Michael Sullivan - Avempartha

“Well,” Arista said pursing her lips, “my mistake then.” She looked at the guards. “Go back about your business.”

“Princess.” The guards bowed briskly, turned and walked back the way they had come.

Hilfred slowly sheathed his sword.

She looked back at the two. “My apologies, it’s just that-that-well, never mind.” She turned away embarrassed.

“Oh no, Your Highness.” Thrace said attempting as best she could to curtsy. “Thank you so much for coming to my aid, even if I didn’t actually need it. It is good to know that someone as great as you would bother to help a poor farmer’s daughter.” Thrace looked at her in awe. “I’ve never met a princess before. I’ve never even seen one.”

“I hope I’m not too much of a disappointment then.” Thrace was about to speak again but Arista beat her to it. “What happened to you?” She gestured at her face.

Thrace reached up, running her fingers over her forehead. “Is it that bad?”

“It was the Gilarabrywn, Your Highness,” Tomas explained. “Thrace and her father Theron were the only two to ever survive a Gilarabrywn attack. Now please my dear girl, please get back in bed.”

“But really, I am feeling much better.”

“Let her walk with me a bit, deacon,” Arista said, softening her tone. “If she feels worse I’ll get her back to bed.”

Tomas nodded and bowed.

Arista took Thrace by the arm and led her up the hallway, Hilfred walking a few steps behind. They could not travel far, only thirty yards or so; the manor house was not a real castle. Built from great rough-cut beams-some with the bark still on-she guessed there were only about eight bedrooms. In addition, there was a parlor, an office, and the great hall with a high ceiling and mounted heads of deer and bear. It reminded Arista of a cruder, smaller version of King Roswort’s residence. The floor was made of wide pine planks and the outer walls were thick logs. Nailed along them were iron lanterns holding flickering candles that cast semi-circles of quivering light, for even though it was midafternoon, the interior of the manor was dark as a cave.

“You’re so kind,” the girl told her. “The others treat me-as if I don’t belong here.”

“Well, I’m glad you are here,” Arista replied. “Other than my handmaiden Bernice, I think you are the only other woman here.”

“It is just that everyone else was sent back home and I feel so out of place, like I’m doing something wrong. Deacon Tomas says I’m not. He says I’m hurt and I need time to recover and that he’ll see to it no one bothers me. He’s been very nice. I think he feels as helpless as everyone else around here. Maybe taking care of me is a battle he feels he can win.”

“I misjudged the deacon,” Arista told her, “and you. Are all farmers’ daughters in Dahlgren so wise?”

“Wise?” Thrace looked embarrassed.

Arista smiled at her. “Where is your family?”

“My father is in the village. They won’t let him in to see me, but the deacon is working on that. I don’t think it matters as we will be leaving Dahlgren as soon as I can travel, which is another reason I want to get my strength back. I want to get away from here. I want us to find a new place and start fresh. I’ll find a man, get married, have a son and call him Hickory.”

“Quite the plan, but how are you feeling-really?”

“I still have headaches and to be honest I’m getting a little dizzy right now.”

“Maybe we should head back to your bedroom then,” Arista said and they turned around.

“But, I am feeling so much better than I was. That’s another reason why I got up. I haven’t been able to thank Esra. I thought he might be in the halls here somewhere.”

“Esra?” Arista asked. “Is he the village doctor?”

“Oh no, Dahlgren’s never had a doctor. Esra is-well, he’s a very smart man. If it hadn’t been for him both me, and my father, would be dead by now. He was the one who made the medicine that saved me.”

“He sounds like a great person.”

“Oh he is. I try to pay him back by helping him eat. He’s very proud you understand and he would never ask, so I offer and I can see he appreciates it.”

“Is he too poor to afford food?”

“Oh no, he just doesn’t have any hands.”

“Tur is a myth,” Esrahaddon was saying to the dwarf as Royce and Hadrian arrived at the falls.

“Says you,” Magnus replied.

The wizard and the dwarf sat on the rocky escarpment facing each other, arguing over the roar. The sun, having dropped behind the trees, left the two in shadow, but the crystalline spires atop Avempartha caught the last rays of dying red light.

Esrahaddon sighed, “I’ll never understand what it is about religion that causes otherwise sensible people to believe in fairy tales. Even in the world of religion, Tur is a parable, not a reality. You’re dealing with myths based on legends based on superstitions and taking it literally. That is very undwarf-like. Are you certain you don’t have some human blood in your ancestry?”

“That’s just insulting,” Magnus glared at the wizard. “You deny it, but the proof is right before you. If you had dwarven eyes you could see the truth in that blade.” Magnus gestured at Royce.

“What’s this all about?” Hadrian asked. “Hello Magnus, murder anyone lately?”

The dwarf scowled.

“This dwarf insists that Royce’s dagger was made by Kile,” Esrahaddon explained.

“I didn’t say that,” the dwarf snapped. “I said it was a Tur Blade. It could have been made by anyone from Tur.”

“What’s Tur?” Hadrian asked.

“A misguided cult of lunatics that worship a fictitious god. They named him Kile of all things. You’d think they could have at least come up with a better name.”

“I’ve never heard of Kile,” Hadrian said. “Now I’m not a religious scholar, but if I remember what a little monk once told me, the dwarven god is Drome, the elvish god is Ferrol, and the human god is Maribor. Their sister, the goddess of flora and fauna, is… Muriel, right? And her son Uberlin is the god of darkness. So, how does this Kile fit in?”

“He’s their father,” Esrahaddon explained.

“Oh right, I forgot about him, but his name isn’t Kile its… Erebus, or something isn’t it? And he’s dead, so how-”

Esrahaddon chuckled, “It doesn’t make any sense. Religion never does. Anyway, have you heard the tale of how Erebus raped his daughter Muriel?”

“More or less.”

“How his sons banded together and killed him for it?”

Hadrian nodded.

“Well, the Cult of Tur, or Kile as it is also known, insists that a god is immortal and cannot die. This strange group of people appeared during the imperial reign of Estermon II and began circulating this story that Erebus had been drunk, or whatever equivalent there is to a god, when he raped his daughter, and was ashamed. Erebus, the story goes, allowed his children-the gods-to believe they had killed him. Then Erebus came to Muriel and begged her forgiveness. She told her father that she would only forgive him if he were to do penance for his crime. The penance she set for him was to do good deeds throughout Elan, but to do them as a commoner, not as a god or even a king. For each act of sacrifice and kindness that she approved of, she would grant him a feather from her marvelous robe, and when her robe was gone then she would forgive him and welcome him home.

“The Kile legend says that ages ago a stranger came to a poor village called Tur. No one knows where it was, of course, and over the centuries its location has changed in response to various claims, but the most common legend places it in Delgos because it was being regularly attacked by the Dacca and, of course, because of the similarity in names to the port city of Tur Del Fur. The story goes that this stranger called himself Kile, and entering into Tur and seeing the terrible plight of the desperate villagers, taught them the art of weapon making to help in their defense. The weapons he taught them to make were reputed to be the greatest in the world, capable of cleaving through solid iron as if it were soft wood. Their shields and armor were light and yet stronger than stone. After he taught them the craft, they used it to defend their homes. After driving off the Dacca, legend says there was a thunderclap on a cloudless day and from the heavens, a single white feather fell into Kile’s hands. He wept at the gift and bid them all farewell, never to be seen again. At least not by the residents of Tur. Throughout the various reigns of different emperors there always seemed to be at least one or two stories of Kile appearing here and there doing good deeds and obtaining his feather. The legend of the village of Tur stood out beyond all others because the poor village of Tur was now famous for its great weaponry.”