A small churchwren had made its nest under the eaves of Garlot Abbey.  The wren was in distress.  It had caught its claw in a crack where the masonry had fallen away.  Far above the steps to the grand building, it mewed a plaintive cry.  The wren had spent days trying to extricate itself but every time it pulled its thin, knobbly leg, her nest would wobble and her five young chicks would topple and roll across the twigs and dry grass of their small home.  Unaware of their precarious position, the offspring cawed and squealed for food and water.  For weeks the chicks had been happily dining on the shatterbugs their mother had brought them.  Despite the prodigious numbers of shatterbugs that had swept over the Myr, it was uncommon to find them near holy buildings, as churchwrens had taken a liking to the crunchy, delicate creatures.  The birds’ voracious appetite had kept the shatterbugs at bay, but the last few days had seen a cloud of the glowing bugs appear over Garlot Abbey, darting about the steeple like shooting stars.   

        The abbey was one of countless places of worship spread throughout the world, but none commanded a more breathtaking view.  It was perched upon the edge of a high cliff that cut into the Nessan Sea like the prow of a ship.  Far below in the tranquil waters across which sailed ships of all shapes and sizes, bound for the cosmopolitan city of Gobnet to the north and the highly disreputable port of Brigantia to the south.

 

 

At the front of the old abbey lay a broad courtyard framed by wide marble steps on three sides.  In the centre of this courtyard stood a tall, marble statue of an old man, his hands open wide in a benevolent gesture.  Around one of these hands, a leather rope had been wound, the other end of which was tethered to a black female snorse which chewed on the rich grass sneaking out between cracks in the paving stones at the base of the statue.  Next to the snorse two figures draped in tunics of indigo and gold waited patiently, looking expectantly at the door to Garlot Abbey.

        One of the figures, a young red-headed Acoran girl, looked up at the statue and smiled.  A golden plaque at the base of the statue simply read: Cephalus Silenus.  She looked over to her similarly young and red-headed sibling.  ‘It’s like him, don’t you think Tomas?’

        The man looked up at the face of the statue whose gentle eastward gaze fell upon a cliff-top meadow where herds of shelp were bleating in the morning light.  ‘Yes, Cate,’ Tomas replied, ‘there’s definitely a resemblance, although I have never seen Cephalus holding onto the reigns of a snorse!’

        Cate giggled.  ‘I’ve never seen Cephalus with quawk faeces all over him.’

        Tomas walked away from the soiled statue and cast a fleeting glance up at the sky.  There was no sign of the quawks.  ‘You know Cate, I really hate those birds.’

        ‘Yes, me too.  Someone should shoot them all out of the sky.’

        ‘I heard of a Tuirrenian who once shot a quawk.  Apparently the rest of the flock pursued him for weeks, dropping their… waste upon him wherever he went.’

        ‘What happened to him?’ Cate asked.

        ‘Apparently he slipped on all the excrement and split his head open on a rock.’

        ‘What happened to the birds?’

        ‘They just flew away and no-one in the entire realm of Tuirren ever shot a quawk again.’

        Cate nodded, soaking in the story, unsure whether her brother was making it up.  She gazed up at the statue and felt more than a little dismay at the fetid mess that desecrated her holy master in the most demeaning of ways.  ‘You know Tomas, this is really your fault,’ she said pointing up at the statue.  ‘You should have left the birds something at lunch.  Then they would have left us alone.’

        ‘I was starving and it was my last leg of roast shelp.  I’m not going to share it with nasty avian scavengers.’

        She giggled again.  ‘I don’t think Father Gideon is going to be too impressed when he sees what has become of his statue.’  

        To the right of the statue, a series of engraved tablets had been set amongst the paving stones.  Cate had visited the abbey many times in the past and knew the text upon the stones by heart.  They told the story of the modern church and Cephalus Silenus’ pivotal part in its development.  It was common to find the tale inscribed in the brickwork of the Myr’s holy places.  

        Five centuries ago, the countries of Helyas and Tuirren went to war over a holy dispute.  A priest from a church in Tuirren had travelled to the Helyan city of Palomides to beg the Helyans to put an end to the bloody games known as the Festival of the Forging.  Distressed after witnessing the bloodshed of the competition, the priest sought comfort in a Helyan temple and knelt down to pray.  Appalled to see a member of a monotheistic religious order defiling her temple, a Helyan priestess killed the man and left his body on the steps of the temple where other visitors to Palomides would see it and learn from the example she had provided.  

        Within two months of the incident, Tuirren launched a full naval assault upon the Helyan city of Terminus and captured it in the name of the priest who had been slain.  War raged, until the military forces of Tuirren, unable to maintain their supply lines, relinquished their hold upon Terminus and returned home.  16,000 men and women died in the three year war.  What followed was an era of mistrust and terrifying religious parochialism.  All over the Myr, armed guards stood watch over churches, temples, chapels and kirks.  Irrespective of the religion, one thing the holy places had in common was a contingent of armed guards standing on the steps outside.  This period of religious fervour was accompanied by similarly passionate persecution.  In the name of God or gods, thousands more were killed and previously amicable relationships between many countries became strained or broken.

        In Arnaksak, a secret mission was given to a sect of Arnakki warrior-priests to travel south across the Oshalla Ocean to the city of Pelinore where priests prayed to the Scorian ocean god.  The Arnakki also had an ocean god and would not suffer the Scorians to have one too.  On a cloud-filled night, the Arnakki priests secretly sailed into the harbour of Pelinore and before morning arrived had killed every priest in the vast city.  Over 300 holy men and women died that night.  

        The slaughter of the Pelinese clergy was an act that would not be tolerated.  It polarized nations.  The Myr stood on the brink of world war.

        But one man changed it all, a humble Helyan apothecary who went by the name of Cephalus Silenus.  This desert hermit took it upon himself to unite the religions of the world and did so in a way that few would have imagined – with the use of drugs.  Silenus was a devout atheist and long held that religion was merely a spiritual narcotic, a way of dealing with the horribly transient nature of life upon the Myr.  Silenus had little time for religion and had spent his life researching ways in which to prolong life beyond the short span given to most Myrrans.  But when he heard about the slaughter of the Pelinese priests, he was outraged.  It seemed to Silenus that – at the heart of it – many religions were fairly similar and the difference lay in the details.  He spent years experimenting with drugs that would address this situation until one spring day, shortly after the Acora had burnt several Nessan bethels to the ground, he perfected his solution.

        He had developed a powder of extraordinary properties.  It was an hallucinogen with highly specific effects - it allowed a user to see, hear and smell exactly what they expected to experience.  Upon entering a holy building, each member of a congregation was given a tablet to swallow.  The effects were immediate and incredibly powerful.  By the time a churchgoer took his or her seat, the environment would appear exactly as it should appear.  The sermon would be in strict accordance with whatever religion the drug-taker subscribed to.  Religious statues and icons would appear exactly as they should, despite the fact that in reality nothing adorned a single pedestal or table inside the church.  To those sitting in the pews, a holy place would be accoutred with all appropriate ornaments and displays.  Even the most ardent zealot would be satisfied as the drug manifested all they needed to see.

        In Silenus’ arrangement, an Acoran could look across a pew and see a Helyan listening to scriptures based on the teachings of Levander, the father of all life.  In the Helyan’s mind, he was hearing a sermon exploring the tales of his pantheon of gods, but the Acoran would not see it that way.  Creation stories that contradicted one another, religious messages that were diametrically opposed and vastly different ethics all were explored under the one roof where the Myr’s religions coexisted in a happy state of contradiction.  

        Although it was impossible to do so, anyone entering the church without taking the drug would have seen chaos as some Myrrans stood whilst others knelt, some sang whilst others prayed in silence.  During some parts of the service, the Spriggans in the congregation would give everyone kisses on the cheek oblivious to the Tethrans who flagellated themselves periodically throughout the mass.  It was madness, but it worked.  All religions retained their independence but the petty religious rivalries and small-minded conflicts became a thing of the past. 

Despite the widespread condemnation of the concept when it was initially proposed and the steadfast objection to it over many decades, Cephalus Silenus persevered.  It was an impossible idea that should have failed, but didn’t, and as a result the world seemed less dogmatic.  Although critics of the drug-induced cohesiveness remained, the fact was that the world was a more peaceful place than it had been for many years.

        There was one other significant change that was instituted – the giving of alms.  It was the one thing Silenus had mandated from the beginning.  As the drugs were dispensed at the start of each service, every member of the congregation was expected to donate a single coin.  The coins were not payment for the drugs, nor were they intended for the poor.  Into each coin was distilled the sins of the giver.  To give a coin was to hand over one’s transgressions.  It was a strange practice and many thought it to be a symbolic gesture, but Silenus argued otherwise.  He believed this simple act of contrition to be crucial to the spiritual advancement of all Myrrans.  He had met with every religious leader in the Myr and delicately convinced them to accept the practice.  At first his critics cited the collection of alms to be an overt act of exploitation, but they were unable to explain the incredible feeling of release experienced by all who turned over a coin.  There was not a single person who did not feel a weight lift from their shoulders as they placed their coin in the almoner’s box at the entrance to a church.  

