6. Old Hearths Ignite

  "What's all this mess?! Has that oaf of a smithy been giving you books again? Filling your head with fancy? I'm going to give him a piece of my mind. You're not going to be a scholar because that isn't how this wretched valley works, so you better forget it. I don't want you hanging around there, or with his runt son ever again. ANSWER ME. You know what? That's it, they're going in the pyre."

  Fern propped himself against the outside wall of the Eternal Chamber and took a sip of fiery, Amonian Amber with every intention of draining the entire gourd as a reward for his punctuality. He knew he probably drank too frequently, but his habit was never to excess and he still remained functional, unlike many of the bored, off-duty soldiers; or so he told himself. His current leading excuse was that it was a tonic to compliment his creativity and study, but in his more honest moments he admitted to himself that it was just a means to dull the edges of his life that he didn't care to address.

  The aged liquor burned his throat and dulled his senses, providing a much-needed respite from the fresh phantom pains plaguing his amputated limb. The Master of Wounds had originally warned him of the strange sensation all those years ago, but he hadn't experienced it with such intensity until recently. The development concerned him, as change always did, and the prosthetic he fixed to his right arm had started to feel uncomfortable and foreign despite being a part of him for over a decade. With his own research proving fruitless and all other avenues for answers exhausted, he at least had another excuse to drink.

  Fern eyed the skies above Amona with curiosity. His academic studies should’ve put him above petty superstition, but he still couldn't help but look up whenever something went awry in his life.

  His brothers and sisters of the valley were a secular and focused people by necessity, but he'd never been content with their ignorant disregard of the strange clouds choking the region, or the flimsy explanations offered for its mysterious absence above the valley itself. To most, it was like the Sinti, to be accepted and endured for the good of all, but to Fern it was so much more.

  Everything he'd learned about it, he'd done so by combing the historical records dating back to their founding, submitted to the Archives by the Nodin operatives and other Amonians that had travelled beyond the great plains and gazed on its unnatural presence from a distance. Long-term observations confirmed that it had a largely uniform density, localised entirely above the Ryne expanse, that never grew, shrank, or changed in any discernable way, as far as they could tell. Unpolluted precipitation from ever-shifting weather patterns fell unhindered through its unrelenting, dark mass suggesting that it wasn’t only independent and impervious to the wind currents, but that its only tangible characteristic was its capacity to deny sunlight. Without the solitary and lasting gap in its form above their valley home, life would be impossible.

  Fern had poured over the passionate debates among historical scholars of the Archives, on whether it was the break in the gloom that attracted the curiosity of the original Amonians, or if the portal itself was conjured after their founding through some magick design of their ancestors, now lost to the annals of time. There was no definitive consensus, but the modern belief was that it didn't matter, despite their ability to grow crops hinging entirely on an anomalous unknown.

  Regardless of the origins or nature of the Kalakshi curse forever looming above, its consequences weren’t all negative. The majority, including Fern, never had the opportunity or desire to leave the mountains, but those that did were reminded of, and often contributed to Amona's almost mythical status among the peoples of the wider world. Tales of scarred warriors clad in white and black performing feats of skill and valour had touched hearts and minds for generations. Whispers around campfires of a secret evil kept at bay and a hidden valley among the dark clouds, set imaginations ablaze. Mostly hero, but sometimes villain; the Amonians of the Ryne were, if nothing else, to be respected. Even the semi-nomadic Humma that ruled the plains below held them in a place of esteem, some superstitious few even going so far as to claim that the Kalakshi was a great veil that hid a god’s plans for Erdgard, which by association made Amonians the chosen of that god.

  Fern tore his gaze away from the heavens. He felt woozy. An odd nausea had been troubling him for almost a full cycle, and the alcohol was only exasperating the situation. He picked himself up, drawing quizzical looks from the slow file of men and women flowing into the structure. He ignored their stares and took his place in line.

  ○

  The Eternal Chamber took its namesake from the abundance of spiral crests lovingly detailed on the ornate, wooden furnishings of the modestly-sized round hall. On entry, attention was immediately drawn to their largest example, expertly carved into the polished hardwood floor of the centre stage. Framing it was the segmented horseshoe table of the Circle's Masters, fashioned from a pale wood sourced from deep within the sodden forests of the north-western expanse, prized for its white colour and durability. Its hue was in deliberate contrast to the otherwise dark browns of more common timbers that made up the remainder of the hall’s fixings. Draped low from the ceiling, heralding their nation and the factions therein, were great painted tapestries of every shape and size. Tiered benches vertically cascaded back towards the perimeter walls and seated approximately 500, with enough floor space to stand double that. Every wooden surface that didn't serve obvious function was used as a canvas for their woodcarvers to demonstrate masterful scrollwork and reliefs. The result was an isolated example of Amonian architecture that broke from their utilitarian traditions in favour of a concentrated, lavish display of creativity and ceremony.

  Though he normally shied from decadence, Fern had always been in awe of the collective craftsmanship of the round hall. Its beauty made the bureaucratic responsibilities of his position and his forced participation in mundane briefings easier to bear. On that day however, he was there by choice, loath to miss a rare opportunity to see his old friend Inla speak.

  Fern grinned at Volen as he took his usual place beside his fellow Archivist on the highest tier bench. The more stalwart members of their order that frowned on their questionable humour and drinking habits, had informally exiled them to their lofty perch for proceedings, not realising that, to them, it was more reward than punishment. He watched as Volen took a long drag of his gourd. "Amber?" asked Fern.

  Volen winked. "Vintage."

  "Nice."

