The Fenimeldiyaan: Origins - Chapter 3
Gerald grew bored of doing his push-ups and sat up, running his hand through his hair in idleness. He glanced to his cell’s neighbour, the pretty young woman from another world, and leaned against the wall.
He wondered if she would understand him, and decided to try, for the sake of conversation. “Oi,” he said, sliding down into a seated position. “What does she want ye for? Can ye even understand me language, or am I just talking to meself as usual?”
Sighing, he laid down and stared at the ceiling.
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Morgan picked up the clean set of robes which had been laid out for him and got dressed. He figured that if the opportunity came for an escape, he would rather not run away covered in only a bath towel. He was in the process of lacing up one boot when he heard the lock click.
Without knocking or announcing herself, Ciracea strode into the room. “Morgan, I must apologise for having to lock you in. Twas necessary for your own safety. There have been several breaches in our security. At least two intruders have managed to get past my guards today”. She gave a faint smile. “Tis most regrettable. As Governess of this facility, I be held responsible for the safety of everyone within these walls, whether they be employed here or visiting like yourself”.
Morgan stared at her for a moment before grabbing his other boot. “Umm … I did wonder why you locked the door. I thought I must have done something to offend you”.
“Of course not!” She laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “Oh, Morgan, you could never do anything to offend me. I promised you a meal and I can only apologise again that it had to be delayed due to the infiltration problem. It should be safe for you to come to the dining hall now”.
Right on cue, Morgan’s stomach rumbled. Although he never turned down the offer of food, he had an over-riding priority to learn the layout of the fortress with a view to finding Gerald. He mumbled his thanks and followed Ciracea out of the room.
One grey stone corridor looked very much like another. Morgan tried to keep track of the route while Ciracea made insignificant small-talk about the severity of Fesnarian winters, the dangerous predators lurking in the forest and the difficulties of being short-staffed at the fortress. He nodded and murmured at intervals, but his attention was elsewhere, mostly concerned with how annoyed Apollo would be and whether he would come to the fortress.
Flickering gas lamps set in niches provided illumination for the large dining hall. There were also candles on the huge banqueting table. Morgan thought it ridiculous to have a table of that size for only two diners, but he made no comment.
“Please be seated” Ciracea invited. “Dinner will be served shortly. Perhaps you’d join me in a glass of mulled wine first”.
Morgan sniffed at the contents of the crystal goblet, wondering whether the wine had been poisoned. Apollo would be able to tell. That thought generated yet more guilt. He watched the elegant sorceress taking a small sip from her goblet. On impulse, he took a gulp of the dark red liquid, savouring the pleasant spicy aroma, thinking that if it had been poisoned, it was no less than he deserved for being so foolish and selfish.
Servants arrived a few minutes later, bearing trays laden with covered dishes. Delicious aromas wafted in the air, making Morgan’s mouth water.
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Fiametta lifted her head at the sound of Gerald’s voice. For all she could understand, he may as well have been reciting poetry or talking in Varilingua codes. She gave a vague half-smile and a helpless shrug. “Sorry, I’ve no idea what ye be saying. We’ll have to wait for Fhadre Alberto to come back. He’ll translate for us”.
Gerald cursed in frustration at the language barrier. The only words of her reply that he could make out were “Father Alberto”.
A loud whistle drew his attention. One of the ragged men in the cells further along waved at him. He waved back and the man in rags smiled, showing teeth which had been filed into points.
“I speak little Vordellan” the man stated, grinding out each word as though it caused him physical pain. “And … err … Fhadre Alberto taught me”. He gestured to the attractive young woman. “Lady Fiametta Scalani. From important Inner Circle family. Governess wants alliance with Inner Circle. Much power and …”. He stumbled over the next word. It might have been “influence” or “importance”.
“At last!” Gerald got up and went over to the bars, craning his head around to see the man who had spoken. “Someone I can talk to, even if only a little bit. I came here to find peace but instead I found imprisonment and boredom. Can ye tell me anything about this land?”
The man nodded. “Land of Fesnaria. I came here on mission. War happened. Government overthrown by …”. His forehead wrinkled with intense concentration as he sought the correct word. “Revels … no … rebels”. He grinned. “Rebels! Common people tired of working for little money. After war … riots. Then Governess came. Promised peace. Mistook me for rebel, locked me up here”.
Gerald sighed. “Same old story. Happens all over. One tyrant getting replaced by another one. They make pretty promises but nothing changes. Least not for the ordinary people. So where d’ye come from?”