        For many years, some claimed Cephalus Silenus to be Morgai, skilled in the arts of healing and persuasion, but most accepted that he was much greater.  He was a holy man who had changed the world for the better.  The job done, it was inevitable that Silenus would retreat from public life.  He lived a private existence in a hidden grove called the Nemetona, in the south-western corner of Nessa, surrounded by his loyal acolytes, the Almoners who travelled the world collecting the coins that had amassed at each church.  

 

 

‘Here he comes!’ said Cate when she heard the lowing creak of the abbey’s door.  

        The priest was tall and walked with long purposeful strides.  He carried before him the wide, wooden almoner’s box that usually stood inside the church doors.  He wore the traditional attire of Nessan holy men and women.  A thick, black cowl was drawn over the man’s head, keeping his eyes and forehead in shadow.  A similarly dark mask obscured the lower part of his face.  The mask was little more than a heavy cloth veil that ran from ear to ear across the bridge of the priest’s nose.  Despite the warm wind that accompanied late afternoons in Nessan spring-times, the priests of Garlot wore dense, dark woollen robes that flowed all the way to the paving stones at their feet.  Only the priest’s hands were visible and they were unadorned.  Individuality was not a pursuit of the Nessan priests and they did much to deny the expression of it within their order.  In matters of spirituality, one’s gender, age and race were irrelevant.  

        ‘Here are the alms,’ said the priest, his voice deep and rich but lacking in warmth.  Although he had met Cate and Tomas Audrey countless times before, he spoke to them with a formality that suggested otherwise.

        The pair nodded graciously and smiled.  A light breeze took the indigo material of Cate’s robe and rippled it across the air, revealing light pink skin above her breasts.  She did not seem to be any older than eighteen years of age and, for all her spiritual devotion, exuded a potent sexual presence that made the priest look elsewhere whenever he spoke to her.  Like all other Almoners, Cate did not wear a priest’s veil, cowl and cassock nor did she wear shoes.  Her hand brushed the priest's as she took  the large wooden box filled with coins from him.  Oblivious to the effect she had on him, and on all males with whom she came into contact, Cate turned and skipped over to the snorse tethered to the statue at the centre of the courtyard.  The coins made a clinking sound as they were carefully poured into the saddle-pack lying across the snorse’s hind quarter.

        Cate returned to the priest, smiling broadly as she handed back the empty wooden box.  ‘Thank-you Father Gideon,’ she said, her voice playful and young.  She liked the priest – she liked everyone – and always displayed this naïve affection.

The priest gave a small bow and started walking back to the abbey doors.  

        Suddenly he stopped and spun around quickly, nervous that the two Almoners had left.  They were still in the middle of the courtyard.  Tomas was untying the snorse’s reins from Silenus’ marble hand and Cate was tightening the saddlebags in preparation for the two day trek back to the Nemetona grove.

        ‘I almost forgot!’ the priest exclaimed as he strode hastily back to the pair, rummaging in his robes as he came.  From the depths of an inner pocket he extracted a gold coin.  ‘Please take care of this, Cate,’ he said softly as he placed it in her hand.  ‘It is mine.’

        She nodded respectfully to him and took the coin, a little confused and uncertain.  ‘I will, Father, but surely...’

        ‘Thank-you Cate,’ he said with unmistakable humility and soon disappeared through the abbey doors.

 

 

The afternoon light squeezed through the shutters of the bedroom window, forming bars of light upon the tatty, grey rugs that lay across the uneven floorboards of the priest’s small quarters.  His chamber was located near the top of the abbey’s western tower.  It was cluttered with papers and books.  A long, narrow, unmade cot lay alongside one wall.  Against the adjacent wall an old desk had been placed under the thin slit of a window.  In the centre of the desk sat a small easel upon which lay a half-finished water-colour painting of sugar-elms hanging above a lush garden.  In the centre of the garden a fountain sprayed water high into the air.  On the left hand side of the painting, thick black clouds had gathered over the long colourless strokes of the sea.  Crisp white triangles hinted at the sails of distant ships upon the grey water.  In a jar beside the painting, three paint brushes stood like fingers rising up from a black pond.

        The door to the room opened and the priest entered, carefully carrying a lit taper before him.  He lit a candle on the desk, then blew out the fragile flame dancing at the end of the taper.  He sat down on an incredibly ornate but dangerously rickety, old chair and leaned forward on the desk.  One hand pulled down the cloth mask on his face, revealing a proud countenance that was not so much aged as fatigued.  Although he looked about twenty years of age, his sad eyes suggested he had seen many more years than that.  The priest stared at the candle on the desk, but failed to see its light.  His mind was somewhere else, many years ago...

 

---

 

The streets of Pelinore were soaked in the rain as heavy clouds continued to wander in from the Oshalla Ocean.  The downpour sent everyone scurrying from the streets of the bustling harbour city, except one man who ignored the elements and strode purposefully towards the wharf.  When he reached the promenade overlooking the port, he paused and scanned the houses lining the street.  Hanging over the door of one of them was a large brass eye – the marketplace symbol for a fortune-teller’s shop. Thoroughly drenched, the man cut across the cobblestone street, ignoring its puddles, his eyes fixed on the shop.  A lamp was lit within and a small sign which read ‘Open’ hung in the window.

        As he opened the door, a gust of wind exploded behind him, ripping the handle from his grasp.  His cloak billowed around him and rain continued to hammer the back of his head.

        ‘You’re here!  About time!’ a crackly voice sang out from the behind the curtains at the rear of the shop.  The man then heard the crashing of some glass upon wooden floorboards, which was followed by a curse in a strange language.  This outburst continued for a while whilst whoever was behind the curtains struggled to find the opening between them.  ‘Don’t just stand there like a lost shelp,’ the voice snapped.  ‘Shut the door, Remiel!’

        He was unnerved to hear his own name from a stranger, but should not have been surprised – this particular seer’s talents were renowned throughout Scoriath.  Indeed, he had heard of people who had travelled from across the sea to have their future read by the woman.  He shut the door and noticed with a smile that there was no bell that shopkeepers usually used to alert them to the entrance of a customer.  ‘You know my name?’ he mumbled.

        ‘Remiel Grayson, son of Gideon, brother and twin to Caliban,’ the voice stated proudly.  ‘Yes, sweet boy, I have been expecting you for a long time!’  

        He looked up from the pool of water he had brought into the shop, perplexed by the voice.  It had softened and seemed much younger than the shrill speech he had heard only moments before.  A woman clad in purple and gold stood in front of him, gazing contentedly at the bedraggled figure before her.  Black hair fell onto lily-white shoulders and he was at once captivated by her beauty.

        ‘Remiel?’ she asked, bemused by his transfixed gaze.

        ‘I’m sorry,’ Remiel responded, ‘I was expecting someone much older.’

        ‘And perhaps, not quite so attractive, yes?’ she suggested.

        ‘Um… yes,’ he offered, mortified by his own honesty.

        ‘Oh, don’t be embarrassed Remiel.  This is a place of truth.’  She approached him slowly, almost seductively, and when they stood inches apart, he felt her hand wrap around his.  A tingle of electricity shot through him, and he was astonished by how arousing he found her presence to be.

        She led him across the room and sat him down on a luxurious leather couch, bedecked in cushions and soft covers made of white fur.  He thought she would take the chair facing the couch but instead she sat down next to him, her closeness momentarily making him forget his reason for being there.  She dropped the purple shawl from her shoulders.  Her golden dress clung to her like sun on skin and Remiel trembled from the potent sensuality radiating from her body.  He was nineteen and the seer seemed the same age.

        Trying to tear himself from the spell he was under, Remiel straightened up and looked her in the eye.  ‘You are no mere soothsayer.  You are Morgai.  I have heard the whispers.’

        She placed a hand on his lap, teasing him and leaned closely, her voice a gentle breeze in his ear.  ‘You should be careful about listening to whispers!’ she murmured ironically.

        ‘I need –’

        ‘Yes, I know why you are here Remiel.  Your father has revealed to you what he is and has been for centuries.’

        ‘So it is true?’ he asked, seeking confirmation of something so incredible that he had not slept for two days since being told.

        The seer nodded her head.  ‘Surely, you know it is.’

        ‘He is dying.’

        She nodded again.  ‘His gifts are great but he is not so powerful that he can evade time forever.’

        Remiel clasped his hands together and rested his elbows on his knees.  He was still in shock.  He struggled to appreciate how something of such magnitude was kept secret. ‘Why did he not reveal this to us earlier? How did he keep it quiet all this time?’  

        She laughed and placed an arm around his shoulders.  Although she was still a beguiling, brash, young woman in his eyes, she now took on a maternal aspect.  It was a strange feeling to one who had never known his mother.  ‘Remiel, your father did great things in his time but he put aside his Morgai ways when you and your brother were laid on his doorstep.  I think he found his time as your father to be more fulfilling than the 200 years preceding it.’

        ‘Then you knew him?’ he asked softly.

        ‘Long, long ago, yes, I knew him.  There were more of us around then.  Gideon and I were close friends although he was older than I was.  Decades ago I noticed a detachment in him, a reluctance to use the gifts he has – it was as if he had exhausted himself as one of the most active Morgai the Myr has known.  Your father changed more lives than you could imagine Remiel.’  The young man looked into the seer’s eyes and saw nothing but sincere admiration for Gideon Grayson.  She obviously revered the man and it was in that moment, he realized that he hardly knew his father at all.  

