were trying to get somewhere by portal,” he answered, sounding as if he was being careful with his response. “Brought me here instead. Made the mistake of looking around, and a group of that woman’s soldiers found me. They attacked me and I fought ‘em. It were going well for me,” he added, a little defensively, “till she turned up. One word and I couldn’t move an inch. Then she brought me here by … trans — transl —”

“Translocation,” the priest offered.

Gerald nodded. “Aye. And she been after me to join her ever since. Seems I impressed her with me swordsmanship.” The young man frowned. “She took me sword.”

River’s pencil snapped and the girl gave an annoyed huff of air. The priest looked at her and she looked away, not having written half of how she’d gotten captured to him. She didn’t know how she’d come to end up in this world, but she did know that she’d been found and captured by Ciracea’s soldiers. After accidentally injuring three of them with her powers, they’d brought her to the woman, who’d immediately tried to get her to join with her. River had refused, seeing the woman had pure darkness to her.

Fhadre Alberto smiled at the girl. “Tis alright,” he said. Mentally, he projected to the girl, “I will get ye out.”

River blinked at him, tentatively smiling her thanks. Gerald, growing weary of the conversation, sat back down on his bed, one hand rubbing his limping leg while the other twisted his ring around on his left hand. Alberto saw it and said, “Ye be married?”

Immediately, Gerald clenched his fist, stuffing his hand into his pocket. “Aye,” he said in an undeniably cold voice. There was no particular reason for it, beyond the fact that he was never comfortable speaking about his background with strangers. Particularly not a stranger as strange as the priest before him.

The man didn’t seem to take offence to Gerald’s odd behaviour. “Good for ye,” he told him, with another peculiar smile. Gerald stared off into the corner, avoiding the man’s eyes. Inside his pocket, his fingers stroked the silver coin.

River curled back up on her bed, remembering that Ciracea was due back soon. She came every day, at the same time, and usually said much of the same thing. River preferred it that way, since she was terrified to think of what the sorceress might do if she grew weary of trying to convince the girl to join her side.

She tugged the dress up over her shoulder, since it was obviously much too large for her. Just for a moment, the many scars on her back from beatings had been exposed to the little man in the corridor.

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Morgan and Apollo listlessly ate the travellers’ food they’d brought with them — dried meats and fruits. It definitely wasn’t Morgan’s favourite, and he was muttering under his breath as he ate. Apollo was calm, staring at nothing as he simply thought.

Morgan frowned. “Do you feel that?” he asked suddenly, his voice sounding unusually loud in the quiet.

Apollo looked up, eyebrows raised. “Feel what?” he said, watching his friend carefully.

Morgan narrowed his stunning green eyes. “It’s … nothing. I’m going to go look around for a minute.” Before Apollo could speak, Morgan had risen and gone off into the forest.

For a moment, Apollo considered whether he should go after Morgan. Taking his staff from his back, he slammed the bottom of it against the ground, and light illuminated around him. Looking carefully, he saw black shadows twisting through the trees, and following after Morgan.

Great. So whoever was in that fortress had dark magic. And that was most likely what Morgan had felt and was now heading right towards. Cursing under his breath, Apollo grabbed their packs and went after his cousin, deeper into the woods, towards the fortress.