“Varathusia” the man replied. “Same as Fhadre Alberto. I be Plinio Rodriguez. Serve Inner Circle in small way. Not important. Think no-one notice me missing. Then Fhadre Alberto came. Said rescue soon”.
“So this Inner Circle be the Government where ye live?” Gerald enquired, struggling to understand the complexities of Varathusian politics.
“Not Government, no”. Plinio shook his head. “No Government on Vara. Ruling families. Inner Circle. Most powerful families rule”.
“A monarchy then?” Gerald asked. “Kings, queens, princes?”
Another vigorous head-shake from Plinio. “No monarchy either. Ruling families. Alliance of all Inner Circle families”.
Their conversation continued in similar vein. Gerald absorbed as much information as he could, hoping that it would be useful to him at some point. At the very least, it provided a diversion from the monotony of imprisonment.
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Apollo reached the bottom of the winding staircase. He paused and surveyed the area, noticing four guards sitting around a table, playing cards. The smallest guard turned around and winked at him, while retrieving a card which he had deliberately dropped on the floor.
“I know ye, Apollo Lightbringer”. A telepathic voice projected into Apollo’s mind. He looked across at the clumsy little guard, but the man had returned his attention to the game. “I be here for the same reason as ye — to rescue these poor souls. Don’t look at me. Carry on and I’ll keep ‘em busy. Go on, pilgrim, get to the cells!”
Apollo hesitated for a moment, wondering if it could be a trick or a trap. The little man slammed down his hand of cards, spitting out an angry curse and bemoaning his bad luck. The other three howled with laughter.
Seizing the opportunity, Apollo slipped past the table and headed for the cells.
------------------------------
River listened intently to Gerald’s and Plinio’s conversation, still viewing the drawing that had been left for her. The little girl frowned intently, before scribbling a note down and passing it through the bars of her cell, to Gerald.
Gerald looked at the girl. “She says she be mute,” he reported, glancing back at Plinio. “But she be wanting to ask ye something, for she don’t know if ye be able to read our language.”
Plinio inclined his head as he thought. “Go ahead.”
Gerald continued reading the note. “She wants to know if ye know something called the Chimera Obscura,” he said, stumbling slightly over the unfamiliar terms.
Plinio brightened. “Guardian of Grehelin Street,” he said. “He be protector. Where little girl get the name from?”
Both men looked at River, but she shook her head, her meaning clear: She wasn’t telling. The constant expression of fear on her face seemed to have dissipated into calm, though, and she sat back on her bed.
Gerald sighed. Children. There was simply no accounting for them.
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Apollo continued on through the dungeons, turning over that odd little man in his mind. Why was he helping him? How did he know who Apollo was? Deciding that he would accept his blessings where they came, he continued on until he heard a familiar voice.
“Gerald!” he burst out quietly, walking the final few steps to face his … sort-of friend.
Gerald scrambled to his feet, going to the bars of his cell. “Apollo! Mate! How the devil did ye get here?” he exclaimed.
“Some funny little man helped me, but we can talk about that later,” Apollo said, examining the lock. “Morgan’s in trouble.”
“What else is new?” Gerald muttered. “We gotta get all these prisoners out, mate.”
“I’m aware,” Apollo replied. “But if I use magic to open the cells, then it’ll attract the caster of the sorcery wards. We may have a problem if I can’t fend her off.”
Gerald was impatient when discussing the inner workings of magic, as usual. “Just do it. Surely combined we be more than a match for her.”
Apollo sighed. “You don’t understand it, do you?” he muttered. “But I don’t think I can go back out the way I came, not without succeeding, so I suppose we’ll have to take a gamble.”
“Ye? Gamble?” Gerald said.
“Oh hush,” Apollo said, taking his staff off his back and pointing it at the lock. A glowing golden beam of light entered the lock, and he felt the sorcery wards send alarms off to their caster. Cursing quietly, he opened the cell. “Come on, and keep watch!”
Gerald left his cell as Apollo moved on to Fiametta, smiling briefly at the young woman before starting on her lock. He tried to ignore the terrible feeling in him that this was going to end very, very badly.
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Morgan was eating enthusiastically. Despite his guilt, he knew he had to keep up his strength, and food supplied him with magic. He ignored the dull feeling in his stomach as he ate, occasionally mumbling responses to his hostess’s idle chatter.
He dropped his fork. A splitting pain assaulted his mind; Apollo had done something. He didn’t know what, but he’d done something. Used his magic, likely on something dark and evil. Trying to recover, Morgan quickly picked up his fork and started eating again, risking a glance at Ciracea.
