Set in Stone

“No need to be so rough. Doesn’t suit a thane, does it?”

I took a step toward the boy.

“And how does a street urchin like you know how a thane is supposed to behave?”

“I'm no stray! I earn my coins with hard work, and I'm of the blood, just like you!” The rascal replied with clenched fists.

I looked him over, somewhat surprised. Indeed, the boy had moved like he had received some proper combat training. And his pronunciation was also more refined than that of the commonfolk I’d had the pleasure of meeting so far, even though his tongue, which also differed from the folk of Strandburgh, made it difficult to assess this more precisely.

“Whatever. Speak, boy!”

How old was he, I wondered? Maybe older than I suspected? A youthful demeanor could be deceptive.

“I saw you taking down the Underhanded at the Cray market. We could make use of your sword hand. Restoring order, you know? We could pay you.”

“The Underhanded… I heard that term before. Who are they? Why are the people afraid of them and that Halgmoryn?”

“The people call them the Underhanded because of their ways, like you witnessed today yourself. But they call themselves the House of Halgmoryn. I don’t know exactly if that Halgmoryn is their leader, an elf or a troll, but they talk of her as a female figure who they try to emulate by the havoc they wreak.”

“And other than that, nothing else is known about their goals?”

“Not really. Just that they're made up of thralls, impoverished churls, and lawless low-lives, and that they despise all noblemen and those who’ve made their way up.”

“Huh. And who exactly is this “we” you were talking about?”

“We are the Humble Churls, a charitable group of freemen who, for a small fee, ensure the safety of many wards, hundreds and wherever the lords’ men fail to do so—not only here on Funa, but also on Pellvaria, Logria, and Widwalgh.”

“That sounds more like a group of extortionists to me.”

“Oh, come on, stop talking like a common knight. It’s for a greater good!”

“Which greater good?”

“I'm going to let you in on a secret. Unlike other bands, the Humble Churls aren’t just in it for the sparkling coins.”

“Aren't they?”

“No, no, no, we're king’s men.”

And just like that, I'd stumbled into more cloaks and daggers.

“The king's men, huh? And where is this king you are men of? Is he being held in a dungeon, living as a hermit in the mountains of Iesmark or Sigel, or is he perhaps hiding here in the sewers or in an attic?”

“Sure, I know it was almost a hundred years ago, but...”

“In 48 days, it has been 89 years.”

I had lost my composure. Just for a moment.

“I knew it! You're one of us! You were just lying to the beadle, didn’t you!?”

“Shut up, right now.”

“Sorry.”

“How old are you, boy?”

“I just turned 14.”

“An adult after all. You said you are of the blood, where is your sword, sir thane?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I can handle complicated matters.”

“Well… I… I left it at home.”

“A nobleman who left his sword at home?”

“My home isn’t in Strandburgh.”

“Then where is it?”

“Logria.”

“That’s a whole other island!”

“I know.”

“So let me guess, before you came of age you ran away from home and joined a band of criminals who conspire to topple the lords of the Apallian Isles?”

The boy looked at me with a disarmed and somewhat bashful expression.

“By the gods… And you expect me to help you with what exactly?” I asked, feigning indignation.

“There are two other bands making life difficult for us. We need every trained fighter we can get. And I need someone to train me in the way of the sword.”

“And all of that for a few coins?”

“I'll also serve as your guide, and I'm damn good with runes—that's the only reason I was accepted in the band in the first place.”

“At least that sounds somewhat useful.”

“So, you’ll help me?” the boy asked, excitedly.

“Not so fast. First, tell me your name and which house you belong to. Then you’ll help me find a special place. After that, we'll see what happens next.”

“I’m Rhosfar of the House of Helsight, son of Farling, Ringthane of the Auldmarch. But you can call me Carver. You know, because of the…”

“Because of the runes, I get it. Well, nice to meet you, Rhosfar of the House of Helsight. I’m Inomar of the House of Igeoth—a wanderer, as you've already guessed.”

Was it a lie to tell him the house of my mother? I decided to let the gods be the judges of my twisted words. I held out my hand to Carver in greeting, and he took it with a beaming smile.

“Where do you want to go, Inomar?”

“I want to visit a shrine my grandfather once told me about—the Shrine of the Conquerors.”

“Oh, yeah, I get it. Unfortunately, it hasn't been maintained in a long time, and the Mareeve’s men are making sure no one does it either. Follow me.”

The last days of winter were still short, and so, as we made our way up to a higher part of the city, the sun was already sinking toward the horizon.

Finally, we reached a green square, surrounded by magnificent manor houses, but devoid of any signs of city life. A flight of stairs led up a steep hill topped by many trees. And among the treetops, the outline of a imposing statue could be seen.

“The manors have been snatched up by the traitor’s retainers back when they took control of the city. But as I said, no one is taking care of the shrine—not even these upstarts right next door.”

“How do you know how they got hold of the manor houses?”

“Winfrith told me.”

“Did he? Whatever… Wait down here, Carver. I need some time to myself.”

The boy was about to protest, but a deeply sincere, serious look quickly brought him to his senses, and I was able to walk up the hill in solitary tranquility. But as I finally approached the summit, strange sounds reached my ears.

Carver hadn't lied; the shrine was indeed in a very neglected state. All around stood six smaller statues, perhaps twice the size of a man; behind them were three statues thrice as large, and finally, in the center, another statue that towered over them all, soaring high into the sky.

But alongside all those moss-covered, weathered stone monuments, something that seemed completely out of place caught my eye —the source of the haunted melody.

At the foot of the central statue, a minstrel leaned against it, holding a finely crafted lute made of a material as white as bone. He, too, was completely wrapped in a white cloak, and his face was concealed by a mask made of the same material as the instrument—one half smiling, the other crying.

Like a moth drawn to a campfire, I walked toward him, and when I stopped no more than five steps away from the minstrel, he stopped his ethereal play.

“How lovely that my audience showed up after all!”

His voice echoed among the statues as if in a monumental stone hall.

The minstrel bowed, straightened up, tilted his head, and even though I couldn't see his eyes, I had the feeling he was scrutinizing me closely.

“What song brought you here, child of the blood?”

“What song?”

I felt the elfin light emanating from the figure, drawing me in, clouding my mind—not frightening, but deeply unsettling.

“You're standing among giants! Don’t you want to also be remembered set in stone? Sung about for centuries to come? Whose story shall grip your heart? Tell me! Or will you leave me to agonize over the choice?”

“I’ve come to seek silence in this place, not song.”

“Silence you say... Then let's start at the beginning! The song of Aro the Crowned, Aro the Pure, Aro the Wyrmslayer, Aro the Betrayed!”