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	Chapter 9
	Chapter 9 ---------- The Human envoy marched through town, a small company of decorative guards accompanying the ornately - and rather pompously - dressed Ambassador. Fane stood in the crowd of his brethren, looking on with baited breath, somehow expecting one of his peers to throw a rock at the diplomats. But no stones were thrown, and the company marched through the murmurings of the small townspeople barely even bothered by the disdainful looks that were passed their way. ‘They look just like we do.’ Boseraphim said. Fane nodded. He had been told that they did, but he hadn’t before seen far-eastern Humans, so he didn’t quite know what to expect. He had half-expected them to be giants of 10 foot tall and almost as much across the shoulders, but he was strangely disappointed by the realisation that the Humans of Illatonis and The Empire’s capital city were only slightly different looking than his own family. Yes they were taller, but not monstrously so, and yes their skin was paler and whiter than that of Dreyhood peoples, but it did not make them stand out overly much. The main difference was in their fashions and the way they wore their facial hair; which is to say, all but one in the envoy was bearded with curly red or blonde hair atop their head. ‘They have red hair like me.’ He said to Gerrad, his Father, who was standing behind them. Most Dreyhood had darker hair; sometimes even jet-black, yet it did occur that some had blonde or red hair, though it was usually more frequent nearer the territorial boarders. Lord Kondo himself did have blonde hair, as did his son. For some reason, Fane hadn’t expected Eastern Humans to have similar shades of hair. ‘Well we are related to them.’ Gerad said, ‘We are of the same race … we just have different coloured skin … well, most of us.’ ‘They are like strange ghosts … dead men walking.’ Sec declared. Fane didn’t see their white skin as being that remarkably dissimilar. ‘They aren’t so strange. I expected something different.’ A man to their right laughed and said: ‘What did you expect, metal teeth and Zard tails?’ Fane grinned and watched intently as the envoy disappeared out of sight, marching swiftly towards the castle. Their mission today was apparently one of peace; talks of co-existence rather than of war, perhaps a new treaty? Only they knew, but the general feeling among the citizens of Tunlan was that they were there to make demands one final time before launching yet another attack on the realm. Tunlan had been designated as the city to hold the diplomatic relations, and Queen Ellyan herself, ruler of The Dreyhood, had come one day earlier. Gerad turned and led them away from the crowd, walking back towards the outskirts of town and their home. Boseraphim walked behind a little, his thoughts shrouded in his deeply contemplative expression. ‘I don’t trust them.’ Sec said as they walked, ‘They are up to no good, and there’s a fact.’ Boseraphim hummed in agreement, yet said nothing. Gerad shrugged, ‘Perhaps. Though it’s best to give people the benefit of the doubt. It’s best to trust and be betrayed than to mistrust and be proven wrong.’ Fane raised an eyebrow disbelievingly, ‘How do you figure that?’ ‘If we mistrust, then we are at fault. It’s an old Meunos belief.’ His Father explained; gesturing with his hands as was his common habit. ‘If we trust, then the fault lies with our betrayers. The Drey, similarly, believed that we should trust even our enemies, and that in turn our enemies would become our friends.’ Sec rolled his eyes, ‘The Drey seemed like cowards to me.’ Gerad glared at the small boy, ‘Do not be so disrespectful, Sec. The Drey were our predecessors; they are the ones we model our lives on. They were exterminated – and by our ancestor’s own hands, no less – but that does not make them cowardly. They believed in something, and they stuck to their beliefs. That, more than anything, makes them a brave people who should be remembered by us with the respect and apologetic repentance that their memory deserves.’ He walked as he lectured, pointing from time to time with raised eyebrows to stress the point he was making. Sec looked a little ruffled. He even adjusted his collar in discomfort, ‘Still, they can’t have been very clever if they all got themselves killed.’ Gerad nodded, ‘Perhaps you are right. But let me ask you; which is more important: to die a clever man, or to die knowing you did what is right?’ Sec frowned and nodded, reluctantly conceding Gerad’s point. Boseraphim spoke then, saying: ‘Father, I think what he was saying first of all is that the Humans will betray us. There might be a stalemate now, even perhaps an uneasy cease-fire, but they want our land, and they will brook no rebellion on their own continent. It shows weakness to all other races, and that goes against what they believe … to “let no race dominate them.” Standing up to them for as long as we have has been an embarrassment to their entire Empire; a blemish on their skin - exposed for the entire world to clearly behold. Perhaps, though, it’s time to strike first. To catch them off-guard and stop their evil empire before it gets too big, too greedy.’ ‘Bo, do you remember the story of Elek?’ Gerad asked suddenly. Boseraphim pursed his lips and agreed that he did. ‘Tell your brother.’ Boseraphim frowned and released a small sigh, ‘Elek found The Artifact of The Drey. The Drey God supposedly spoke to him through this sacred item, and commanded him to stand up the growing Human Empire. He, and his people, the Western Humans, rebelled, and they took most of the country of Horn. We rejected the greedy beliefs and culture of the Human Empire vowed never to be affiliated with - or ruled by such tyrants.’ Fane studied his brother out the corner of his eye. He had heard the story, of course. It was the history of his people, of The Dreyhood. They passed by a group of men who often worked in the woods nearby the Vale house, and their conversation was briefly interrupted by a hastened greeting. Gerad smiled at Fane, ‘What your brother failed to mention was what else Elek was told by the Drey God. He left us a codex; a collection of scriptures and parchments, telling us how he had asked his own people to live, and asking that we carry on these beliefs with our own people.’ Sec looked steadfastly surprised, ‘I’ve never heard such a thing. There’s no such book, is there?’ Fane shrugged, looking equally surprised. Gerad laughed, ‘Not anymore. We destroyed it, and The Artifact was lost. You see, the codex was too restrictive for our people. It told us to live in peace with the Humans, but to refuse to live how they wanted us to. It asked us not even to defend ourselves when their armies came, but instead to welcome them with wine and music. They would occupy our lands, even own our homes, but they would never have control of our beliefs. They would, in essence, have to end our lives before we would fight for their cause, or work for them as slaves. But our people, who ironically call themselves ‘those who seek the forgiveness of The Drey’, refuse to live that way, and instead we wage war on our Human relatives. And you...’ He glanced atBoseraphim ‘… you speak of striking out at Humanity? We would be no better than them.’ Boseraphim stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed off into the windows of the cottages they passed by. Gerad continued and everyone in their company was listening intently now: ‘These commandments that we destroyed, these were the same set of commandments as were given to The Drey, and this is why they no longer exist … this is why they were massacred, because they refused to be the slaves of Humanity, but they would not lift even a fist with which to defend themselves.’ There was silence among the group for some time as they walked. Finally Gerad added: ‘Does that sound like the action of a cowardly race of people?’ --- Fane approached her. She was covered by a thick blanket of knitted wool. The boy guessed that under the blanket, the wound had been healed, but he could still picture it how it had been when they had dragged her back to the ship; charred and bloody, a hole through layers of blackened skin and tissue, a small bleeding tunnel burrowed by the spark of electric lightning as it broke her defensive barrier down and smashed her to the floor. With nervousness he came to her side and studied her face for a moment. The others had left him alone to try his hand at aiding the Furalian woman. Unable to resist, he basked for a while in her beauty, for while she was awake she left him little chance to study her features, but for the brief moments he stole out of the corner of his eye. But now he had a little time to truly understand what about her was really so beautiful. He thought that perhaps she would open her eyes and catch him – scold him for his presumptuous stare, but the thought passed and he steadied his breathing against the flight of butterflies that threatened to prematurely shatter his nerves. She was beautiful; there was no denying it, even under close inspection. The perfect symmetry of her features was so pure, so shocking in its aesthetic attraction, that it shook the breath in his lungs as it flooded out in uneven, unsure reverberations. Her beauty caused his eyes to well and his heart to twist as if struck a painful blow. It was the feeling of coming face to face with a wild Bronwyl which filled him with sudden trepidation and adrenalin, causing him to recall the old Human poem, of which he soundlessly mouthed the memorable line: ‘oh dangerous beauty’.1 He sat himself by her side, wishing that her eyes were open so that he might peer into them and study those pale red, alien pupils. Oh her eyes! They were so large, and they glistened so readily against the faintest tinge of