“And you’re not alone.”

“I appreciate your kindness, Fionn, but apart from you, I’m alone in a city of strangers. And I’m all that’s left of Rosca Umhír. I’m all that’s left to remember that great city.”

“No,” said Fionn. “That’s not true. There’s —”

Please, came Bearach’s voice at the back of Fionn’s mind. His anger had left, leaving only a weak plea. Don’t.

Fionn obeyed the words of the dead knight, leaving Aislinn to deal with her loss on her own. If only Bearach would agree to have Aislinn speak to him through Fionn. Then at least he’d feel like all he had gone through had served some good. Some purpose. He looked down at his severed hand again. No, Fionn was just as powerless here as he was out on the battlefield at the Goldgate. Sure, he had helped turn the tide of that battle with his fire, but once Morrígan turned up, his magic was useless. To her, he was like a blade of grass trampled under the foot of a mammoth.

Without warning, the door to the clinic swung open with a slam. A figure as wide as its frame entered, taller than all within the room. With coarse, brown hair covering every inch of his body, the Simian strode towards Fionn without paying much mind to anyone else.

“Firemaster Fionn,” he said, his deep voice booming through the room. “The council are meeting now, and your attendance is required.”

“Ah, Farris,” said Fionn. “How did your meeting with the Arch-Canon go?”

“Not as expected,” said the Simian. “He’s seeing that an adequate portion of the skyfleet is fitted with focus-crystals for the flight south, and he’s giving us a portion of the Churchguard to bolster our numbers.”

“Oh,” said Fionn. He’s being sarcastic. Even after living in Penance for more than a year, Fionn never really understood Simian humour.

“And why are the council meeting at such short notice?”

“To make preparations for the flight south,” said Farris slowly, as if Fionn would have trouble understanding. “The resources of the city must now be re-allocated to sustain the Churchguard and the Triad’s supply-line.”

Fionn’s eyes widened. He glanced over to Aislinn, who shrugged.

“Anyway,” said Farris. “Your attendance is required. That’s all.”

As abruptly as he came, Farris left.

“Was he serious?” asked Fionn. “The Church handed their forces over to us? Old Cathbad is thinking about something other than himself for once?”

“I don’t know,” said Aislinn. “But I’m sure we’ll see soon enough.”

Chapter 3:

What is Right

For a long time, my people were lost, wandering through the hills of Arinor without a home, or a purpose. Then the Grey Plague came, destroying any hope they had of finding somewhere to settle.

Until a young woman named Meadhbh said that Lord Seletoth had spoken to her of a land to the west. A land the Grey Plague could not touch. None believed her, until she bore a son without ever laying with a man. The father, she said, was Seletoth Himself.

And the son, of course, was me.

The Truth, by King Móráin I, AC55

***

The first meeting of the Triad since the Battle of Penance was far busier than those Farris was used to. Dozens of Simians and a handful of Humans filled the room, many standing, some leaning against the white marbled walls. Every seat was occupied, bar the three at the top of the room. Those were reserved for the Triad itself.

The nervous chatter of the crowd continued past the scheduled start time, with no leader, no real leader, to initiate the discussion.

But we have so much to discuss, thought Farris, eyeing the attendees. Like the meeting held before when the refugees of the Seachtú came to Penance, many businesses and landowners of the city stood in wait today. Without the Silverback’s presence, it was General-Commander Plackart who spoke first.

“Let us begin,” he growled, looking to the others as if they were his subjects. He added no more volume than usual to his voice, but still, this silenced the room. The old Simian hesitated before speaking, his scarred lips pursed in concentration.

“A victory was won in this city not seven days ago,” he began. He folded his arms, heavy vambraces upon both clinking together. “But our work is not yet complete. In fact, the city’s problems are now threefold. First, the walls of the Stoneworks must be repaired in case this enemy should return. Second, our remaining food provisions are waning, and redistribution of our resources must be carefully considered if we are to survive the winter. Finally, law and order has broken down across the residential districts, with looters and thieves thriving in the chaos the horde left behind.”

“One of my stores was raided last night!” said one Simian merchant. Farris recognised him as Edwin the Grey. “Bandits stole away half a years’ worth of stock.”

Farris cut in before Plackart could respond. “Can you please elaborate for the council, what specifically you mean by ‘stock?’”

“G-grain and dried foods,” stammered Edwin. “Income that was fairly earned and—”

“It seems, Commander Plackart,” interrupted Farris, “that of our city’s three problems, the second is being resolved by the third.”

“Nonsense!” cried another finely dressed Simian. “These are anarchists that have no respect for authority! They must be put down brutally before the city descends into ruin.”

“These are just desperate people who need to eat,” said Farris. “Surely—”

Plackart raised a hand. As another merchant spoke up, Plackart leaned in towards Farris. “Not now, lad,” he whispered. “We need to find a solution that keeps us all happy, and that won’t happen if you keep goading them.”

“If I may,” said Ruairí of the Sons of Seletoth. “Based on the current accounts of the Triad, our granaries have just half the capacity needed to see us through the winter. We will rely on the commerce of private merchants to make up the rest of that shortfall.”

Farris narrowed his eyes. Ruairí seemed to have his finger on the pulses of many different arms of the Triad. Wasn’t he just a priest or a leader of the Sons of Seletoth? He was close to Argyll, sure, but how did that land him the responsibilities of treasurer of the Triad?

“So that settles it,” said Edwin. “If you want us to fortify the Triad’s winter stores, you must send soldiers through the city streets clean up those who don’t respect the law.”

“The Triad’s soldiers will not be available for this task,” said Plackart. He adopted a blank stare and a level voice as he said this, not engaging with the other Simians directly.

This seemed to puzzle Edwin, but landowner Wheaton the Wise seemed to understand.

“Ah yes,” he said. “The repairs needed for the wall. Of course, we must prioritise the safety of—”

“The Triad’s army will not be utilised to rebuild,” said Plackart. This caused a ripple to go through the room.

“Then what purpose will they serve?” said one voice for the crowd.

“What are our taxes going towards, if not to protect the city?”

“Skies above! Not even an answer!”

Plackart looked to Farris as the stirring in the crowd turned to shouting.

“If the Churchguard are joining us on the march south,” whispered Plackart. “Then they’ll need the Triad’s supplies too.” He glanced to Ruairí. “We’ll have to empty those granaries before we leave.”

Farris looked to the rest of the council. Although made up of stewards and lawmen, diplomats and treasurers, they dealt with the minutia of the running of Penance. They themselves made no decisions, no difficult decisions. That responsibility fell to those who would have occupied the three empty seats of the Triad that loomed overhead.

But in their absence, who has the right to make any decision?