        ‘I had no idea,’ Remiel sighed.

        She patted his hand.  ‘He preferred it that way.  A man of tremendous humility, your father.  It was only at the end of his days that he found something, he always lacked – a simple life.  I came to Pelinore twenty years ago seeking his assistance on a small matter concerning some visions I had at the time.  I quickly realized that he did not want to take part in any more adventures, and so I have kept my distance, waiting patiently.’  

        Her voice seemed much older, tinged with sorrow and her gaze had drifted from him to a moment in the past.  Or perhaps the future.

           ‘Waiting?  Waiting for what?’ Remiel queried, asking the question for which her last comment begged.

        Her eyes refocused and the young woman was back in her voice.  ‘Why, for you, sweet boy.  I’ve been waiting for you.’

        Remiel needed to clear his head.  He thought he had come to the seer by his own volition but now he felt as if he were part of a scripted play, speaking the lines others knew, but he had not rehearsed.  He walked over to the window.  Rain was striking it horizontally, blurring the familiar docks outside.  He needed to ask why she was waiting for him, but he wanted to kick against expectation, defy fate in the most trivial of ways.  And so he asked the second question that sprang into his head, disposing of the other question triumphantly.

        ‘What were his… talents?’

        She smiled, unsurprised by the question.  ‘Your father had many.  Gideon Grayson was perhaps the most gifted Morgai of our era.  He casually ignored most laws of physics.  He could command the movement of objects with a thought.  He could manipulate matter in a fashion that would shame the gods.  His power was both wonderful and terrifying.  I once saw him pluck a drowning child from the Mymidon Rapids with a small gesture of the hand.  I have also seen him stop a man’s heart just by thinking it.  Fifty years ago, your father and I protected the city of Ceres from Arion pirates.  He also repelled the Dark Seraph assault upon Bregon and stopped the Sessymirian foray into Amasis.  It is rumoured that he stopped the collapse of an entire mine in Camulos, saving hundreds of Kobolds from certain death.’

        Remiel stood transfixed by these tales of his father’s exploits.  He had been living with a hero all his life and never knew it.  Or rather, he knew it, but never realized it.  The seer’s words were less of an epiphany and more like the confirmation of a thought on the edge of his mind.

        ‘But,’ she continued, ‘these weren’t his most notable deeds, at least not in my eyes.  Gideon’s greatest power was far less conspicuous.  He could see through to the truth in others, and seeing things for what they were, he could avoid the traps of dissimulation so many of us set to ensnare others.  Untouched by pretence and deceit, he could exert influence in the most subtle ways, achieving outcomes that were always in the common good, and so served society in a way few Morgai ever could. He was given trust readily and in receiving it, he never abused it.  Gideon Grayson became the most adept of public servants.  For almost fifty years he served the Assembly of Nations.  There your father did his greatest work, not as a Morgai saviour, but as a simple advisor to the Chamberlain.  In the Cloud Chamber, high above the fields of flowerfall encircling Cessair, his advice averted wars and set up relationships between nations that still stand today.

On the Grand Avenue leading to the steps of Cessair Tower, a monument stands in his honour.  Every day hundreds pass the statue, and yet there are very few Myrrans today who would know the name Gideon Grayson.  Another statue stands in the great statuary in Sarras, but I doubt there would be a Kobold alive who knows what your father has done for the people of Camulos.’

        Remiel sniffed as he became aware of the tears that had surreptitiously made their way to the rim of his eyelids.  The seer smiled, touched by the pride that had welled up in the young man’s eyes.

        ‘Remiel,’ she said, her voice less lyrical than it had been during her speech extolling his father’s triumphs, ‘your father will be dead before winter has passed.  His body is old and cannot contain the Morgai energies for much longer.’

        The young man nodded.  ‘He told me that his powers may pass to me.  Or my brother.  That is the way of things.’

        She paused before replying, giving him a look he could not define.  ‘No, not exactly.  His powers as I have described them will dissipate into the ether when he passes over.  It is true that the Gift of the Morgai is inherited by the child, but it is never the same gift, or gifts.  Each individual is endowed in a unique way.  There are no family traits.  My mother could pass through any object at will.  I can’t even walk across a room without bumping into something.  Apparently my grandfather could heal the sick with a touch of his hand, but I have no such skill.  I couldn’t even keep my little Brutus alive!’

        With notable sadness, she nodded at a rather large bowl of slate-coloured water that stood atop an ornate pedestal at the rear of the room.  Though the glass was dirty with pond-slime, Remiel could make out the thick, orange lump of a praga fish floating near the top of the bowl.  Its sharp teeth were fixed in a defiantly vicious smile but its bulbous eyes had clouded in death.  Remiel had heard of the much-despised fish and could not bring himself to feel anything for the deceased pet.  It had talons the size of a predatory bird’s and teeth lined its jaws like bent nails.  Praga fish had been known to shave a victim’s flesh from his bones and were among the most feared species throughout the lands.  The seer however seemed deeply affected by the passing of her pet.  ‘I had him imported all the way from the Naiyeni River deep in Acoran.  I fed him fresh skorpya every day which cost me a pretty penny, believe me.  But he clearly wanted more.’  Her voice faded away.

        ‘Shouldn’t you throw it out?’ Remiel suggested meekly.

        ‘I can’t bring myself to do it.’

        Remiel suddenly felt a little uncertain about the seer’s state of mind.  ‘If you don’t mind, could we possibly return to the matter at hand?’ he said cautiously, hoping not to offend her.  

        She turned back to him and clasped his hands in hers.  She was so near he could smell numerous fragrances floating up from the folds of her gowns.  Her perfumes and her nearness clouded his head a little, but he managed to hold onto his reason for being there and articulated as plainly as he could: ‘Morgai, I need to know – can you see my future?’

        She grinned knowingly.  ‘Is it your future you seek Remiel, or that of your twin brother?’

        ‘In knowing one, I will know the other.  Please tell me, which of us is to inherit our father’s power?’

        She held his gaze, looking deep into his questioning eyes.  ‘Do you think it’s you?’

        Remiel looked from the carpet to the fish bowl to the wet world outside as he tried to find an answer to this provocative question.  ‘I… I truly do not know.’

        ‘But you would like the power, wouldn’t you?’ she said softly.  There was something behind those words.  It was as if the seer were testing him.  Or tempting him.

        ‘My father has not told Caliban yet,’ he said blankly.

        ‘Do you believe that to be significant?’

        ‘Yes.’

        ‘Why?’

        ‘I don’t know.  I think that he… fears Caliban.’

        ‘There are very few things in this world Gideon Grayson fears, Remiel.’

        He said nothing.  He could feel her eyes upon him, scrutinizing him and he found the silence to be discomforting.  His eyes continued to roam the floor, not wanting to connect with hers.  She leaned closer and he felt her soft, sweet breath upon his face.  She spoke, her words delicately reaching out like tiny ripples across a tranquil pond.  ‘Remiel, do you desire power so much that you are driven here to acquire it?’

        Now he knew she was testing him and he felt a little insulted by the inference.  ‘No, you don’t understand.  It’s not that I seek power.  But I…’  He sat back in the couch unwilling to articulate what he was thinking, his hands breaking away from her long fingers which had been stroking his skin seditiously.

        ‘You fear what your brother would do with it.’

        Remiel nodded.  ‘Yes,’ he whispered, ashamed by the admission.

        ‘And you are here to discover if that fear is justified.’

        Again he nodded.

        ‘And if we find that your concerns are merited, what will you do?  Would you deny your brother the chance for greatness?  Would you take from him these special gifts and bestow them upon yourself? Does he not have just as much right to possess these talents as you?’

        He swallowed before speaking.  ‘For years now I have had dreams.  Bloody dreams through which Caliban hobbles, and everything he touches becomes diseased and rotten.  These dreams show sunless places I have never seen, where vile things lurk and sitting amongst it all, I see my brother, smiling a broken smile as all around him dies.  There must be a reason for these nightmares.’

        ‘You haven’t answered my question.  At the moment of his fading, your father will pass on his Morgai talents to one of his two children.  Are you prepared to take from him that which may be Caliban’s to claim?’

        Remiel leant forward.  ‘But why would one child have greater claim to such powers?  Are there rules?’

        The seer laughed.  ‘Rules!  If there is one thing that these magicks ignore, it is the notion of rules.  The Morgai gift is above the very concept of regulation.  It is the absence of rules, of natural laws, that makes the Morgai what they are.’

        ‘I just thought that perhaps the powers were passed to the first born, or something like that.’

        ‘Perhaps that would be the way of it if this were a fairy story Remiel.  But this is reality and I must warn you of the road you walk upon.  It is paved in contradictions and ironies.  You seek the future and that is hidden from you for a reason.’

        ‘But something brought me to you.  If the future holds something dreadful in store for the Myr, I could not live with myself knowing I could have changed that future but chose to sit on my hands instead.’

        ‘If you could influence the future, what are you prepared to do?’

        ‘Anything… for the greater good.’

