Before either of the men had a chance to object, Farris produced a coin-purse from his shoulder-pack. Unsure which had been the one to save him, he shoved a handful of gold into each of their hands.

“Take this as my thanks,” said Farris. “Buy yourselves a pint on me.”

“A p-pint?” stammered the first stranger. “We could buy a barrel with this much! Come on, Cillian. We’ve gotta pay the cider house a visit!”

The other man nodded curtly towards Farris before both ran off together. Sure, their reward had indeed been excessive, but it was important to keep people from prying into the events that led him to the village.

He went on into the inn. The common room was wide with a high ceiling supported by thick, wooden beams. Cold limestone rock formed the floor and walls, but an array of torches and a roaring fire ensured the room remained warm. The tavern was mostly empty, except for the lone bard tuning his lute in the corner, and the bar staff outnumbering the patrons.

“So, what’ll it be for you, sir?”

Farris carefully considered the barman standing before him. There had been only a slight hint of hesitation in his voice, as if he too had never seen a Simian before but was trying hard not to be rude.

“You don’t happen to serve thainol here, do you?” said Farris.

The innkeeper smiled. “Ah, the Simian stuff was never popular with the locals. We had a batch of it before, but it took us months to sell the whole—”

“A pint of pale will do,” interrupted Farris.

“Aye.” The innkeeper deftly pulled a pint glass out from under the counter. “You arrived here in good time. The funeral crowd will come pouring in here any minute, and most will spend the night standing. You were lucky to get a seat.”

“Lucky, yes,” muttered Farris. From the way the innkeeper nodded in agreement, Farris guessed that he missed the bitterness in his tone.

He did feel fortunate, however, for the innkeeper left as soon as the pint had been poured and paid for.

The ale tasted just as well as those served back in the capital, though a little thicker than what Farris was used to. The first few mouthfuls were bliss, but he was barely halfway through when the doors to the inn slammed open, admitting a flood of villagers.

Most took seats at the tables throughout the room, but the few that sat at the bar gave a wide berth to the solitary Simian. The bard at the corner of the room began singing, and those sitting nearby seemed to immediately forget about the stranger in their tavern. The people clapped along to the sweet melody of the bard’s song. There was some discord in the air, however. The two brothers that had saved Farris were now singing by the door of the inn, though their song was far less musical than the bard’s.

Luck and fate.One threw me off the edge of a cliff, and the other put those men in the right place at the right time. Perhaps both played a role in saving him.

Farris shook the thought from his head. The will of the Gods would need to wait. There was work to be done.

Point Grey is half a day away. The ferry from there to Penance would be the quickest way to bring word to the Silverback. I could catch one early in the morning if I leave here tonight….

But where would that leave him? It might already be too late to unravel the king’s plot. For all he knew, Diarmuid may have already planned a second pre-emptive strike as soon as news of the crash reached him.

Would it be in the Silverback’s best interest to fight back now?

No, there was no use in speculating. Without the full story about what really happened down in the railway with Santos and the king and their supposed attackers, it would be futile to plan ahead.

Farris drank deeply from his pint, the bitter ale helping relieve some of his pain. The healer had done well to repair his injuries so quickly, but a dull ache still remained at the back of his head. He was grateful, of course, for even an inch from death, a few hours’ worth of white magic was enough to bring him back to his feet. With that kind of power on the side of the Crown, what hope did the Silverback have in a war?

Someone took a seat beside Farris, but he didn’t turn to see who it was. He muttered as they sat, and to his relief, they didn’t try to strike a conversation. Everyone else was happy to be distracted by the bard, who sang rude, boisterous songs, poking fun at the nobility.

Wasn’t this supposed to be a funeral? Humans had a strange way of dealing with the dead. For all the sanctity of their ceremony, it was all forgotten once the mourners reached the bar. He couldn’t blame them, of course. The Simians had a similar way of dealing with grief. They just didn’t try to disguise it with piousness. When a Simian was cremated in Penance, it was customary for family and friends—not some local druid—to say a few words.

The night went on, and Farris found it quite easy to pay for the pints coming his way. The men from earlier had it right: a handful of gold was more than enough to pay for a barrel of ale this far from the capital. With what little money he had left, Farris could have purchased most of what the bar had to offer.

As he took another drink, Farris paused; something in the air had changed. The music still went on—a slow and valorous marching song this time—but now everyone was standing, and in silence. Worse still, they were all staring right at him.

Oh, it seems they’ve noticed the Simian in their midst.

The song ended, and the bard held an upturned hat towards the crowd. But none paid him any mind. One man spoke up.

“Excuse me, sir, you should show more respect!”

Farris glared at the speaker, an elderly farmhand with a hunched back.

Is he talking to me?

The Simian slammed his near-empty glass on the table, perhaps a little harder than he meant to. But when everyone around him recoiled in response, Farris suppressed a smile.

Skies above, they’re terrified.

“What have I done to offend you, little man?” said Farris, in a voice as cold and commanding as he could manage.

“You’ve disrespected your hosts,” the stranger began. “The least you could do is stand for our Ballad, but you lot are all alike: ignorant of everything the Trinity has done for you.”

Ignorant? You don’t know the half of it.

Farris stood slowly, keeping his intimidating glare locked on the farmhand as he rose above him.

“You should read a book, Human, instead of listening to jesters for your history lessons.” Rage shook his chest as he spoke. He pointed towards the bard. “This one seems to have left out the verses where your people slaughtered mine... how they used their magic to enslave us.”

Another voice cried out from the crowd. “It was not our choice! We gave your kind a chance to live alongside us!”

“You gave us a choice between giving our lives to your Gods or to your swords,” he snarled.

“And you chose neither,” called a third voice. “You’ve done nothing but spit in the face of the Trinity ever since we let you rats live!”

Is he serious?He can’t possibly be serious. The slur ‘rats’ reminded Farris of a conversation he had with the Chester, who spoke of the subjugation of the Simian people by the Human Church and Crown. That was before Farris killed him. The memory caused Farris’s heartbeat to accelerate. All he wanted to do now was leave.

But before he could, the first villager spoke again. He pointed at the person sitting adjacent to Farris.

“This little girl lost her mother today! You deny our Gods, so tell her what you believe! Tell her the fate of her mother was nothing but bad luck!”

It was only now that Farris who was sitting beside him: the girl from the field. She looked up at him, with bright green eyes that seemed to have seen too much. Sorrow lined every feature of her face.

If the Gods are true, they are as sure as Sin not good.

But no, there was no use in blaming the Gods, or the king, or the weavings of fate for what happened back by the cliffs. If this girl wanted someone to blame, these townsfolk had found the right person.

Farris placed a hand the girl’s shoulder, not quite sure what to say. In silence, the girl stared deep into his eyes, a spark of curiosity in her expression.

“I have nothing to tell you, little one,” he started, not quite sure where he was going with it. “My words are as empty as the prayers of these fools. Listen to them, and they’ll blind you to the truth: your mother will not live forever in Paradise. Instead, she will live on in your memories.”

His words were met with silence. A hundred eyes stared at him, as if he had committed a sin far worse than murder. Before anyone had a chance to react, Farris quickly finished the last of his ale and stormed out of the tavern, leaving the little girl alone with her people.