Farris quickly played out a dozen scenarios in his mind. To tell the truth could put the Crown one step closer to figuring out his role in the ship’s crash. Assuming the king’s men were looking for an answer, or even had any influence in this town, or settlement, or wherever it was he had landed himself.
“Where am I?” he asked instead, stepping past the man to take a closer look at his surroundings. It was indeed a clinic, the man clearly a white mage. However, a portrait of a woman hanging against the opposite wall held Farris’s attention while the healer spoke.
“This is Roseán, a village in the Clifflands. We’re about half a day on foot from Point Grey to the east. My name is Yarlaith the White, and I am the one who has tended to your wounds. Are you feeling well enough to walk?”
“Who is she?” Farris asked, pointing up at the picture. His arm was trembling, not from fatigue.
“Ah, Lady Meadhbh of the Trinity,” said Yarlaith. A flash of confusion appeared in his eyes.
No… no, it can’t be.
“I need to clear my head,” said Farris, slipping past Yarlaith towards the door. “How much do I owe you for the treatment?”
“Free…” muttered Yarlaith. “Free to all who walk in the Light of the Lady.”
“Thank you,” said Farris, bowing ever so slightly to his saviour.
Though I’d rather be free of Her light entirely.
As he walked out through the old cottage into the fresh autumn air, Farris tried to recall the vision he had seen at the bottom of the cliff. The beautiful woman with the terrible smile.
No, it can’t be her. She doesn’t exist. By Sin’s stones, She can’t possibly exist.
Chapter 2:
The Bear and the Beadhbh
Fear had claimed the young mage many times before, but it rarely strayed from his dreams. Hours had passed since he last saw light, and he could no longer tell if he was asleep or awake. He prayed to the Gods that he would not dream, but when sleep eventually took him, it was clear that the Lord had not listened.
***
The road from Yarlaith’s clinic followed an irregular path, meandering through the village as if its buildings were rocks in a river’s path. To the east, the sun had begun to set over the Móráin Sea, casting long shadows that seemed to grope the land below. Farris set his sights southwards, where the road opened up to a wide cobblestone square, with large buildings of red brick and black slate contrasting with the houses of wattle and daub he passed.
Maybe there’ll be a tavern, thought Farris, some excitement rising in his chest. I could do with a drink.
One of the buildings towards the centre of the square was large enough to be an inn. Farris squinted to make out its name, barely noticing the bottleneck of villagers outside the chapel to his left.
He picked up his pace, careful not to make eye-contact with those leaving the church.
How many died, four? Five? He tried to shake the thought from his mind, but the image of little girl alone in the field remained. Skies above! What where they doing there before sunrise?
Regardless of why they were there, it certainly wasn’t the peasants who brought doom to the Clifflands. Only one man could take the real blame for that.
“King Diarmuid Móráin,” he whispered, a vain attempt to drown out the voice in his head that roared, ‘Me!’
“Look at that! There’s that Simian fella ye saved from the cliffs!”
Before Farris had a chance to make sense of the words, he found himself confronted by two young men in black tunics, both thick with muscle and perfect mirror images of one another. One reached out to grab Farris’s hand, and shook it vigorously with little effort on the Simian’s part.
“Good to see you’re well! Gods, I’ve never seen one of your kind before.”
“He’s always been afraid of Simians,” the other said, taking Farris’s hand in an equally firm grip. “Good thing he didn’t balk at the sight of ye, else we’d be scraping you off those rocks!”
Farris faked a smile. “You have all the thanks I’ve got to give.”
“Tell us about the troll!” said the first man. “What were ye doing in the Glenn, of all places!”
“Please,” said Farris, emphasising the weariness in his voice. “I’m in no state to be telling tales right now. I need to be alone.”
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.
