Interlude the Second III: The Acolyte’s Trial

  What met Dreth’s vision was the eyepatch-wearing visage of the middle-aged inquisitor. The near-full moon of Raclune cast a silvery glow on his thoughtful face as the smell of decay, urine, and mildew wafted through the western cell block, a place for those like him, serving life sentences and remembered only through their labour in the prison sweatshops.

  The expression was inscrutable, mirroring the sternness of the faces in the tribunal, but also veiled with the slightest hint of pity, maybe even traces of his former mentorship. All that, hidden under a coating of disappointment, likely due to the lack of a strong clue about the runaway’s whereabouts.

  “I regret that is all I can offer, Inquisitor Varos … you were witness to the rest of the debacle that played after his arrival.” A sigh of disappointment left Dreth’s lips as he turned away from his former superior.

  “No…brother, for you to have extracted even that much from the savage in the time you acquainted yourself with them.” Varos stared down towards the reagents on his belt—one that a person of his rank was afforded.

  “To adapt even when the fugitive found out about your pursuit and cornered you prematurely…” His expression was as if contemplating something, before a small, barest flicker of a smile played on his lips.

  Perhaps it was an illusion, a trick of the eye, caused by the weak moonlight shining through the barred window, which distorted the disgraced former inquisitor-acolyte’s sight.

  After all, what value could that piece of information offer?

  “All I extracted is the fact that the boy might not head south. He could very well disregard his mentor’s preferences.” Dreth’s voice rose in firmness, carrying a disagreement that was also equal parts productive contemplation.

  “That might be true indeed, brother.” Varos’s repeated salutations only tightened the pain in Dreth’s chest—the promising acolyte, now discarded, yet somehow acknowledged by this man in front of him as a brother in arms, at least in salutations.

  Mockery? Or genuine respect?

  Dreth spoke, his tone a mix of courtesy and resentment. “Please, Inquisitor, do not refer to me as such. In the end, I am—”

  “That holds true as well—in the eyes of some. Tell me, if given the chance, would you seek to prove them wrong?” Instead of his typical authoritative tone, the eyepatch-bearing inquisitor spoke with a softer tone, one that was thoughtful and nearly philosophical.

  “Devotion needs no proof—Vireon’s gaze is the only witness one requires.” The words came immediately, still burning with conviction despite the haggard, disavowed state he found himself in.

  An undeniable smile finally played on the inquisitor’s lips. “I see your sentence has yet to erode your fervour. Good.”

  Silence fell as Dreth Penbroke attempted to make sense of the inquisitor’s expression, his intent, his interrogation. He had extracted all the information about Selriph Daryth.

  Yet he hadn’t taken his leave, not yet.

  After a few more seconds, another question broke the quiet. “Should the boy decide against seeking refuge in Venthar, how would you gather his whereabouts, acolyte?” His tone held a familiar quality, one reminiscent of the many trials that he had passed with flying colours in the Inquisitorius’s sanatorium.

  “Why offer this question to me…? The blackguard’s opinion will hardly shift; it would take—”

  “Respond to the proposal immediately and without contestation—Acolyte Dreth,” Varos said in a stern tone.

  Dreth inclined his head in a posture of educated deference. “My sincerest apologies; allow me a moment’s pause for consideration,” his eyes fixed on the cold, impervious stone surface.

  The only sound that filled the next eternity of ponderment was the faint dripping of moisture from the surrounding, dimly lit corridors, along with the faint, hushed shuffles of the surrounding slumber.

  Then the words came from the former acolyte’s mouth. “I’d trace the path of his flight. The savage spoke of reunion and his contact in the woods.” His words were directed at the floor, although very much heard by the inquisitor before him.

  “Which means the runaway…”

  As Dreth shut his eyes, another period of quiet descended, and he began to consider all the ways the fugitive could get away.

  “You may continue your answer when you are ready to proceed, acolyte.”

  The former acolyte inclined his head slightly before resuming.