light, which danced so delightfully close to the deep, dark red lashes that framed them. But he only dwelled upon the memory of her alien eyes for a moment, before his attention cast slowly down to her full lips. Lips of the palest moist lilac, which curved seductively down at both corners, allowing light to accentuate the rolling curves, which beckoned so irresistibly, inviting Fane to feel their deep embrace. Even her cheeks and jaw line softly, almost iniquitously displayed unspeakable beauty, which were without even the barest trace of mannish spoil. In every restful inhale and every soothing exhale she was captivating. He wished for a moment that his conscience would allow him to reach out and stroke the lady’s crimson hair, to cup her grey-white cheek and discover if it looked as cold as it was pale. But he knew that it was not right to touch her while she slept. Pushing the desire from his mind and body, he inwardly scouted the task before him. He would need to concentrate if he was going to succeed, and he would need to keep in mind all he had been taught today, and all he had learned through his childhood regarding his powers. Most of all, he would need to be lucky. Placing his hands on his lap, he closed his eyes. --- ‘Try, first, to picture something safe … comforting … relaxing.’ Tyrius said, watching Fane as he sat cross-legged and closed-eyed before him. ‘Perhaps a serene glade you were fond of back home, or a person you feel deeply for. Maybe it’s even the sound of a bird song, or a heart beat. What ever it is that makes you relax, find it. Relaxation is the key to the first step of magic, as you’ve probably already discerned. Only the very skilful can command complex spells while stressed, or excited in any way. It takes concentration, first and foremost, to build a magic spell, and it takes a relaxed mind to build that concentration. Think of it like the construction of a building: you lay the foundations, which are relaxation and soundness of mind, and atop that you begin to build the many layers of magic.’ Fane frowned, his eyes still closed, ‘I know nothing of masonry.’ ‘Be still and concentrate, Fane.’ Tyrius commanded. --- Fane drew in a deep breath, letting the air wash through him, allowing it to clear his mind and steady his nerves. He drew up inside his own mind a mental image of his comforting place, filling in the details as he went like an artist painting a masterpiece. The image unveiled before his lidded eyes. First a simple room, then drapes appeared; red and tied back with beige string, pinned tight to the sides of the windows. The four walls were familiar to him more than any other four walls in the world, as they were his old bedroom walls. Outside, the flight of birds lapped near to his window. They were blue, with yellow tail and breast feathers, and they flew in close formation; a species of small mammals that Fane has seen many times in his life. Around his room were familiar objects. His story books were there, piled untidily on shelves. There was a bookmark in one of them that he himself had made when he was a child. To his left was Clyde’s bed - a wicker basket - thatched beautifully by one of the girls of the village. And Clyde was there too; not sleeping in his basket as usual, but at the foot of Fane’s bed, taking up too much room - as he always had. He looked to his right and there was his favourite wall of all … the wall which joined the corner of his room which hugged closely to his bed. He loved the corner of his room … he could not understand exactly why, but it felt safer than any other place on Sheol. In the corner of his bedroom, there was nothing behind him, and anything coming at him could be seen clearly. It was warm, safe, and silent in its solitude. At peace, his troubles and stresses momentarily forgotten, he began to search himself for his gift … The Unseen Hand. --- ‘Think of your gift as a muscle that cannot be seen or felt. It resides not in your body, but in your mind. Most are not blessed with this extra muscle – this additional limb. It is nothing short of a gift, and you are one of the lucky ones to be blessed with it.’ Fane had known this, of course. He had always considered his power as the use of an invisible arm. That’s just what it felt like. In the same way a person missing an arm can still feel the arm’s presence, Fane could feel the presence of this arm he had never felt … never seen. This ‘Unseen Hand.’ ‘Tighten this muscle.’ Corporious continued. ‘Tense it, lift it, flex it … but do not command it to perform an action yet. Just move it, and feel it.’ He did so. At first the action was like touching his body through a gloved hand. He knew he was doing it, but he the skin of his hand could not feel it. It was only when he touched another consciousness that he could feel it. ‘Sometimes, The Unseen Hand will slip. It will flail, and you will reach out desperately reach out to grab hold of it as if falling down a flight of stairs. Your reflex will be to try to regain control, to stop it slipping away and hurting you. But when this feeling washes over you, do not panic, let the hand slip. If you panic, you will reach out in the same way you might reach out to stop yourself from falling over. But in doing so with this hand, you might perform certain actions that are undesirable.’ He continued: ‘It is like a morning star - the warrior’s weapon I mean. If you swing the weapon out of control, you might seek to regain control foolishly. In doing so, you could overcompensate, and strike an ally … or worse: a friend. In such a situation, allow the weapon to swing the arch that it is on, duck, and step out of its path. Eventually, you can slow the spin of the weapon and have it again under your control. Or perhaps it’s easier to think of it as a wild horse. Pull too hard on the horse’s reins and you risk injury. Work with the horse, and you may succeed.’ ‘I’m not sure I understand.’ Fane said. ‘You remember in Midport, when you used your gift, but it slipped out of your control?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘That is what I am talking about. Subconsciously, you panicked. Perhaps your anxiety was too high at that point, but either way, you panicked and pushed too hard against The Unseen Hand before you were ready. Your gift may be more powerful than you realise, and if that is the case, then you will need to be doubly careful.’ Fane sat for a while, testing the magic. Flexing it, as he had been told, and gradually he began to not only feel the hand, but the things he was touching, and not just Corporious, but also inanimate objects. He could not identify them with his eyes closed, but he began to sense them, the shape of them, the feel of them, not physically, but ... something more. Their energies? Dead wood, salted meat, even the hull of the ship pressing and protesting as it was bombarded from without by the constant lash of the sea. They all had their own energies, much in the same way as animals all felt different when he tried to communicate with them or to read their emotions. For instance, the dead wood of the crates had a faint, dull energy. It felt earthy, old, wrinkled and dry, but strangely serene. Fane smiled excitedly, intrigued by his progress. Tyrius sounded slightly irritated, ‘You’re moving ahead, Fane. Go one step at a time, and take some more time to simply feel your power, rather than trying to use it.’ --- The Unseen Hand slipped, veering out of control. He felt it and visualised it like a blazing fire caught in a sudden gust of wind which threatened to spread out of control. With a sharp inhale he forced himself to remain calm; doing as he had been instructed and stepping mentally back from the raging fire. Luckily he wasn’t yet using it to interact with Gwynia, so the force did no damage, and it quickly stilled its anarchistic spin and settled back into Fane’s control. Carefully he wielded it now, committing extra concentration to remain calm and not to let the ‘weapon’ slip. When he was sure that he had total control, he stilled the sway of The Hand, and held it carefully in check, ready to reach out with it when the next step of his spell was in place. --- ‘Imagination. Now this is perhaps as important as remaining calm. With The Unseen Hand, imagination is vital. We do not know the science of how a person’s brain works, nor do we understand the mechanics of telepathy, or the forces truly at work which are used to direct the unseen energies. Instead, it’s important to imagine the goal you are striving for.’ ‘And what goal am I striving for?’ Tyrius was still for a moment. Fane considered opening his eyes to check if the large man had drifted off to sleep or had died … but then Tyrius responded. ‘You’ll need to communicate with Gwynia, in a way, and encourage her to wake up. I wont lie to you and say that it’s easy, because it’s not. Not at all.’ ‘So what will I need to imagine?’ Fane asked. ‘You’ll need to imagine what it’s like inside her head. And I don’t mean what she’s thinking about, or what she’s dreaming. I mean, you’ll need to imagine using The Hand to direct words to her in the form of energies. Thoughts, which are a form of these unseen energies, can be passed to a person, or even plucked from a person’s mind, if you know how. While I’m not going to teach you how to steal thoughts, I will teach you how to send your own, as you’ve already done. But this time, you’ll be taught how to do it with control.’ Fane nodded, hoping that his gesture was seen. ‘Form words inside your mind. A few will do for now. In the same way as you form emotions, form words. Repeat these words … let your thoughts become these words, and nothing else. And then, when you have done this, imagine this: that you are pushing these thoughts out of your mind in a single direction. Do not simply allow them to flood outwards … instead, focus on my consciousness, and push them outwards towards me. Just as you have done to communicate with animals in the past, do so now with me, but use words and not emotions.’ Fane furrowed his brow. This was certainly more difficult than using his powers on instinct. Before he had learned by himself to latch onto the energies of an animal, and to softly communicate with it at a subconscious level. What he was being taught to do now was much more difficult. Here, he had to communicate with a person’s mind at a conscious level, using properly formulated words rather than just emotions. But before he had sent images too, and to hundreds of people, so he knew he had the ability. Confident that he would succeed, he steeled his resolve and focussed on his concentration. --- Gwynia. That was the initial word. He repeated it over in his mind again and again, his own voice echoing in the calmness of his head. Gwynia, Gwynia. He would call her name first, he would try to find her. His concentration doubled, his head throbbed suddenly, as he sought to pluck the words from his own mind. He felt The Unseen Hand pass through him, taking the complex energies with steady fingertips, and then it withdrew. And then he pushed the words towards the sleeping woman, imagining the act being similar to shooting an arrow. Like air fanned from a waving hand, the energies rippled outwards, unsteady, but true to their path. The Unseen Hand took them, and it delivered them, delving deep into Gwynia’s complex consciousness and releasing Fane’s voice. Gwynia! Like a scream, he heard his own voice inside the head of the woman. It was loud, and it boomed through a seeming void of emptiness, swallowed up by the blackness but amplified once again, the mental sound reflecting off the walls of latent energies. With his minds eye he pictured a series of dark tunnels, and Gwynia was nowhere to be found. Yet he pressed on, swiftly traversing the pathways like a wild cat chasing down prey. The sweat poured off of his forehead and drenched his eyebrows as he kept his mind focussed on one thing: not losing control. If he slipped now, if The Hand fell from his grasp, then it might kill the woman, and he could not allow that. He would not allow that. He felt the power well up in his invisible hands like a raging surge of vigour. His body shook, and with it shook The Hand. Still he would not let go. His powers swelled like a startled Meunos, and suddenly it was becoming too large for him to handle; too erratic for him to control. And then something clicked. Gwynia! It is Fane! You are in danger! You are dying, and you must wake up. Please! The words flew out of him as if of their own intent, and then there was no battle of control. There was just the power. His mind sped up as if heightened by some foreign narcotic herb, witlessly dealing out carefully formed emotions of urgency, of need. He was sure that amongst those emotions slipped out the desperate lust he had for the woman; the need he had to tell her how beautiful he found her, and how much he needed to hold her. But in the end, it was not those thoughts that reached her; it was the raw power of the magic itself. Reality flooded back in a white blur of adrenalin, and Gwynia sat up, gasping for air, her pale eyes wide with shock and disbelief. Snatched back from deaths door; forced – rather than lead – back into living, she shivered uncontrollably and scrambled up her bedding away from the boy, whose eyes were now wide open. The Unseen Hand withdrew, and Fane choked on his own breath, sputtering as he slipped back off his chair. He had no energy even to reach out and deaden his fall. He watched, uncaring and bewildered, as his face struck the wooden floor. It took only a moment more, and then he fainted. --- The dream surfaced like a pang of hunger. He wasn’t sure when it had begun, but suddenly he was aware of it. He stared at the lights. There were three of them. One was large and red, one was slightly more dull and white, and the last was very faint indeed, and had a glow of yellow about it. They stood around in a circle, spiralling slowly back and forth before Fane’s vision, making his stomach ache with queasy throbbing pulses that vibrated like a played drum against his spine. The lights were talking, and he listened. ‘How?’ Said the white light. ‘I don’t know. There’s something not right about him.’ Yellow said. Red remained silent. ‘What do you mean?’ White responded. ‘He has power, but not like any other I’ve encountered. Usually power is controlled. But this was like … I’m not sure … like the power was controlling him.’ Red spoke: ‘That’s a dangerous thought.’ ‘Not like that,’ Yellow continued. It wasn’t as though the power had taken hold yet … there was no addiction there. I felt no glee from the boy as he succeeded in casting the spell.’ ‘Then what?’ Asked white. ‘I don’t know. Fear maybe.’ ‘Well, he shouldn’t have that kind of control, not the way you describe it.’ ‘It seems…’ Red said, ‘…that we have a ship of three very similar new captives. Yet at the same time, very different. They are all exceedingly powerful, but all very young. I wonder what the chances are of capturing three individuals with such power, all in one mission.’ ‘Co-incidence?’ ‘There’s no such thing.’ Replied Red. ‘Guardians then.’ It wasn’t a question. White spoke it regretfully, as if it had been a possibility they would rather have ignored. There was a silence. Two of the three lights seemed to flicker as if afraid. ‘Stay alert. Do nothing on impulse.’ Red commanded. ‘And we might live long enough to discover what they want.’ --- Fane woke up. He was in his room, and Sec was sitting close by, talking to Kern, who was still chained to the wall. Clyde caught sight of his master’s eyes open, and thumped his tail against the floorboards, a look of familiar worshipfulness in his eyes. --- The days went by. The ship sailed west through increasingly choppy waters, neither slowing nor nearing land. All around them was water, but little else. No gull’s song, no insects, not even a single bird passed overhead. The days passed slowly, with little to do but sit and wait for another chance to escape, or to look out at the sea as it lightened, then darkened, and then lightened again. The mood of the ship was sombre at best. Following the death of their crewmates – including the first mate – the crew laughed little and drank even less. All seemed cold towards Fane and the others; they even gave Tyrius strange glances as he passed that hinted at resentment only slightly shy of hatred. These were men that had spent far too long on the seas, and far too long away from their families and homes. What was worse was that they seemed to be suffering from the beginnings of scurvy due to a lack of vitamins, and it had not rained over the vessel in nearly a week, which made drinking water sparse to non-existent. Gwynia recovered slowly at first, but then more swiftly as she was allowed to be up and about. She had thanked Fane, but said little else. In fact, Fane didn’t spend much time conversing with the magicians. He had needed time to digest all which had happened. He would take time to heal and come to terms with the changes in his life. He had not given up on escape, but even now, to escape would not signal the end of their problems, as they were now a very long way from home. His life had changed, and as a result he felt like a man swept up in a constantly shifting nightmare. Though somehow, his attitude regained a little optimism over the following week. He had little to be optimistic about, but what else did he have? And it was the Human way to cling stupidly to irrational optimism, after all. He thanked the Gods that he was alive, at the very least. A barrier had been created around the telekinetic girl’s quarters. She could not leave; she could not even brake through the wall. Her sedation was discontinued, and she was kept quietly in her room for the most part. Tyrius went to speak with her once or twice, but came back unharmed each time. Evidently, he had conversed with her in the same way as he had conversed with Fane and Sec that first day. ‘Her name is Kitselle.’ He said to Fane, eight days after the events in Midport. ‘Kitselle? That’s a strange name.’ Sec said, standing behind his friend as always. ‘It’s Tenakoshan for “silent child”. I believe she named herself it. I don’t know what her real name is.’ ‘It’s pretty.’ Fane said. ‘When can I see her?’ Tyrius shook his head. ‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea. She doesn’t trust men.’ ‘She spoke to you.’ ‘Yes. After trying to smash my head in with the wall lamps.’ Sec laughed, ‘Her way of saying hello, perhaps.’ Tyrius leaned against the railings, looking down at the two boys who were stood with him on the deck just outside of the pilot box, near the Captains quarters. ‘She’s a deeply disturbed individual.’ The large Human said. ‘What happened to her?’ Fane asked, his eyes expressively concerned. Tyrius waved an arm dismissively, ‘I don’t know, she doesn’t talk about it. All I know is that she killed her uncle with a rack of knives.’ ‘Maybe he deserved it.’ Sec said. Tyrius nodded, ‘Perhaps. But she’s still dangerous, whether that’s her fault or not.’ Sec paced the floor for a bit, kicking the wall with the outside of his boot and making scuffed leather creaking noises. His expression was uncharacteristically thoughtful. ‘What happens to if we return to Southkeep and she won’t be a good girl? What if she kills somebody? If we reach Southkeep that is.’ ‘When we reach Southkeep.’ Tyrius grunted. ‘She’ll be locked up and hopefully we can talk to her and help her with her issues. With any luck, she’ll be rehabilitated.’ ‘Brainwashed you mean.’ Sec said; the venom still evident in his voice. Admittedly, he had calmed his anger in regards to Tyrius recently. He was grateful that the giant had saved Fane, and the honourable warrior in him could not simply dismiss that, what ever their circumstances. ‘We do not brainwash our captives. We simply help them see our point of view.’ Sec rolled his eyes derisively, ‘Same thing.’ He took a few steps towards Tyrius, a determined look on his rounded face. ‘Don’t assume we’ll be reaching Southkeep together, or you’ll be disappointed.’ --- Fane entered the sleeping chamber and paused to study Kern, who was currently pre-occupied with racing a pair of small insects across the room. Both insects were making little or no progress. In fact, it seemed to Fane that there was no track or even goal set up for the two creatures. Instead, they seemingly spiralled in random tangents, even heading in opposite directions at times. ‘Go on, Jinni!’ He yelled at one of the bugs, who was apparently in the lead. ‘That’s it, my son! Go go go go!’ He went to stand and was yanked back down by his chains, ‘Yarr! You beauty!’ He screamed, cackling with laughter. He turned to Fane, grinning widely, ‘You see that finish? He’s a sure bet every time that one. Cor.’ Fane blinked. ‘Have you been drinking?’ Kern stared up at the younger Dreyhood, ‘Yeh, I just popped down the pub and grabbed me’self a flagon of wine. Nice walk this time o’ night. Bit wet, and the sharks nearly had off with my legs, but…’ Fane sighed, walking past the scruffy man, ‘Then I suppose you wouldn’t need this?’ He asked, cruelly dangling a large bottle full of rum near the man’s face. ‘Ahh… I wouldn’t say no, lad.’ He licked his lips, eyeing the alcohol hungrily. Fane took a deep swig and passed it down to the man in bondage, who gulped down more than his fair share. He hissed and grimaced, squinting through the pain of the harsh liquid as it raked down the back of his throat. ‘Ahhh! That’s good stuff that is! Where’d ye get it?’ He passed it back. ‘Swiped it from the storage deck.’ ‘Swiped it eh? Maybe there’s hope for ya yet, Fane.’ He winked, ‘You have my thanks.’ ‘Your welcome, Kern. We’re all in this together, as you said.’ Kern nodded, scanning the floor for his escaped bugs, which were now out of his reach. Fane took a moment to appraise the man. He was scruffy and unwashed, that was true, but so were all of them at this stage in the voyage. Unless you wanted to bathe in the sea every few days, you weren’t going to go about smelling like a bed of roses. Behind all the grime, however, Kern was a fairly handsome man. Tall, with a broad bone-structure; he was slim and healthy of build, with wiry muscles and well toned arms, and his features were well defined, expressive, and even fairly interesting in a Dreyhood fashion. Fane still felt that the small Illusionist had something to hide, but his overall demeanour was fairly pleasant, except for when he was insulting and spitting at people. ‘Where’s ya mate, anyway?’ Kern asked, still looking for his insect friends. ‘My mate?’ He asked, taken aback by the strange use of language, ‘I’m unmarried…’ Kern laughed, which started at first as a humming snort, and then erupted into a dry cackle. It stopped as abruptly as it had begun. ‘I means ya friend. What’s-his-name. The small one with the hair like a barbarian wife’s armpit.’ Fane frowned. He wasn’t familiar with such irregular dialects. In fact, the last sentence had veered off into almost an entirely new language. ‘Searching for an escape route is he?’ Kern pressed. Fane shook his head, ‘He’s getting some training in. He was a warrior back home … well … he would have been shortly.’ ‘A warrior eh? Little bit small for one of those aint he?’ He shrugged, ‘I s’pose he’s got a fighters spirit. Silly boy.’ ‘Silly?’ Fane said, slightly insulted. Kern reached out and patted Fane on the shoulder before taking the rum and helping himself to another large gulp. The chains clinked at every inch of movement. After the Dreyhood’s last escape, the bonds had been re-enforced by metal plates drilled deep into the wall. It would be a lot harder for the man to pull away the boards next time. ‘Anyone who’s as willing to die on the end of a sword as he is - is silly.’ Fane nodded. He had to admit, Kern had a point. ‘And ye don’t need to be married to have yaself a “mate.”’ Fane blushed slightly, though he would have blamed it on the rum. ‘I know that. I just…’ ‘Never got around to it?’ Fane shook his head, ‘Well, I courted a few times. More than a few. But…’ Kern laughed, ‘It’s alright, mate, I know what you’re saying. Small town like that, you can’t expect to get ya end away too young.’ Fane would have added that he had morals, and wanted to save that until he was married. But he didn’t say that. Partly because he wanted to appear nonchalant, but also because he wasn’t sure if it was actually true. Yes he had morals, but he was a fool for a pretty face. The opportunity to … ‘get his end away’ … hadn’t exactly arrived yet, so he couldn’t say exactly if he would resist or not. Part of him hoped he wouldn’t. ‘What about you?’ Fane asked, ‘Did you have a woman back home? Or a wife?’ Kern cocked his head against the glass of the raised bottle, thinking for a second, ‘I probably had a few of both floating about.’ He handed the rum back to Fane with a small smile, ‘Drink up, mate, you’re behind on your chugging.’ 2 Fane stammered, ignoring the odd Dellian word that he didn’t understand. ‘Y-you don’t remember? You don’t remember if you had a wife?’ Kern forced the bottle into the younger’s hands, ‘Nah. I think I blacked out and married two or three in one night, but I only have people’s word for that.’ Fane drank a sip of rum and stared at the thief with astonishment. ‘As for women, I had a few. Well … I didn’t consider them my women, but they probably considered me theirs. It’s ‘ard to say. I didn’t hang about long enough to have them kinds a talks, if you knows what I mean. Leave ‘em a rose on their pillow and avoid ‘em for the next nine months, that’s the way, mate! Cheers!’ He chuckled again. Fane took another swig of rum, suddenly feeling as though he had missed out on something quite spectacular. ‘Sounds like you’ve had a good life.’ Fane conceded. Kern shrugged, ‘Not really. Had its ups, but also its downs. Me Dad died when I was 4 years old; killed by soldiers while I watched. A crook he was. They had him under arrest … but see, they had some grievances with him, and weren’t about to let him get off with just a quick hanging. And Mum … well she took care of us for a while, but then gave up the job and abandoned me when I was eight.’ ‘Eight!’ ‘I think. I don’t think they kept track of my birthdays, so I might have been 9 or 10.’ Fane swallowed hard, ‘What happened then?’ ‘The whore sold me to a workhouse, kid. I think she was addicted to Eskan herbs, you know the ones. Scuttle and brack, that kinda thing, you know the ones.’ Fane didn’t, and neither had he heard the words before. ‘You know what a workhouse is? It’s as bad as slavery. Young’ns cop it every year in them places. I was lucky, and I escaped when I was 12.’ He took a moment to drain the remainder of the rum bottle. Fane was absently aware of how fast they had consumed the liquid, but was already feeling quite numb. ‘After that I lived on the streets as a thief and a swindler. A picker of pockets and a lifter of fine antiques, I was. Spent a long time doin’ that before I learned me gift. And after I learned it, thieving just got easier.’ He added a sentence which was so slurred and unintelligible that Fane couldn’t even find a single word that sounded as though it was in ordinary Ryadellian. Fane opened his mouth and words came out, ‘How did you learn your gift?’ Kern shrugged, ‘Just picked it up as I went.’ Fane didn’t see the lie in the man’s expression, but he guessed it was one. ‘And that’s when The Seekers came after you?’ ‘Well, I was about eighteen or nineteen by that time, kid. Your age, I was. They tried for a very long time to catch old Kern, but I fooled them again and again. Years I gave them the ole run around, sometimes letting ‘em think they’d caught me before taking away an illusion or two. Sometimes I just stayed out of their way for months at a time. The Order aint had so much trouble catching anyone … ever!’ Fane placed the empty bottle on the table. Clyde was licking his arm, merrily enjoying the salted taste on the boy’s skin. ‘I mean, I aint one to complain.’ Kern continued. ‘I’ve had me ups and downs, just the same as any other man. Probably the same as you, kid.’ He pointed to the bottle. ‘We need another. Go get it. Hopefully we can get you drunk enough to woo that Furalian bird.’ Fane frowned. Did everyone know about his attraction to Gwynia? Kern’s arm snatched out and covered something on the floor with a cupped hand. He looked down at it excitedly. ‘Find yourself a rival, and I’ll wager you tomorrow’s ale rations on the fastest.’ Fane stared. ‘But get the booze first!’ -------------------- *1 It was the Human poet, and also King of Illatonis; Derrus IV that penned the words in his poem entitled Thorns and Petals, at around the year 672 AT, in The Age of Peace. Whether or not the legendary poem was given musical composition is unknown, as Derrus IV unfortunately died along with his whole house of servants during an assassination raid only a year later. “The Poet King” as he was called, was said to have written the poem for his adolescent lover, who he was forbidden to marry, because – ironically – she was also Furalian. *2 With the dialect of Dellian (Broken Ryadellian), I use odd words which help to illustrate the possible confusion of the other party involved in the conversation. While these words might not be entirely unforeign to us, they are slang words, and thus serve to show that while Dellian is not an entirely new language, it is sometimes just as confusing as one.
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