        The seer stood up and stretched.  As she stretched, she closed her eyes, enjoying the increase of physical tension and its subsequent release.  Remiel noticed how the silks of her gown hugged the Morgai’s taut, youthful body.  She was – without question – the most bewitching woman he had ever seen.  He knew she was much older than she looked, but strangely, it didn’t seem to matter.  ‘The greater good,’ she mused as she threw her long, black hair back and massaged her scalp.  ‘Now there’s an interesting… meaningless phrase.  I wonder what Caliban would make of it.’  

        The mention of his brother’s name sent pangs of guilt ricocheting through Remiel’s brain.  ‘Seer, I love my brother and would spare him from becoming the thing in my dreams.’

        ‘They are only dreams at the moment, Remiel.’

        ‘Please… show me my future.’

 

 

She was a gifted seer.  She had even anticipated this very conversation and had already seen much of the future Remiel Grayson feared – he had good reason to be concerned.  What he had found in his dreams was not unlike that which she had discovered in her own visions, but where he had seen single threads, the seer had discerned entire tapestries, intricate, ornate and terrifying.

        For years Caliban Grayson’s image had appeared in her mind’s eye and there was no doubt that he had a pivotal part to play in irrefutably violent times ahead.  Two images repeated themselves to her.  She could see Caliban standing before a massive hanging crystal, laughing maniacally over what he saw.  A crimson light surrounded him giving her the impression that both he and the crystal were enveloped in blood. This image would invariably fade only to be replaced by one more startling and inexplicable.  A diseased severed hand clawed across the landscape, toppling over tall towers and church steeples like pieces on a gameboard.  She had never understood the visions but realized their significance.  Over recent years, the frequency and clarity of her imaginings increased and rarely had a week passed that she did not experience a variation upon these two visions.

        Caliban Grayson was her reason for staying in Pelinore.  Her visions of chaos began shortly after he and Remiel came into the world.  She had watched him from afar, but he was a secretive child and as he grew older he became even more private.  Respecting Gideon’s desire to be left alone, the seer had few opportunities to get close to Caliban, but there was no doubting her prescience was at its most potent when she was near him.  

        After ten years in Pelinore, the seer travelled abroad, seeking respite from the increasingly perturbing things she had seen, but the images did not stop.  Caliban had figured prominently in her visions in other cities.  She had read the future of a seamstress in Sulis and seen the woman's son poking the fallen body of a hideous female creature wearing a suit of armour made of bone.  This creature, seemingly dead, exploded into a fury of teeth and claws, ripping the man to shreds.  She ate of his flesh and upon finishing gave praise to Caliban.  

        In the incredible city of Ganesa, she had read the future of a woman whose daughter would become a famous dancer.  At first the girl's future seemed more promising than most.  The seer foretold of a magical night at the Scarlet Rock Theatre where the dancer was presented with a bouquet of eternal roses by the Chamberlain himself.  Similarly wonderful occasions followed and the Tethran woman had beamed to hear of her daughter's success.  But the images darkened and the seer foretold of a great vortex of water that swirled around the girl as her hand was torn from that of a man who was struggling to hold onto her.  The last image involving the woman's daughter was the most disturbing.  She had been washed up on the shore of a dark lake, her body battered and lifeless.  A foot nudged the body, and a long staff made of bone prodded it.  Numerous pairs of thin, pale hands rolled the body over to reveal the dancer’s face, ravaged by leprosy.  Standing above the body, silhouetted against a luminescent cavern wall was Caliban’s similarly diseased figure.

        In her foretellings, the seer saw many other images she could not explain, horrible simulacra of things yet to take place, but on the edge of all of them was the depraved visage of Caliban Grayson.

 

 

She drew herself out of her thoughts and spoke to Remiel.  ‘There is one who lives nearby, an apothecary by the name of Garnett Shaw, who is somehow entwined in this complex tapestry involving your brother.  Seven days ago he came to me seeking answers.  Like you, he has been plagued by dreams of a most troubling kind.  I read Shaw and know what lies in store for him.  He will leave Pelinore any day now and travel far across the sea.  Over the next few years, a growing number of apothecaries will join him in the fog-shrouded swamp of Mag Mel and he will rise to prominence within the community.  For a time, he shall live a fulfilled life, exploring his craft, enjoying the company of like-minded artisans.  But this will change.  Heralded by the arrival of a Pelinese knight by the name of Sir Edgar Worseley, a day will come when Shaw’s happy world will be ripped asunder by bone-covered warriors who fight for one called Caliban Grayson.  I understand your worries, Remiel.  I know your fear.’

        She took his hand and led him back to the couch.  She placed her hands upon his shoulders and pulled him towards her lap, indicating to him to lie down.  ‘Try to relax as much as you can,’ she said to him as he laid his head across her thighs.  She placed her soft fingertips on his temples and started rubbing them in delicate, circular movements.  He was not finding it difficult to relax.

        ‘I would like to know everything you see,’ he murmured as her fingers continued to massage his temples.

        The seer stopped and adopted a tone that was surprisingly stern.  ‘Remiel, that is not something I recommend.  I do not always see the future in a literal sense.  I see portents, symbols, images that may represent reality metaphorically.  I can interpret these but interpretation is a dangerous thing, even for one who is well-practised in the art.  For you to hear all I see is perilous.  It is true that sometimes what I see transpires exactly as I see it, but don’t forget, I lack context.’

        He opened his eyes, a little disappointed that she had stopped rubbing his head as she made her point.  ‘Context?’

        ‘I once looked into the future of a nobleman across the sea.  In my vision I saw a man standing over the badly beaten body of the nobleman’s son.  He held a knife to the boy’s throat and raised it to kill the boy.  In response to my vision, the nobleman immediately sent his soldiers to find the man I had described and they discovered him in the very act I had foreseen.  The man was disarmed before he could kill the boy and summarily executed for his crime.  A month after the dramatic rescue of the nobleman’s son, it was discovered that the boy had actually slaughtered the family of the man the soldiers had executed, and was responsible for the deaths of countless more innocents in the period that followed, including his own mother and father.’

        ‘You’re talking about Lord Essar of Tuirren aren’t you?  The boy was Kingsley Essar.  He was finally caught stealing into his baby sister’s room with the very knife that was on his throat when the soldiers rescued him.’

        The seer nodded.  ‘Yes.  Had I said nothing, Kingsley Essar would have been killed by the man whose family he had slaughtered and the lives of many more would have been saved.  We must be careful Remiel.  It is a serious business in which we are involved.’

        ‘But I must know.  There is too much at stake here.  I must know if my brother is to be corrupted by the Morgai powers he stands to inherit.’

        ‘It is not the powers of the Morgai that will corrupt your brother Remiel.  He already walks upon dark roads.  You are aware of his indulgence in black arts?’

        ‘I am.  I also see the visitors he admits to his house in the middle of the night.  Strange men and women from faraway lands.  Acora.  Caquikki.  Cephalonians.  I have watched them come and go, hiding their presence from the light of day.  I want to trust my brother but I am not a fool.’

        The seer contemplated this point of view and after long moments acquiesced to Remiel’s request – she would tell him everything she saw.  He closed his eyes and felt his mind cut loose of its moorings.  The seer’s voice floated to him across the empty space.

 

 

‘I’m in a cavern of some sort.  It’s a grotto.  I can hear water lapping against the walls around me.  There’s a mound with a strange crucifix in the middle of it.  Fixed on the cross is an old man with grey hair.  He’s barely alive.  Someone else is here.  I hear tapping…  It’s your brother.  Much older.  He looks pale.  His skin is torn.  He is holding a staff.  He’s… he’s torturing this man, but asks no questions of him.  Your brother, he’s smiling.  Wait, the grotto is fading.  

        ‘We’re in a room.  All the curtains are pulled.  A candle is being lit.  There are others in the room.  An Acoran.  He’s tall.  Handsome.  He is looking at the pages of a book.  Another man stands beside him pointing at some text.  He wears glasses.  The sides of his head are shaved.  Yes, he’s one of the Caquikki.  Caliban is there, listening intently to all the Caquikki is saying.  A baby cries.  It’s gone now.  I’m somewhere else.  

        ‘I can feel light on my face.  It’s very bright.  I’m on the edge of a cliff.  You are there.  So is the tall Acoran but he is different.  One side of his face is burnt.  There is another man there.  He has a long scar running down his face.  The scarred man swiftly stabs the Acoran with a black sword.  His body slides off the blade and topples over the cliff.  

        ‘The light is changing.  It’s now full of colour.  I’m in a church.  The sun is streaming through the windows.  It’s beautiful.  A man is kneeling before the altar.  I think he’s a priest.  He has his cowl drawn over his head.  The priest – it’s you Remiel.  You have a black veil across your face, but I can tell, it’s you.  Now we’re in a small room, a bedroom of sorts.  You are sitting at a desk.  You’re staring at a candle but you’re mind is elsewhere.  There’s a knock at the door.  You stand and turn.  Someone has entered the room.  It’s… it’s the Acoran again.  He puts out a hand to greet you but it is coated in blood.

