“Yes…” mused Fionn out loud. He reached over across the desk and picked up the heavy logbook of Yarlaith the White. In one of his final entries, the old healer described the soul being ‘torn down’ from the afterlife. The body, he claims, is just the vessel of the soul. Once one takes control of the vessel, they too can channel the soul, even if it had left the earth long ago.
Fionn lifted up a stack of papers and grabbed an old religious textbook entitled The Móráin Name. On its cover was an illustration of Móráin the First, shortly after the conquest of Alabach. The male figure stood stark naked—bar a convenient loincloth—with rounded muscles covering every inch of his body. One would have claimed he was the perfect specimen of a man, if it wasn’t for the two great, golden wings unfolding behind his back.
And to think, said Sir Bearach, it was in this very city that Móráin Himself transcended to godhood, while his golden wings blinded the Simian natives.
It’s allegorical, dismissed Fionn. The wings are just the artist’s representation of the power of the Trinity. Móráin never grew wings like that. That would be absurd.
Well, said Sir Bearach. The chaplain back in Keep Carríga was adamant that the events leading to the capture of Penance unfolded just as that illustration depicts.
It wasn’t called Penance back then, said Fionn. He opened the large tome and ran a finger down the contents page. That was before the Simians built the tower. It was before they committed their Sin.
A door somewhere down the hall opened and shut violently, though Fionn didn’t pay it much mind. In the House of the Triad, politicians and nobles were often ran the halls, arguing and slamming doors as if to make a point.
Although he tried to turn his attention back to his work, Fionn found his focus wavering. Two irate voices drifted in from somewhere down the hall: a feeble Simian voice flavoured with the flowery accent of those highborn in Penance, and a female Human. Fionn couldn’t make out the latter’s words, but there was such hatred and fury there that he thought it best to close the door to his chambers. Just in case.
Wait, said Sir Bearach. I recognise that voice.
Is that so? said Fionn, feigning interest as he reached for the door. There was much work to be done, and he didn’t need to be distracted.
No! It can’t be. It can’t be her!
To Fionn’s surprise, the old knight seemed excited, ecstatic, even, on hearing the woman’s voice.
Should I go help her? he asked.
Yes! roared Sir Bearach. Fionn didn’t need to be told twice.
The mage strode out from his chambers, down the corridor where the hall turned off to the left. As he turned the bend, the voices grew more audible, and even the words themselves could be made out.
“I’m not going to ask again!” barked the Human. “I will see him. Now!”
“I’m sorry, my lady,” said the Simian. “The hour is not right, and—”
Fionn stopped dead when the two figures came into view. The first voice he had heard did indeed belong to a Simian. He was dressed like most other nobles in the city, with a light, flowing gown draping low at the front, revealing a thick chest covered with dark, neatly trimmed hair. He seemed to be one used to a position of power, but his current stance certainly indicated the opposite, as he was almost cowering before the other figure.
She, of course, was a woman, but certainly didn’t have the appearance one who would be referred to as ‘my lady.’ She was taller than the Simian, and seemed to be larger in bulk, too, but that could have just been her armour. A steel chestplate shimmered in the waning candlelight, scarred and stained from what might have been a long journey, or a great battle. Her thick black hair was tied back in an untidy bun, with loose, dirt-clumped strands sticking out here and there. The whites in her eyes shone like flames, beneath a heavy brow narrowed in rage.
“If you had seen a fraction of what I did on the way here,” she rasped. “You wouldn’t dare deny me from seeing my brother. Now, let me inside.”
Brother? asked Fionn, surveying his surroundings. We’re outside Cathal Carríga’s clinic. Is she… your…?
Sir Bearach’s silence was enough of an answer. The mage’s heart plummeted. Keep Carríga. Rosca Umhír. They said the horde ran over them all. How…?
“There are healers tending to him as we speak,” stammered the Simian, rubbing a nervous hand across his forehead. “Perhaps, if I kindly request… they could….” Without finishing a coherent sentence, the Simian backed into the door behind him, opened it, and vanished inside.
The woman stood in her armour, not moving, and not noticing Fionn, who slowly stepped towards her.
Do you want me to say anything? asked Fionn. Should I tell her that—
No! exclaimed Sir Bearach. She can’t know. Don’t….