There was a slight frown on her face. She’d felt it too.
He wondered if she would understand him, and decided to try, for the sake of conversation. “Oi,” he said, sliding down into a seated position. “What does she want ye for? Can ye even understand me language, or am I just talking to meself as usual?”
Sighing, he laid down and stared at the ceiling.
----------------------------------
Morgan picked up the clean set of robes which had been laid out for him and got dressed. He figured that if the opportunity came for an escape, he would rather not run away covered in only a bath towel. He was in the process of lacing up one boot when he heard the lock click.
Without knocking or announcing herself, Ciracea strode into the room. “Morgan, I must apologise for having to lock you in. Twas necessary for your own safety. There have been several breaches in our security. At least two intruders have managed to get past my guards today”. She gave a faint smile. “Tis most regrettable. As Governess of this facility, I be held responsible for the safety of everyone within these walls, whether they be employed here or visiting like yourself”.
Morgan stared at her for a moment before grabbing his other boot. “Umm … I did wonder why you locked the door. I thought I must have done something to offend you”.
“Of course not!” She laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “Oh, Morgan, you could never do anything to offend me. I promised you a meal and I can only apologise again that it had to be delayed due to the infiltration problem. It should be safe for you to come to the dining hall now”.
Right on cue, Morgan’s stomach rumbled. Although he never turned down the offer of food, he had an over-riding priority to learn the layout of the fortress with a view to finding Gerald. He mumbled his thanks and followed Ciracea out of the room.
One grey stone corridor looked very much like another. Morgan tried to keep track of the route while Ciracea made insignificant small-talk about the severity of Fesnarian winters, the dangerous predators lurking in the forest and the difficulties of being short-staffed at the fortress. He nodded and murmured at intervals, but his attention was elsewhere, mostly concerned with how annoyed Apollo would be and whether he would come to the fortress.
Flickering gas lamps set in niches provided illumination for the large dining hall. There were also candles on the huge banqueting table. Morgan thought it ridiculous to have a table of that size for only two diners, but he made no comment.
“Please be seated” Ciracea invited. “Dinner will be served shortly. Perhaps you’d join me in a glass of mulled wine first”.
Morgan sniffed at the contents of the crystal goblet, wondering whether the wine had been poisoned. Apollo would be able to tell. That thought generated yet more guilt. He watched the elegant sorceress taking a small sip from her goblet. On impulse, he took a gulp of the dark red liquid, savouring the pleasant spicy aroma, thinking that if it had been poisoned, it was no less than he deserved for being so foolish and selfish.
Servants arrived a few minutes later, bearing trays laden with covered dishes. Delicious aromas wafted in the air, making Morgan’s mouth water.
-------------------------------
Fiametta lifted her head at the sound of Gerald’s voice. For all she could understand, he may as well have been reciting poetry or talking in Varilingua codes. She gave a vague half-smile and a helpless shrug. “Sorry, I’ve no idea what ye be saying. We’ll have to wait for Fhadre Alberto to come back. He’ll translate for us”.
Gerald cursed in frustration at the language barrier. The only words of her reply that he could make out were “Father Alberto”.
A loud whistle drew his attention. One of the ragged men in the cells further along waved at him. He waved back and the man in rags smiled, showing teeth which had been filed into points.
“I speak little Vordellan” the man stated, grinding out each word as though it caused him physical pain. “And … err … Fhadre Alberto taught me”. He gestured to the attractive young woman. “Lady Fiametta Scalani. From important Inner Circle family. Governess wants alliance with Inner Circle. Much power and …”. He stumbled over the next word. It might have been “influence” or “importance”.
“At last!” Gerald got up and went over to the bars, craning his head around to see the man who had spoken. “Someone I can talk to, even if only a little bit. I came here to find peace but instead I found imprisonment and boredom. Can ye tell me anything about this land?”
The man nodded. “Land of Fesnaria. I came here on mission. War happened. Government overthrown by …”. His forehead wrinkled with intense concentration as he sought the correct word. “Revels … no … rebels”. He grinned. “Rebels! Common people tired of working for little money. After war … riots. Then Governess came. Promised peace. Mistook me for rebel, locked me up here”.
Gerald sighed. “Same old story. Happens all over. One tyrant getting replaced by another one. They make pretty promises but nothing changes. Least not for the ordinary people. So where d’ye come from?”
“Varathusia” the man replied. “Same as Fhadre Alberto. I be Plinio Rodriguez. Serve Inner Circle in small way. Not important. Think no-one notice me missing. Then Fhadre Alberto came. Said rescue soon”.
