“But don’t concern yourself too much with Padraig,” added Farris. “That fool can look after himself.”
***
Fionn shook his Simian inkpen and tried writing again, but no letters fell onto the page. He gritted his teeth and began shaking it once more. In the back of his mind, Sir Bearach was chuckling softly.
Isn’t this Simian invention supposed to be an improvement on our inkwells and quills? Sir Bearach asked. The young mage ignored him and began scribbling away at the corner of the page once more. At last, the ink trickled forth, and the pen began writing smoothly.
Fionn paused to consider his words for the report. He had fastidiously studied Yarlaith’s notes on Necromancy and compared them to some choice historical texts on the nature of magic, but whatever answer the Silverback seemed to believe he’d find was far out of reach.
Does he think this is like a bard’s tale? thought Fionn. That there’s some long-lost secret to stopping the horde, and all it takes is some reading to uncover it?
Well, said Sir Bearach. You’ve made some progress, at least.
Fionn considered the pages he had written already. It was true. One of the Triad’s scouts who had witnessed the horde first-hand reported that the dead bodies began rising back up to join the others even when the girl, Morrígan, was nowhere to be seen. This observation, when cross-referenced to the account of Callaghan the Black—one of the first Necromancers to be tried and executed in Alabach—alluded to Necromancy having a significant range. It stood to reason, then, that if anyone in the vicinity of a Necromancer was to fall dead, even from natural causes, their soul could still be harvested.
That explains the graves, Fionn recalled, frantically writing as the memory from the day he returned to Roseán resurfaced. She took the dead from their graves, even when buried under the ground long before.
But what of their souls? asked Sir Bearach. Surely the souls of the long dead would already have travelled to the Plains of Tierna Meall.
“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.