        ‘Now you’re fading but the Acoran remains.  He sits with a young woman.  She’s Sessymirian.  She has a birthmark over her left eye.  Wait.  Everything is twisting.  I can see the Sessymirian but now she’s just a little girl.  Just an infant.  A man holds up a wide blade with a serrated edge.  Others hold the girl’s arm down on a table.  They’re going to cut off her hand!’

        The seer’s voice had risen – the brutality of the visions was taking a toll upon her. 

‘It’s night-time.  A desert.  You’re running.  There are others with you.  You’re all exhausted but you continue to run.

        ‘Wait… it’s still night-time but you’re somewhere else now.  A stadium of some sort.  You’re walking through the stands.  Ugh… it’s terrible!  I’ve never seen so many dead bodies all at once.  There are thousands of them, lying in pools of dark blood.  Their chests have been torn open.  Most of them have their eyes still open.  There’s a big man huddled over a small boy.  The man – he’s Tethran.  He has metal plates grafted to his skin.  He’s upset.  You’re standing beside him.  You’re telling him you’re sorry for what has happened.  He tells you that it’s not you’re fault.  Says he’s going to be the one to kill Caliban.

        ‘Now, it’s changing.  The wind is blowing.  Everything is moving.  I’m on a ship.  It’s a wreck.  The sails are torn, the masts broken.  There are bodies everywhere, most of them dead.  There’s a great crimson beast attacking the ship.  A Caquikki male is trapped under a beam on the shattered deck.  The beast clamps its jaws down upon this man.  No-one can stop it.

        ‘Everything’s changed again.  I can see you.  You’re captive.  Your arms are bound.  You’re saying something.  You’re telling someone he’s sick.  It’s Caliban.  He pulls out a knife and slashes you across the cheek.  Blood pours from the wound.  Now you’re curled up on the floor, screaming.  You’re in agony.  You’re clutching at your skin as if the flesh were being cut from your bones.  Caliban is watching, delighted by your pain.’

        The seer paused, but only to draw breath.  The barrage of visions continued to assault her.  Her eyes darted around in her head, trying to keep up with the maelstrom of images that enveloped her.

        ‘I’m in Cessair, I think.  Yes, I’m standing upon the fields of flowerfall before the city.  The tower.  It’s being ripped apart.  The city is crumbling.

        ‘Now it’s freezing cold.  I’m on an island.  A frozen island.  The sun is shining high above in a brilliant blue sky...  

        ‘No, now it’s early evening.  The stars are just coming out.  I’m standing at the base of a pit.  Something is rolling towards me.  It’s a head.  A Kobold head.  Someone is picking it up.  It’s Caliban.  He’s holding the bloody head aloft, threatening hundreds upon hundreds of Kobolds and Spriggans who watch on in horror.  Dear gods.  They’re slaughtering them.  Caliban has set an army upon the people in the pit.  I can see Spriggan bodies everywhere.  The Kobolds.  They’ve gone.   They’re all gone.  

        ‘It’s changed.  I can see you.  You’re on your knees.  You look shocked.  You gaze down.  A long, black sword covered in blood protrudes from your stomach.  Someone has stabbed you from behind, right through your spine.  It’s growing dark again.  It’s finished.  That’s it.

        ‘No.  Not yet.  There’s something else.  It’s, it’s… me.  I’m lying on my back.  I’m wounded.  I can taste the blood in my mouth.  A woman approaches me.  An Acoran.  She’s beautiful.  Dark hair and eyes.  She’s laughing at me.  She’s holding a glaive.  She’s going to kill me.  She pulls the glaive back and –’

 

 

The seer jumped up from her position on the couch and Remiel’s head fell back into the cushions.  He felt groggy and his head ached.  He shook his head to dispel the fog that had overtaken him.

        By contrast, the seer was ashen-faced and extremely agitated.  She gulped trying to regain her breath.  ‘In… in all my years of peering into the future,’ she said struggling to get each word out, ‘it’s the first time I’ve witnessed my own death.’

        Remiel sat up, rubbing the back of his head as if he’d been struck there.  ‘I know what you mean.  I’m not looking forward to having a sword rammed through my back.’

        The seer was clearly unnerved by the onslaught of images.  She collapsed back into the couch, her head falling into Remiel’s lap.  His arm wrapped around her to cradle her exhausted body.  He held her forearm and could feel her excited blood charging through her veins.  Remiel decided not to say anything more until the seer was ready.  She had shut her eyes.  Her breasts rose and fell as she struggled to get her breath back.  The foretelling had clearly taken a toll upon her.

        He looked down at her face.  She was striking.  High, rounded cheekbones accentuated the sublime symmetry of her face.  Her nose was thin and elegant as were her eyebrows.  Her silky hair fell across his lap like a dark wine spilling from her perfectly shaped head.  Her thick, red lips lay like ripe, red gorseberries upon a satin cloth.  

        ‘Remiel, I don’t mind you staring at me – in fact, I quite enjoy it – but I know you have questions you would like to ask.’

        He blushed.  He had just been told of the most brutal and bleak future imaginable and all he could think of was the seer's beauty.  He was amazed by his shallowness.

        ‘Don’t be embarrassed Remiel,’ she said softly without opening her eyes.  ‘It’s one of my Morgai talents.  Men struggle to concentrate upon other things when in my presence.  You’ve done very well to stay as focused as you have.’

        Remiel shrugged.  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess.’

        ‘Your questions Remiel?’

        ‘You mentioned many things that had nothing to do with me.  Why?’

        She smiled.  It was a logical question to ask.  ‘Sweet boy, I cannot pick and choose what I see.  I cannot control the visions that come to me.  It seems you have a pivotal role to play in all this.’

        ‘The girl.  The Sessymirian with the birthmark.  Who is she?’

        ‘I do not know.’

        Remiel dwelt upon the fate of this girl.  Of all the atrocities he had witnessed, this one stood out.  Perhaps it was her youth, her innocence.  Perhaps, more than anything, the girl’s plight epitomised the obscene cruelty of the future the seer had laid out before him.  ‘Can it be avoided?  Is this future set?’

        It was the question they all asked.  It was the inevitable quandary that surrounded stirring the waters of Time.  ‘I cannot answer that for you Remiel.  What you have seen is simply the future that unravels from here.’

        He frowned.  The answer was unsatisfying.  ‘Then tell me this – have you ever been wrong?’

        ‘Not to my knowledge.’

        ‘So there is nothing I can do to stop my brother from committing the atrocities we have witnessed here.’

        ‘I did not say that.  You must realise, in all my years of foretelling, I have never been presented with such an array of intricately-connected images.’

        ‘But can I change it?’ 

She opened her eyes.  His voice was suffused with the desperation that the situation would evoke in even the most stoic of individuals.

        ‘I don’t know Remiel.  As I said before, a Morgai’s skills defy laws and patterns.  It is not absolutely certain that you brother will triumph.’

        This did little to allay his fears.  ‘But what do I do?’

        ‘Perhaps nothing.  Difficult to say.  I cannot give counsel to you Remiel.’

        ‘What counsel do you give yourself?  You’ve seen your own death.  Will you just accept it when it comes?’

        The seer thought about this.  It was an excellent question and she had not expected it.  She sat up.  ‘I do not believe I will.  I’m not sure anyone can resign themselves to death so easily.’  She looked at his innocent face – he was too young to be embroiled in such a difficult situation.  The seer could see so much of his father in him.  She could sense he had his father’s heart.  ‘I assume Gideon has spoken to you about the Passing,’ she asked.

        ‘A little.  He said that at the moment of his death, he would hold his hands with his heir and the Morgai gift would be exchanged.’

        ‘Yes, the Passing is crucial.  It explains why the Morgai have all but departed the Myr.  Should there be no heir to receive the gift, the Morgai power simply fades from this realm and joins the mystical fabric of the universe.’

        He ran a hand through his tousled, black hair as he tried to digest what she had just said.  ‘I’m not sure I understand you.  Are you saying that neither of us will receive the gift should we not be present at the moment of our father’s death?’

        ‘Yes,’ she replied.  ‘That is correct. At the moment of death the Morgai power seeks a vessel, it cannot survive without a host.  The power is transferred to whomever it can reach.  It has nothing to do with blood-right or mystical rules.’

        ‘So if I possess it, my brother does not.  That is a simple choice, isn’t it?  Black.  White.’

        ‘Look outside, Remiel. Someone who has grown up on the rain-soaked streets of Pelinore should know, there is always grey.  And once something is grey, there is nothing that will make it white again.’

        He gave her a disgruntled look.  ‘I don’t need riddles, Morgai.  I need advice.  What am I to do?’

        She placed a hand on his cheek.  ‘Sweet boy, I cannot choose for you.’  

        ‘It’s hopeless,’ he muttered to himself.

The seer smiled.  She stood up, moved to the window and drew back the curtain.  The rain had stopped momentarily and the streets of Pelinore glistened.  Although, inevitably, the clouds would move in again, for a brief moment the beacon tower on the harbour stood a proud, brilliant white against the dark rain clouds that had drifted out to sea.  ‘There is always hope, Remiel.  There is always a way.’

        Remiel stood up and prepared to leave.  ‘Then I must try to defy fate.  I cannot do nothing.  You have just shown me a vision of things to come that requires me to act.  I have been told of a future far worse than anything I could have imagined.  Caliban is destined to inherit the power of the Morgai and I must do what I can to thwart such an eventuality.’