  “After his first encounter with you, Sir, and the blackguard captain, he must have emerged in the wood as the good captain suspected. There, he must have acquainted himself with the woodsman.” His voice faded, while his mind pursued its logical route of contemplation.

  “There must have been some place of residence, of refuge. He might have headed there after he escaped the warehouse.”

  “Your assessment holds weight thus far, acolyte. I concur with that. However, you have not addressed the heart of the matter: where would he proceed henceforth?”

  The inquisitor’s hands, fresh pink from the burn wounds that had healed, gathered around the bars.

  “Would he still have headed south? Or would he make his flight from our empire elsewhere?” Varos’s tone was subdued, bordering on threatening.

  Dreth bit his lip as he felt his head tighten; his lips clenched. He was unable to provide a definitive response; the conviction in his earlier challenges to the elderly, dementia-ridden religious leader in useless sermons could not be mustered.

  Burnt and amputated like the hand that once held his mark of service.

  “By Sadria’s all-seeing gaze, I cannot be certain. One would need to locate this place first and use anything left behind to determine his vector of travel, in notes, scribes, physical remnants or even blasphemous energies…” he muttered, cupping his forehead, clearly ashamed by the uncertainty of his words.

  Then he felt something under his chin, the cold touch of flesh as he felt his gaze forced upwards to meet the single-eyed inquisitor.

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  “Acolyte Dreth, due to the lack of actionable substance in your words, I am forced to a singular conclusion. Our pursuit will probably see success by intercepting Selriph Daryth at his intended destination; trailing him will only set us back.” Varos pulled his finger away from the battered and bruised facade.

  “I… concur with the wisdom of that course of action… forgive my impudence in my earlier remark…” as he held his head low,

  “Then this matter is concluded… here is payment for your insight,” as Varos pulled out a piece of bread from his satchel.

  Unassuming, partially mouldy even, as if to mock his former brother-in-arms.

  Yet placed gently in front of him, wrapped carefully in a linen cloth.

  “Do not devour that like a savage—consume it with civility.” The words were said firmly, as if it were an absolute command.

  Varos stood up, his face half-lit by the moon as he looked at Dreth, the silver glow reflecting in his eyes. “I trust if we ever exchange words again, it will be about the justice rendered for the boy’s heinous crimes. “

  He paced off, the rhythmic sound of his footsteps echoing out of the jail cell’s grilled frame, fading into the corridor.

  Dreth was left alone once more in his cell, his only company being the loaf of bread and empty water skin that had been provided.

  His stomach growled, beckoning to consume the meagre offerings provided to him. The loaf had white, cloudy streaks of mould on it; rock hard to the touch. It seemed like it had been left out for months, its surface crusted, a light coating of dust on it, forgotten—just like him.

  The dry contractions in his throat mirrored the dignity he swallowed as he pressed his hands into the bread; a hard crack emanated as he broke into the loaf.

  As it came apart, an unexpected sensation registered in his fingers through the gloom. The stale, stiff interior of the bread was mixed with something solid, and the faint moonlight reflected off it.

  Dreth’s eyes widened as he registered its features: a cylindrical object was inside the bread.

  It bore a mark that he instantly recognised in the darkness of his cell. A metallic inscription of the Templar’s gryphon seal on the opening of the vial.

  The very same kind that hung on the senior inquisitor’s belt, or rather, what used to hang on it.

  Through the thick glass, he could see the dark green liquid and hear the faintest of popping of bubbles as he brought his eyes closer.

  The familiar sound and colour immediately registered with his mind.

  Alkan’s ooze, a concoction capable of turning the metal bars in front of him to slag.

  ***

  [Two days later, Tollerton District, Central Market]

  The morning air was filled with a diverse array of scents from the early market activities, with the fresh catch from the sea north of the city mingling with the scent of the earthiness of produce and the aroma of flowers and scented products.

  The low murmuring and bargaining of merchants with customers from the middle districts, combined with the occasional appearance of well-dressed individuals, some running errands for their even more elegantly attired employers in the upper districts.