“So this Inner Circle be the Government where ye live?” Gerald enquired, struggling to understand the complexities of Varathusian politics.
“Not Government, no”. Plinio shook his head. “No Government on Vara. Ruling families. Inner Circle. Most powerful families rule”.
“A monarchy then?” Gerald asked. “Kings, queens, princes?”
Another vigorous head-shake from Plinio. “No monarchy either. Ruling families. Alliance of all Inner Circle families”.
Their conversation continued in similar vein. Gerald absorbed as much information as he could, hoping that it would be useful to him at some point. At the very least, it provided a diversion from the monotony of imprisonment.
------------------------------
Apollo reached the bottom of the winding staircase. He paused and surveyed the area, noticing four guards sitting around a table, playing cards. The smallest guard turned around and winked at him, while retrieving a card which he had deliberately dropped on the floor.
“I know ye, Apollo Lightbringer”. A telepathic voice projected into Apollo’s mind. He looked across at the clumsy little guard, but the man had returned his attention to the game. “I be here for the same reason as ye — to rescue these poor souls. Don’t look at me. Carry on and I’ll keep ‘em busy. Go on, pilgrim, get to the cells!”
Apollo hesitated for a moment, wondering if it could be a trick or a trap. The little man slammed down his hand of cards, spitting out an angry curse and bemoaning his bad luck. The other three howled with laughter.
Seizing the opportunity, Apollo slipped past the table and headed for the cells.
------------------------------
River listened intently to Gerald’s and Plinio’s conversation, still viewing the drawing that had been left for her. The little girl frowned intently, before scribbling a note down and passing it through the bars of her cell, to Gerald.
Gerald looked at the girl. “She says she be mute,” he reported, glancing back at Plinio. “But she be wanting to ask ye something, for she don’t know if ye be able to read our language.”
Plinio inclined his head as he thought. “Go ahead.”
Gerald continued reading the note. “She wants to know if ye know something called the Chimera Obscura,” he said, stumbling slightly over the unfamiliar terms.
Plinio brightened. “Guardian of Grehelin Street,” he said. “He be protector. Where little girl get the name from?”
Both men looked at River, but she shook her head, her meaning clear: She wasn’t telling. The constant expression of fear on her face seemed to have dissipated into calm, though, and she sat back on her bed.
Gerald sighed. Children. There was simply no accounting for them.
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Apollo continued on through the dungeons, turning over that odd little man in his mind. Why was he helping him? How did he know who Apollo was? Deciding that he would accept his blessings where they came, he continued on until he heard a familiar voice.
“Gerald!” he burst out quietly, walking the final few steps to face his … sort-of friend.
Gerald scrambled to his feet, going to the bars of his cell. “Apollo! Mate! How the devil did ye get here?” he exclaimed.
“Some funny little man helped me, but we can talk about that later,” Apollo said, examining the lock. “Morgan’s in trouble.”
“What else is new?” Gerald muttered. “We gotta get all these prisoners out, mate.”
“I’m aware,” Apollo replied. “But if I use magic to open the cells, then it’ll attract the caster of the sorcery wards. We may have a problem if I can’t fend her off.”
Gerald was impatient when discussing the inner workings of magic, as usual. “Just do it. Surely combined we be more than a match for her.”
Apollo sighed. “You don’t understand it, do you?” he muttered. “But I don’t think I can go back out the way I came, not without succeeding, so I suppose we’ll have to take a gamble.”
“Ye? Gamble?” Gerald said.
“Oh hush,” Apollo said, taking his staff off his back and pointing it at the lock. A glowing golden beam of light entered the lock, and he felt the sorcery wards send alarms off to their caster. Cursing quietly, he opened the cell. “Come on, and keep watch!”
Gerald left his cell as Apollo moved on to Fiametta, smiling briefly at the young woman before starting on her lock. He tried to ignore the terrible feeling in him that this was going to end very, very badly.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Morgan was eating enthusiastically. Despite his guilt, he knew he had to keep up his strength, and food supplied him with magic. He ignored the dull feeling in his stomach as he ate, occasionally mumbling responses to his hostess’s idle chatter.
He dropped his fork. A splitting pain assaulted his mind; Apollo had done something. He didn’t know what, but he’d done something. Used his magic, likely on something dark and evil. Trying to recover, Morgan quickly picked up his fork and started eating again, risking a glance at Ciracea.
There was a slight frown on her face. She’d felt it too.
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