        Although the seer seemed preoccupied with a flock of gillygulls that darted about the waves in the harbour beyond, she was listening to him.  ‘Are you certain of that Remiel?’ she remarked, her eyes continuing to peer out the shop window.  'Unfortunately, the visions did not present the moment of the Passing.  We cannot say with absolute certainty that Caliban is Gideon’s heir.’

        ‘You ask me whether I am certain?’ he challenged her, his voice tinged with anger.  ‘I don’t have that luxury!  You alluded to the power he wielded over the creatures in your visions, his part in all that is to befall the Myr, the torture he inflicted upon me.  I have to assume he is the one who takes the inheritance.  Everything you described would not be so if I were Morgai and he a mere human.’  

        Remiel made his way to stand beside the seer.  On the other side of the glass, silvery rivers of rainwater found their way through the cobblestones.  A group of children had come outside to play on the street, splashing one another in the puddles on the roadside.  A man stood in the doorway of a shop smoking a pipe.  A number of boats in the harbour had used the break in the rain to set sail, the familiar, creamy white triangles of their canvasses lifting Remiel’s spirits a little.  He gazed upon the scene entranced by its familiarity.  A minute passed before he spoke.  ‘It’s such a beautiful world, Morgai.  I’d hate to lose it.’

        He placed a bag of coins upon a small table near the door and left the shop.

        ‘Lilith.  My name is Lilith,’ she said proudly as the door clattered shut.

 

 

But Remiel did not hear her.  His mind had moved on as soon as he stepped outside.  He was staring thoughtfully at a sign hanging above a shop down the way: ‘Dr Garnett Shaw, Apothecary’.  His eyes narrowed a little as an idea slithered into his head.  It was not a pleasant idea, nor was it something he would have entertained an hour before.  But a lot had changed in the past hour and with a purposeful step, he made his way down the footpath to the shop.  Giving a quick glance up and down the street before entering, Remiel opened the door and disappeared inside just as the first few drops of another deluge began to break upon the cobblestones.

 

---

 

The candle had exhausted itself and all was dark and silent in the small room.  Sleep had taken Father Gideon.  His head lay in his arms, as still as the stub of melted wax on the table beside him.

 

 

The murder of Captain Gramercy made no sense.  He was respected by friends, loved by family and disliked by no-one.  But he was dead with an ornate Acoran knife deep in his belly.  Jolon Bligh, the man who would be apprehended for his murder, usually spent his days doing odd jobs for the villagers in return for a meal and a smile and was the last person anyone in Garlot would have thought capable of such a heinous crime.   

        The local Magistrate hovered over the body as he tried to make sense of the situation.  He was a burly man, stoic in disposition and a stickler for the law.  He wore long, flowing black robes trimmed with red velvet.  Upon his round shoulders distinctive talon-shaped epaulets signified his great office as did the pair of golden bandoliers that lay across his chest.

        Salvatore Tarquinio was unperturbed by the gruesome scene, having seen far worse when he worked as a guard on the Hulks, the Myr’s infamous fleet of prison ships.  His deputies stood to one side watching their boss examine the dead man’s wound.

        ‘I think you'll find that the cause of death will be that rather large knife protruding from his stomach,’ Maeldune Canna said with a soft voice heavily laden with sarcasm.  He paced back and forth, occasionally stepping over the unconscious figure of Jolon Bligh lying in the gutter of the alleyway.  Clearly annoyed that he had been detained from leaving the scene, he looked up and down the narrow alley and growled, ‘How much longer is this going to take?  I have matters of great import awaiting my attention.’

        The Magistrate, a broad-faced Nessan with ruddy cheeks, looked up at the tall Acoran and apologised.  ‘Minister Canna, I am sorry but we can’t release you from a crime scene until we get all the facts straight.’

        Maeldune sneered at him.  As Minister for Justice, Maeldune Canna was the man’s superior, the only person other than the Chamberlain to whom the Myr’s Magistrates had to answer.  This fact was not lost on the Magistrate who wanted nothing more than to be somewhere else, such as the middle of a tavern brawl or quelling a riot in the local jail.  

        Maeldune cleared his throat, his way of suggesting to the Magistrate that he should pay careful attention to what was to follow.  ‘You want the facts, do you?  Then let me reiterate them for you in language simple enough for you to understand.’  

        The deputies risked a look at one another, wondering whether their boss would respond to this deliberately provocative taunt.  The Magistrate’s ruddy face gained even more colour but he said nothing, waiting for Maeldune to continue.  

        The Acoran walked around the dead body and stood above the Magistrate, his stance doing much to suggest who was really in charge.  ‘On my way to the abbey at the top of the bluff, I heard the sounds of raised voices coming from this alley.  I investigated to find this man’ – he paused to glance down at the somewhat pathetic figure of Jolon Bligh lying in the gutter – ‘hunched over the body of the victim.  He had his right-hand on the pommel of the dagger and his left hand was searching through the victim’s coat pockets.  Enraged by what I saw, I picked up a rock and struck the perpetrator across the head with it.  Shortly afterwards, you and your men, no doubt informed of a disturbance by a local resident, arrived to find that I already had the situation in hand.  Such a brave act of civic duty would be applauded in most towns, but clearly not in Garlot.’

        ‘Minister,’ the Magistrate whispered gently, clearly apprehensive of saying anything more that could upset Maeldune, ‘this man can only be considered a suspect at this point in time.  We cannot assume any more until we have heard his side to the story and in order to do that, we must wait for him to regain consciousness.’

        Maeldune’s eyes flared.  ‘Do not patronise me with your prattling explanations, Magistrate.  I am insulted by your comment.  It smacks of insubordination.’

        The Magistrate rose with his head lowered and his hands held open in a gesture meant to placate the Acoran.  ‘Minister, I assure you that is not the case.  I was merely explaining the regulations that govern my actions in a situation such as this.’

        ‘You do not need to lecture me about such regulations,’ Maeldune scoffed.  ‘I had a hand in writing them, or perhaps I need to remind you of who I am.’

        ‘No sir, that won’t be necessary.’

        Maeldune leant down and to the amazement of all who were conscious in the alleyway, he plucked the dagger from the stomach of the deceased and proceeded to wipe the blade clean on the dead man’s sleeve.  ‘Please, Magistrate, indulge me.  Who am I?’

        The Magistrate swallowed hard.  All moisture had vanished from his mouth and he found it difficult to find the words to speak.  ‘You are Maeldune Canna, Minister for Justice.’

        ‘That is correct.  Let us explore that further shall we?’  Although his words were formal and his manner polite, there was no mistaking the sinister intent of Maeldune’s comments.  ‘I am the Minister for Justice and you are a Magistrate.  As Magistrate, you enjoy a privileged position, do you not?  Answerable to no-one?’

        ‘I am answerable to you and the Chamberlain.’

        ‘Ah yes, yes you are,’ Maeldune mused, the wry smile on his lips more dangerous than the weapon he held in his hand.  He looked at the dagger and held it up admiringly.  ‘It’s beautiful don’t you think?  Look at the exquisite craftsmanship of the blade.  This is a magnificent piece of steel.’

        ‘Yes Minister,’ the Magistrate sighed, unsure and fearful of where this exchange was headed.

        ‘Do you recognize the design Magistrate?’ Maeldune asked with more threatening familiarity.

        Unsettled by his query and unwilling to answer, the Magistrate looked away from the dagger, but he could feel Maeldune waiting patiently for his reply.  ‘The blade was probably forged in Sarras, but the design is clearly Acoran.  There’s no mistaking it,’ he mumbled.

        Maeldune laughed and clapped the Magistrate on the back.  ‘You know your weapons, sir!’  

        A silence fell upon the scene.  The deputies stared at Maeldune and he stared at the Magistrate who kept his eyes fixed on the late Carl Gramercy who in turn stared blankly at the slit of blue sky high above the alleyway.

        Finally Maeldune spoke.  ‘What’s on your mind, Magistrate?’

        Maeldune was testing him and the Magistrate knew it.  He had to give an answer but he had lost any desire to pursue the case.  Reluctantly, he articulated a point so obvious, he knew Maeldune wanted it made just so he could dismiss it.  ‘I guess I’m wondering,’ he sighed, ‘how someone like Bligh came to be in possession of such an exotic weapon.’

        Maeldune beamed.  The Magistrate’s answer was perfect.  He strutted around the Magistrate who kept his head low and his manner suppliant.  ‘Foolish man!  You overplay the knife’s significance.’  Maeldune cast a glance at the deputies who quickly averted their eyes, unwilling to be brought into the discussion.  ‘Your amazing powers of observation may have picked up on the fact that I too am Acoran, Magistrate.  Do you consider me to be an exotic thing?  Perhaps you think that because this dagger is Acoran and I am Acoran, that I am the murderer here, and this vagabond, a poor victim of circumstance.  Is that it?  Is that the conclusion your exhaustive analysis has led you to?’