  All of that was routine. The memories of the splintered wood, the overturned carts, and the dark stains that had briefly marred the cobblestone street had faded into obscurity. The only reminders were the floral tributes. Bouquets of lilies, crimson roses, and pale forget-me-nots lay at the edges, in respect for the lives lost.

  Walking through the scene was a brown-skinned lady with black hair, hanging freely at her side. A basket hung from her left hand, overflowing with a variety of items. Root vegetables, starches, and a fresh slab of meat. A satchel hung on her other side that overflowed with fabrics. All these were displayed proudly, almost enticingly, to any unlawful eyes.

  Of course, there was no risk that she’d be robbed, for the watchful eyes of the guards roamed around the marketplace. The guard’s presence was even more pronounced since the days after Mikus’s feast and the news of the warehouse fire in the old docks district.

  The crier’s call brought news of the latter: a final act of defiance from the insurgents that caused the indiscriminate slaughter during the festivities two weeks prior.

  The brown-skinned woman scanned her items, her eyes bouncing back and forth between a crumpled piece of parchment she held and the items.

  As the sun began to peek over the city houses, she muttered under her breath, her feet carrying her westwards, towards the general goods store where she worked. She had resided there since she had entered the city.

  “That should be everything—better get back to help Shaylee…”

  As she left the central buzz of mercantile activity, she made her way towards a nearby floral cluster. A flagrant wall of white and yellow blooms. She paused, her eyes widened as he paid a passing respects, an acknowledgement of the tragedy that she fortunately did not have to bear witness to, not directly.

  Nonetheless, what genuinely captivated her attention was the object positioned adjacent to it, which was a weathered bounty board, exhibiting a considerable thickness with nails visibly sticking out, and on which several official notices were affixed, all rendered in stark ink-drawn warnings. Many of the notices detailed the ghost of the recent chaos; those who remained at large.

  They were mixed with others with crimes ranging from sedition, fornication, to common thievery, making up the majority of the faces and notices.

  However, one stood out, in the middle right of the board, a young face in an artistic charcoal sketch, depicting the countenance of a young man with an unflattering, hostile expression. Nothing like the kindness that he had shown.

  The visage of the runaway mage.

  The presence on the board bore a strange, paradoxical reassurance to the young woman. The removal of it would have implied one thing: his demise at the hands of his Templar pursuers.

  Clip clop clip

  Relia flinched, a sharp, instinctive shock coursing through her as she jerked away from the crimson-cloaked figure that approached the board.

  After all, she was guilty of transgressions herself, by misunderstanding more than actual unlawful acts.

  The guard, however, seemed unfazed, offering no words of accusation or even comfort to the woman’s startle. His expression instead seemed stoic, or rather, annoyed, apathetic.

  He simply waved her off with a curt hand dismissal.

  He unrolled the fresh parchment, mechanically nailing it with lethargic thunks with a small hammer. When the deed was done, he let out a lazy sigh as he turned and walked away — his errand now complete.

  Relia stood in silence as she watched him go, any unease fading and slowly making way for a passing curiosity as she paced back to the board.

  She fixed her eyes on the crisp, new parchment as she appraised the contents.

  Of course, Relia could not know that the identity of this newest addition to Eldeitia’s most wanted had nearly been the architect of Selriph’s demise. Now dishonoured and cast aside, just like the fugitive he nearly masterfully trapped.

  By the time the guards had dotted the city and surrounding settlements with news of Dreth Penbroke’s escape, he was long gone.

  He followed the fugitive mage’s trail, precisely tracing his route.

  From the city’s hidden depths of the Capital, to the Shera Woods, then to the merchant Tamros, and finally to the abandoned hunting lodge.

  The only consolation was that by the time Dreth arrived in the quiet town of Fallbrook, the runaway mage was long gone.

  The seasons had changed; the woods no longer bore leaves, and the biting air carried the scent of the first frost painting the ground white.

  By then, Selriph Daryth’s journey had led him to his fate.

  But that’s a story for another time, one that details the runaway’s final flight to freedom.