“Of… of course,” said the young Simian. He stood slightly taller now. “The Movement comes first. It always has.”
“Then follow Garth, and march across Alabach armoured in the steel of Simian ingenuity.” He made a grand gesture to Ruairí. “The Sons of Seletoth will be joined by the Sons of Old Simia, united by a common cause. War is almost upon us, but there is much to do before then.”
Without a word of farewell, the Silverback turned to leave. The other Simians meekly followed, with Garth in the rear. He whispered frantically to the youngest Simian as he went, wrapping a fraternal arm around his shoulders.
“Seletoth,” muttered Ruairí, in the monotonous voice he reserved only for prayer. He held a fisted hand against his chest. “Guide us through the darkness with your light and grant us the strength to never stray from your path.”
Ruairí followed the others, his stride not as quick as it usually would be. Farris’s focus then fell on Nicole, who had not moved an inch since the Reaper was revealed.
“Are you okay?” asked Farris. “Is there anything I can help with before I go?”
“I will not pray for the Gods to forgive me,” she said, still staring ahead. “Not because I don’t believe they exist, but because even if they did, they would never forgive this.”
“This is a Reaper, then?” asked Farris, gesturing to the machination. “Weren’t you and Garth working on this for a long time? Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“No,” she said, her eyes glistening with tears. “When I designed the firearms, and the new alloy of Simian Steel, I told myself that it would protect us during a Holy War. If Argyll plans to separate Penance from the kingdom, surely the Church would send its mages against us. I was ensuring we would be ready.”
“It seems like we are. You’ve achieved what most learned Simians thought impossible. The steel, the firearms. The Reaper. None would dare start a war against a side armed in such a manner.”
“They won’t have a choice,” said Nicole. “The Silverback wishes to march first. Raids on the Clifflands, to draw the mages out from the Academy. The Sons of Seletoth armed with my weapons, clad in my armour, with twelve Simians piloting Reapers amongst them…. They could wipe a city off the face of the earth before the Church or the Crown could even respond. It was never supposed to be this way, Farris. It was never supposed to be this strong.”
“What do you mean?”
“It feels like it was pure chance that led to its creation. I was struggling with the armour just as you were assigned to work with me, and you helped me put right pieces together, even if you didn’t understand the shape they would form. Argyll initially only wanted me to work on the firearms but put me on the Reaper Project long before you came to Penance. After my father died, I threw myself at the task, focusing all my energy and my time on it. I let it consume me, further than it should have, and this is the result. This… this twisted perversion of science!” She raised her voice with that, the final words caught by a sob. “Now it has grown to something I can no longer control. The seeds have already been sown, and now the Silverback wields the scythe. It was never supposed to be like this.”
She succumbed to a barrage of tears, wiping them as they poured silently down her cheeks.
“I don’t know what to say,” said Farris. “If there is anything I can do to help, I’ll do it.”
With that, the female Simian abruptly threw her arms around Farris, burying her face into his shoulders. Guilt bubbled deep within him, as he realised how much he was relishing their embrace. He fought the urge to hold her even tighter.
“Don’t leave me here alone with it,” she said, her voice muffled by Farris’s damp fur. “Please.”
“Of course,” said Farris, not quite sure what to do with his hands. He placed one gently on the back of her head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Chapter 16:
The Triad Breaks
S
I must commend your quick thinking on the day Firemaster Fionn joined the council. Your abrupt flight to Dromán provided the best excuse to keep him nearer. Without Conleth keeping him in Penance, he could have fled, too. Now, he will be right where we need him when the time comes.
A.
***
A cold midnight breeze rolled through a window of the Triad’s North Wing, caressing the hairs on the back of Fionn’s neck. They immediately stood on end, responding to the whisper of the wind.
Fionn shrugged off a shiver that ran through his body, not paying much mind to the Healer who closed the window shut.
“You shouldn’t be here, you know,” she said, nodding towards the patient on the bed. “In his state, he’d barely know the difference between being awake and asleep; and he’s very far from acknowledging the visitors who come here.”
“Then what difference does it make if we stay?” asked Fionn. He had been vague about his intentions to see Cathal Carríga, but the mage’s position amongst the Triad obliged the staff to accommodate his needs. Or the needs of Sir Bearach.
“Well,” said the Healer, holding her hands over her hips. “You’ve got five minutes while I give him his dose. Say whatever prayers you need to say.”
Fionn nodded, clutching the cheap Trinity emblem to his chest. He had purchased it at a reasonable price from the Penance markets earlier that day. Claiming to be a devout representative from the Church seemed to be the best course of action to lie his way into Cathal Carríga’s private chambers.
He took a step towards the dying man. Well, it was said that he was dying, but it was certainly taking him a long time. He seemed as if he could have been a strong youth not so long ago, for a pair of broad shoulders with frail arms suggested the latter were once round with muscle.
Fionn flexed the fingers of his right arm. Even though he hadn’t done an ounce of the training that Sir Bearach did, the muscle mass in his new limb hadn’t deteriorated an inch.
Necromancy, mused Fionn. Gods, we don’t know the first thing about how it works.
Sir Bearach didn’t say a word. In fact, the dead knight hadn’t said anything since Fionn started hatching the plan to re-unite the Carríga brothers. He spent three weeks sitting in on Triad meetings, giving the occasional counsel regarding the ways of the arcane—things trivial by any well-read mage’s standards. All he had to do was claim he wished to give Cathal Carríga some ‘holy blessing’ from the cathedral of Dromán, and he was granted access. The patient was only able to receive visitors twice a day—at noon and midnight—due to the timing of his medication.
Fionn moved his hands in a circular motion, something resembling what the druids of the Church would do during sermons, though he wasn’t quite sure what it was supposed to mean. The healer didn’t notice, as she busied herself tending to the patient.
He stood there in silence for the next five minutes, pretending to pray while the healer worked. He dared not let his mind stray from his task, lest he insult the dead knight who was surely watching.
Once the healer was done, she shooed Fionn away, telling him that he’d have to finish his prayers through the door. Instead, he walked away with defeat, cursing himself for having even tried such a foolish endeavour.
I should have thought of something else. I could have given us more time, or picked a time when he was feeling more lucid, or—
No, came Sir Bearach’s voice, more jarring than usual after its previous absence. There was nothing more you could have done. And what you did was far more than I ever expected anyone to ever do for me.
A strange sound echoed from the back of Fionn’s mind. If he hadn’t known any better, he would have thought Sir Bearach was crying.