        The Magistrate gritted his teeth trying to restrain his fury.  Maeldune was pushing him, baiting him.  No other man in the Myr would have been able to bully him in such a way and keep his head attached to his neck, but no other man in the Myr had such power over him.  Maeldune could ruin him with a word, destroy his career and have him thrown into the Hulks for treason.  ‘No Minister.  Of course not.  Just trying to get the matter sorted before I write up a report.’

        ‘Yes, I shall look forward to reading it.’   

        The Magistrate was ashamed of his willingness to abandon his principles before his deputies.  He hoped Maeldune would grant him the opportunity to save face, to cling to some pretence of justice.  He turned to face the Acoran, his face redder than ever.  ‘Minister, this man, Jolon Bligh, he’s never done a bad thing before in his life.  He’s the most gentle man I have ever met.’

        ‘Yes?’ said Maeldune coldly.   

        ‘He’s a bit slow, you see, and getting on in years.  He –’

        Suddenly a long, low groan sounded from the gutter.  It was Bligh gaining consciousness.  He raised a shaking hand to his head before he opened his eyes.  When his hand came across the tender spot where Maeldune had slammed the flat of a rock upon his skull, it recoiled as if he had touched hot coals.  The few hairs he had left on his wrinkled head were wet with blood.  He opened his eyes but struggled to focus on the strange scene before him.  He was momentarily disoriented, unsure of where he was and how he got there.  A tall man clad in black stood behind the familiar figure of Garlot’s Magistrate who was kneeling on the dirty stones of the alleyway.  The body of a man lay before the Magistrate and with terrifying suddenness it all came back to him.  Captain Gramercy had been stabbed and the tall man in black – he had done it.

        Without warning, Bligh was hauled to his feet and brought before the Magistrate.

‘Jolon,’ the Magistrate said, ‘you’re in a lot of trouble.’

        Bligh’s face was a muddy blend of shock, fear and incredulity.  His large, bulbous eyes flicked around apprehensively before resting upon the face of the Magistrate.  He opened his mouth to say something but was too dumbstruck by the occasion to find the words to speak.

        The Magistrate looked at the old man piteously.  ‘Boys, take him down to the cells.’

        Bligh’s wet eyes widened.  ‘Magistrate, please!’ he begged, as an image of Garlot’s rattu-infested jail wrapped around his brain.  ‘Let me speak, sir!’

        Everyone in the alley knew the truth.  There was no doubting the man’s innocence.  There was no way this docile, aged man could have killed Gramercy.  The Minister for Justice had committed the crime.  The Magistrate could feel Maeldune’s eyes boring into the back of his skull, applying pressure.  

        ‘Perhaps I need to remind you of who I am.’

        The Magistrate understood the precariousness of his position.  A step in the wrong direction would end his career and that was no small matter.  The appointment to a role of Magistrate was one of the greatest honours that could be bestowed upon a Myrran.  Thousands applied but few were chosen.  Acting as judge, jury and jailer, the Magistrates were feared and admired throughout the Myr.  They were above influence and recrimination, answerable to two men only, one of whom was standing right behind him.  Among the most powerful people in the Myr, the Magistrates had free reign to do whatever was required to make sure justice was done.  Although justice took on many shades of meaning and there had been many times when the Magistrate of Garlot had enjoyed the ambiguities surrounding his role, this was not one of those times.  He was about to send a man to his death for a murder he did not commit.  Justice meant nothing now.  

        The Magistrate could feel a small part of him rebel against this course of action and it was this part, despite the presence of Minister Canna that gave Jolon Bligh the opportunity to speak.  It was a small concession and no consolation for the fate that awaited the poor old man, but under the circumstances, it was the best the Magistrate could do.

        ‘Alright Jolon.  Quickly.’

        Although Jolon Bligh was not endowed with a great intellect, he knew enough to realize that what he was about to say was more important than anything he had uttered in his seventy-three years.  ‘It was like this sir,’ he began nervously.  ‘I was making my way down to the market when I heard a ruckus coming from the alley.  It was Captain Gramercy and this man here.’  Bligh swallowed hard and nodded at Maeldune.  He did not look at him directly.  He then cast a look at the bloody body of Carl Gramercy that lay between him and the Magistrate.  ‘I never seen Captain Gramercy so riled in all my life,’ he said sadly.

        ‘What was he riled about Jolon?’  As soon as he asked the question, the Magistrate could feel the Minister’s sharp eyes stab into the back of his skull.  He knew that Maeldune would be incensed by the indulgence he was granting the wretch before him, but he felt bound to go through the motions, assume some show of justice, even though the end result was preordained.

        Bligh took a deep breath before committing his thoughts to speech.  ‘You see sir, well, it seems this man here had seen the Captain’s daughter and was a bit taken by her and wanted to take it further, if you know what I mean.’

        ‘No, Jolon,’ said the Magistrate sternly, ‘I don’t know what you mean.  And you have ten seconds to explain yourself.’

        Bligh blushed but raced ahead, all too aware of his tenuous situation.  ‘When I came on the scene, the tall man here was saying, "You’re lucky I offered you anything at all!" and the Captain, well, his face was redder than a bogcrab and he was saying, “My daughter ain’t no whore to be bartered with!” and then he smacked this man across the face.’

        The two deputies risked a quick glance at one another, stunned at what they had just heard.  If it had been any other man, the deputies would have added a smirk but – just like the Magistrate – they knew their careers hung in the balance.

        Maeldune stepped closer to the Magistrate but stayed behind him, keeping Jolon Bligh fixed in his gaze.  The Acoran’s voice was cool and controlled.  ‘Magistrate, in order to divert attention from his despicable crime, this felonious fool is asserting that I was engaged in some act of solicitation.  I am a married to one of the Royal House of Carrucan.  I cannot stand here and have my name, and my wife’s name, tarnished by Garlot’s village idiot.’

        Understanding enough of Maeldune’s comment to be infuriated by it, Bligh exploded.  ‘It’s true sir!  I swear it!  Then I saw him pull out that there dagger and stick it in Captain Gramercy’s guts.  I never seen such a bad thing before.  I just stood there watching.  Then he turned around and seeing me standing there, he came at me.  I made to run but he was too quick.  That’s the last thing I saw.  I guess I’m lucky he didn't knife me too.’

        But Bligh’s luck had long since left him.  Maeldune stepped forward.  He was smiling.  He walked past the Magistrate and stood directly in front of the old man who seemed to shrink in the Acoran’s presence.  Maeldune still held the knife he had pulled from the body and played with it absent-mindedly, twisting it around in his hands.  He gazed down at Bligh and whispered, ‘Poor soul,’ but there was no pity to be found in his voice.  Without taking his eyes off Bligh, Maeldune addressed the Magistrate.  ‘Tell me, how long have you served in this post?’  

        At first the Magistrate did not reply, unsure whether the question was directed at him.  But in the silence to follow, he realised not only to whom the question was aimed, but also why it was asked.  ‘Almost five years, sir,’ he said sombrely, acutely aware of the position his answer placed him in.

        ‘Almost five years, you say?’ Maeldune mused, his voice slightly higher.  ‘So your tenure is almost done.  You will be up for review soon.’  It was a threatening statement and even Bligh recognised the meaning behind it.  

        The Magistrate lowered his eyes and said, ‘In two months, sir.’

        Maeldune whirled around.  ‘Then I suggest you stay the course Magistrate.  It is not a time to equivocate.’

        The Magistrate nodded.  He had gone too far, allowed Bligh to say too much.  He had to quickly repair the damage done.  ‘Tassoni!  Vaiano!  Take Mr Bligh down to the docks.  We will set sail for Brigantia tonight.’

        At the mention of Brigantia, Bligh started bucking and screaming.  ‘You’re sending me to the Hulks?  But I haven’t done anything!  I haven’t done anything!’  He kicked and twisted to break the deputies’ hold upon him, but they were much younger and stronger than he.

Bligh was unceremoniously dragged back down the alleyway and hauled through the town to Garlot’s small, rarely-used prison to await the boat that would take him to Brigantia.

 

 

The Magistrate, fearful of the Minister’s wrath knelt down before him and fawned.  ‘Minister Canna, you have my humblest apologies for this terrible misunderstanding.  I won’t keep you a moment longer.’

        ‘You have done well, Magistrate,’ Maeldune said magnanimously.  ‘These are troubling times.  Steadfast leadership is what the Myr needs right now.’

        There was nothing in the Magistrate’s demeanour that suggested he agreed with the Minister, that he had done well.  He hung his head to avoid Maeldune’s gaze.  Before him lay the blood-soaked body of Carl Gramercy.  Had Gramercy breath to give life to words, what a tale of injustice he could tell.  This was something the Magistrate would wrestle with long after Maeldune had departed from Garlot.  

        Content that the matter had been resolved to his satisfaction, the Minister strolled back down the alleyway.  When he got to the far end, he stopped and turned to face the Magistrate one last time.  ‘What is your name Magistrate?’ he called.

        ‘Tarquinio, sir.’

        ‘You’ll go a long way Mr Tarquinio.  I can see a prosperous future ahead for you!’ Maeldune said with sinister joviality.  He placed the dagger in the empty scabbard hanging from his belt and made his way up the road leading to the abbey in the distance.