The woman turned abruptly to face Fionn. She eyed him up and down, seeming to pay special attention to the ceremonial red gown the mage was wearing.
“Good evening, Firemaster,” she said with a nod. “I didn’t think there were any mages left. After what happened to Dromán and….” She trailed off, her gaze falling to the floor.
“And the rest of the kingdom?” Fionn ventured. “To my knowledge, Penance is the last bastion of Man—of life—in the wake of the horde.”
For a moment, the woman’s stern expression faltered a little. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly between her teeth.
“I saw it,” she whispered. “I haven’t spoken to anyone—any Human—since I left. It… it was horrendous.”
Fionn swallowed deeply. Surely Sir Bearach wanted to know more about how his House had fallen, but too direct a question may raise suspicion.
“I used to live in Rosca Umhír,” Fionn lied, not quite sure if this was the correct route of questioning to take. “I believe I recognise you from the court. Lady… Carríga, am I correct?”
She lowered her head, but in a bow or in shame, Fionn couldn’t tell. “Aislinn,” she said, eventually. “Just Aislinn Carríga. I’m no lady. Nor a warrior either.”
“But you are dressed as one,” said Fionn, ignoring the feeling that he was overstepping. “And it seems like your amour has seen a fight or two.”
“I fled,” she said, raising her voice and letting the words echo through the hall. “My father wished to close the gates of the keep when the horde arrived. To keep us safe, he said. But I called him a coward. Gods, from the throne room, I could hear the civilians of the city being butchered. What good is surviving a little longer, I asked, only to die in the end as a coward?”
Fionn had no answer to this. Before he could reply, Aislinn continued. “I donned the armour of my late brother.” She beat a fist against her chest-plate. “And I rode out into the horde. I fought some of the dead off, but they just kept on pouring into the city. I would have fought if I could—the Lady Herself can be my witness on that—but I was overwhelmed. I managed to escape the city, but I was pursued by a group of undead that had broken off from the rest. I ran and I ran, but the dead ones did not give up their chase. By the time I lost them, I had already travelled reached the Clifflands. So, I continued on to Penance. To see my last living relative.”
Fionn remained silent after she finished her tale, then shook himself from the stupor it left him in. From Rosca Umhír to Penance. That’s almost two hundred miles.
“Lady Carríga,” called a voice. The Simian from before had emerged from the clinic, although Fionn hadn’t even heard the door open. “You may see your brother now.”
“Will you join me?” said Aislinn, fumbling her hands as she spoke. “I never got your name.”
“Fionn,” said the mage. “I’ll join if my lady wishes it so.”
As they stepped into the clinic, Fionn’s attention was immediately drawn to the resting body of Cathal Carríga, the Human representative of the Triad. Since Fionn had last visited, Cathal’s state had deteriorated significantly. The thin tubes were still bound to his veins, but the man’s complexion now resembled yellowed parchment. His cheekbones were protruding so much, it seemed as if they threatened to cut his skin. Indeed, the entirety of Cathal’s skin was only barely bound to his face. Despite his decrepit state, the young man was still breathing. An aged female healer stood to the side with her arms folded, clearly unhappy with the unexpected visitors.
“Cathal,” whispered Aislinn. She went beside the bed and fell to one knee. “Cathal, it’s me. It’s Ash. Can you hear me?”
The man gave no reply. Two hollow eyes stared up at the ceiling, unblinking, but they did not turn to look at his sister as she spoke.
“Bearach is dead,” she said, trembling now. “Father and Mother too. The horde has taken Rosca Umhír, and they say the rest of the kingdom will fall soon. We’re all that’s left.”
She took one of Cathal’s hands in hers and placed a small kiss upon it. She closed her eyes and bowed her head, sobbing softly to herself.
Bearach, said Fionn. Are you sure you don’t want me to tell her?
No, whispered the knight. But even from that single word, Fionn heard Sir Bearach’s voice crack with grief.
Aislinn stood slowly, towering over Fionn and the old healer. She turned to the woman and gazed down at her like a judgemental father, or Lord Seletoth Himself.
“I was told he was alive,” said Aislinn. “Have you forgotten your trade?”