 

 

The Archbishop knocked lightly on the priest’s door.  Hearing no answer, he rapped a little louder and opened the door slightly to catch a glimpse of a robed figure slumped over a desk, his head nestled in the crook of one of his arms.  The sound of light snoring could be heard.  The Archbishop smiled warmly and entered the room.  He placed a hand on the priest’s broad shoulders and shook him a little.  ‘Excuse me Father Gideon, but you have a visitor.’

        Remiel Grayson, wandering through dreams of yesteryear, could hear a distant voice calling him back to the present.  The rainy streets of Pelinore faded to be replaced by a small, shadowy room.  

        Remiel was momentarily disoriented.  His hand instinctively lifted his cloth veil over his face as he lifted his head to find two men standing on the tattered mat in the centre of the room, gazing patiently upon him.  Remiel’s mind and vision came into focus simultaneously – he was in his room in the abbey, the place he had called home for thirty years.  He wiped his eyes and looked up at the Archbishop who continued to gaze gently back at him.

        Remiel quickly stood, smoothed his robes and bowed reverently to the Archbishop.  ‘I’m sorry, Your Excellency, I must have dozed off.’

        The Archbishop’s smile widened to reveal long, white shining teeth.  ‘That’s quite alright Father Gideon,’ his husky voice replied.  ‘Even holy men must rest from time to time.  Do not apologise for succumbing to slumber.’

        Remiel shook his head, trying to throw off the last vestiges of sleep.  The Archbishop stepped forward holding a much taller man by the elbow.  ‘Father Gideon, I’d like to introduce you to a very special guest.  This is the Minister for Justice, Maeldune Canna.  Minister Canna has travelled all the way from Cessair to visit you.’

        Unconsciously, Remiel lifted his hands to the veil that lay across his face and pulled it a little higher.  ‘To see me?’ he said quizzically.  ‘Whatever for?’

        Without any further comment, the Archbishop left the room, leaving Maeldune to answer Remiel Grayson’s question.  The tall Acoran extended a hand to the priest and said apologetically, ‘Father Gideon, you must forgive my unannounced appearance.’

        Remiel stared at the hand, overwhelmed with a sense of déjà vu.  He had experienced this moment before, but the details of it eluded him.  After an uncomfortable pause, took the Minister’s hand, shook it quickly and said dryly, ‘Forgive your appearance?  I’m a priest Minister.  I’m in the business of forgiveness.’

        Unsure of whether this comment was meant as at attempt at humour or a sincere statement of fact, Maeldune paused before continuing.  He scanned the small room and seeing an old oakaen chair gestured towards it.  ‘May I?’

        ‘By all means.’  

        Once Maeldune had taken his seat, Remiel sat down opposite him and waited for his guest to speak.

        ‘I have been looking forward to meeting you Father Gideon.’

        Having spent the last thirty years of his life in relative solitude, Remiel was surprised to hear that anyone would look forward to meeting him, much less travel all the way from Cessair to do so.  ’Meet with me?’ he said clumsily.  ‘I’m not sure why.’

        ‘I have heard great things about you Father Gideon.  The people of Nessa speak highly of you.  They say you can perform miracles.  I have heard tales.  Your incredible powers of healing –’

        ‘Have been greatly exaggerated,’ Remiel interrupted with a sharpness that raised Maeldune’s eyebrows.  Noting this effect, Remiel softened his voice, adding, ‘I am but a humble man doing the will of our gods.’

        ‘But reports of your divine talents...’

        ‘I have administered to the sick, it is true, but I would not dare lay claim to any talents, divine or otherwise.’

        Maeldune frowned and sat back in his chair.  Remiel leant forward, curious.  ‘Is there something wrong, Minister?’ he asked tentatively.

        ‘No.  Not at all,’ Maeldune replied, his voice suggesting everything to the contrary.  ‘I’m sorry Father.  I’m unaccustomed to speaking to someone when I can see so little of their face.  Could I ask that you drop your cowl and remove your veil?’

        ‘It is not the way of our order, Minister.  Only the Archbishop has that right.’  He did not disguise his annoyance.

        The Acoran clasped his bejewelled hands together.  ‘My apologies, Father.  Forgive my ignorance.  I am not a religious man and the ways of the church are not well known to me.’

        ‘Perhaps we can correct that when we celebrate mass tomorrow.  We only ask that you contribute a coin, as a gesture of atonement for your sins.’

        ‘How do you know I have sins, Father?’

        ‘We all have sins, Minister.  Even me.’

        ‘Really Father?  I wonder what sins a priest would confess?’

        An uncomfortable silence grew.  It became clear to Maeldune that he would not receive an answer to his question, rhetorical or not.  From deep beneath the priest’s cowl, cool, grey eyes stared at him.  The priest was guarded, if not suspicious, and Maeldune knew that he would have to step carefully if he were to garner more information for Caliban.

        Remiel stood up and looked out through the slits in the shutters.  Far below he could see the statue of Cephalus Silenus in the courtyard, gilded in orange light as the sun wheeled towards the western horizon.  ‘Minister, you have not come here to discuss theological concepts.  May I inquire as to the purpose of this visit?’

        Maeldune stood and approached Remiel who continued to look down into the courtyard below.  ‘Father Gideon, you must know terrible things are happening in the world outside.  Reports are coming in from countries such as Morae and Helyas of attacks by demonic armies.  To the north, Skyfall Town has been besieged by an unholy creature from the skies.  It would seem, weeks ago, the same creature slaughtered every citizen of the town of Palia.’

        Remiel turned, his interest clearly piqued.  ‘Palia?’

        ‘Yes, perhaps you know the place.  It’s on the northern shore of Lake Erras.  It was the transit station for the leper colony of Sanctuary.’  It was not a subtle comment, but Maeldune could feel that he had little time left with the priest.  He would soon be encouraged to leave.

        ‘Why would I know such a place?’

        Maeldune ignored this question.  ‘Father Gideon, the Assembly of Nations will be convened on the summer solstice.  The Chamberlain expects representatives from all across the Myr to discuss the perturbing events that are shaking our world.  He would like to hear from people like yourself who may be able to offer insight into these strange goings-on.’

        Remiel moved away from the window and in three large strides was beside the door to the passageway beyond.  He placed a hand upon the unadorned iron handle.  ‘Nessa has its own envoy.  I am a priest.  Church and state do not mix, Minister Canna.’  He opened the door.

        ‘I came here especially to see you Father.  To ask you to add your counsel to our Assembly.  We seek a spiritual perspective upon these terrible events.’

        ‘There are others better qualified to provide you with what you seek.  The Archbishop for example.’

        ‘It is your name that has been put forward.’

        Remiel opened the door even wider.  ‘Your trip has been in vain Minister.  I have nothing to offer.’

        It was clear to Maeldune that he would not be able to convince the priest to decide otherwise there and then.  He had to soften his approach.  He stepped out through the door into the passageway beyond.  ‘Father Gideon,’ he said as graciously as he could, ‘we only ask that you consider our invitation.  With our collective wisdom, we may find a way to stop the evil that is beginning to spread across our beautiful world.  Please, will you do just that?  Just consider it?’

        After a long, awkward moment, Remiel said, ‘I will consider it.’

        Maeldune smiled.  He had planted a seed that would grow in time.  Deep in his shrewd mind, he knew that he would see the priest again – in Cessair, at the Assembly of Nations.  It would be enough.  Caliban would be pleased.  He bowed before the priest and left.

        Remiel shut the door and leaned against it, relieved by Maeldune’s departure.  There had been something oddly familiar about the man but he could not put his finger on it.  He had seen him before, but not in Garlot.  Concentrating hard, Remiel rifled through memories but could not find one that hinted at where he had seen the man.  Perhaps, many years ago, he had been an associate of his father’s.  Or maybe even Caliban’s.

 

 

Maeldune stood on the steps outside the abbey with the Archbishop.  ‘He is not from Nessa?’

        ‘No Minister,’ the Archbishop replied, his teeth filling up his face.  ‘He arrived many years ago to join the order.  He has been an exemplary addition to our fellowship.’

        ‘When did he arrive Archbishop?’ Maeldune asked casually.

        ‘Why, almost thirty years ago, but –’

        ‘And his homeland?’

        His tone was not so casual and the Archbishop noted the sense of urgency in Maeldune’s voice.  

        ‘He is from Scoriath, Minister,’ he said slowly.  ‘His accent is clearly northern.  From Pelinore, I’d imagine.  Why do you ask?’

        Maeldune smiled and knelt before the Archbishop, indicating his intention to leave.  ‘Oh, just for my own satisfaction, Your Excellency.  I’m a bureaucrat.  The devil’s in the detail, as they say.’  

        The Archbishop presented a hand to Maeldune who kissed it without hesitation.  The Acoran made his way down the steps and across the courtyard, past the stained statue of Cephalus Silenus who continued to stare out to the west where the sun now embraced the land.  Curious about his interest in the priest, the Archbishop’s eyes remained on the Minister for Justice until he disappeared down the path towards Garlot.  

        The Archbishop turned to enter the abbey, but paused before doing so, catching sight of a small object at the base of the church’s wide steps.  A small nest lay upturned, and nearby three small birds lay dead on the courtyard’s ornate paving stones.  High above, a solitary churchwren could be heard, its mournful cries spilling across the air as it lamented the loss of its chicks.