  Volen raised a toast to the preserved skulls of venerated Masters uniformly lining the panelled walls in their thousands. He produced a pouch of nuts from a hidden pocket in his linen robes and placed the open bag on the bench between them for free use. "Try my warm nuts, Ferno," he said blankly, keeping intense eye contact. His dead-pan routine was unrivalled.

  Fern punched his shoulder in quick defeat to break the spell.

  Volen was nothing short of a spectacle to look at. With a head too big for his shoulders, limbs slightly too long for his torso, and a face only a mother could love; Fern often jibed that he was more fiction than fact. Every step he took looked like he was trying to cover too much ground, and his hands seemed better suited to shovelling dirt than sorting parchment. Jokes came thick and fast around Volen, but he took them well, his typical retort being that his ancestors were trees. Other than his cropped hair the colour of aged grain, it was undeniable that he shared few of the qualities of the valley-born. In comparison, if Volen was more beanstalk than man, Fern was a verifiable boulder by virtue of his Haligernian origins. His broad features could’ve allowed him to easily blend in with the majority, if not for his green eyes, ashen hair, and missing arm. As it was, they were both physical misfits, and Fern appreciated their shared circumstances.

  He loosened the straps around his prosthetic and wedged it between his legs with the split hook facing upwards. Its fur lining helped with ventilation, but still required frequent airing out to avoid skin irritation. "Much better."

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  "You ever catch your pecker with that thing, Ferno?"

  "Only when I see your sister," he quipped.

  "What a rat." Volen had recently taken to calling everyone and everything rats since Fern unearthed a dock worker’s song book from a Haligernian port vassal that used rodents as a derogative. The joke had long lost its potency, and now instead served as a shared symbol of their mutual despondency.

  "Nah it's dull anyway. Imagine Talon if he saw me handling scrolls if this thing was sharp. The rats at Rivers don't give the everyday ones edges. As it turns out, it's not very helpful to shred everything you own."

  "Depends what you own," slurred Volen, suddenly sullen.

  "Still got your eyes on new robes then?"

  "New robes, new quarters, a thousand serving rats and ten thousand women from Zeya Zeyar's harem."

  "The Sultan might have something to say about that," teased Fern, playing along with his friend's material dreams despite his heart not carrying the sentiment.

  "I just think we should have more, Ferno, for what we do. Those Sheadun rats live better," continued Volen in a rare moment of sincerity, free from their typical absurdist humour.

  "Amonians live well compared to the peasant populations, if the Nodin reports are in any way accurate."

  "I mean us, Archivists and Minahata administrators in general. We do everything. This place wouldn't run without us. The rest of these rats don't know arse from elbow."

  He didn't answer, instead fussing with one of the prosthetic buckles while scanning the room. "Here they come now."

  Small pockets of chattering Amonians made their way to their favoured seats. The majority were there to simply pass time or take notes, and none paid any attention to them up high. Only half the Masters were present, those of which quietly talked between themselves or flicked through ledgers to plan the rest of their day while they waited. The last to arrive and take his place at the dormant centre seat was the Master of Tactical and de-facto leader of Amona. The seat to his left for the Nodin coordinator, was and would remain empty, as it had been for a decade.

  "HAIL Amonians," boomed Blackstone's voice, filling the room and jolting everyone to attention. The elderly man combed his wisp of hair the colour of trodden snow back into order after it dared to stray loose during commute.

  "HAIL," echoed Fern in concert with the rest of the room, not bothering to rise with Volen.

  "Lazy rat."

  He forced a false grin, playing along with the presumption that his disobedience was as simple as idleness.

  The chamber hushed to silence as Blackstone stood and flicked through the calender ledger in a feigned act to make it seem like he didn't already know who was presenting that day. His complete leisure about the task while the entire room awaited his confirmations spoke of someone that had never second-guessed themselves and was, beyond all doubt, confident in their position. Fern didn't care for his time being wasted as much as he didn't appreciate the other Masters being unacknowledged, but he indirectly owed the aged tactician much.

  "Today we meet to hear inventory briefing from Inla of the Wardens. I don't expect this to take long. The full moon comes two nights hence, Amonians, and the Narak is upon us once again. Preparations are in order, aye?"

  "Aye," repeated the relevant parties in the hall.

  "Very good. Minahata concurs that our missing honourable brothers and sisters of the Circle are else wise occupied… putting out fires in the Sisters’ kitchens perhaps—" Blackstone paused and let the modest rumble of laughter wash over him.

  Fern didn't care for the narrow-mindedness of Blackstone's regressive views on women, or his frequent jabs at the Folfrigan Sisterhood, but tried to let it slide from his attention by explaining it away as a quirk of age. There were few elders in Amona, so he reasoned that Blackstone's wisdom hopefully outweighed his poor taste in jokes, but admittedly, what Fern once excused as risqué comedy was increasingly becoming unchecked prejudice.

  "Conclusions of relevance from this meeting will be relayed to the absentees, as per usual."

  "Aye," repeated the room in unison.

  Blackstone readjusted his chair for comfort and opened the tattered, note-taking ledger before him. "Begin."

  The room burst into the drumming of feet or fist on wood, signalling the coming of a petitioner. Fern participated this time, taking a small pleasure in welcoming his distant friend with thunder. There were many others like him, including Masters present, that still quietly held Inla in high standing as a man of extreme potential. The brooding swordsman may have turned his back on their institutions and taken to a self-imposed exile in protest for an unknown cause, but Fern knew that everyone needed help at some point, even if that only meant celebrating his brief return to the fray.

  "In-la the emotional rat," jibed Volen over the ruckus, mostly to himself.

  He said nothing and continued to stamp his boots. On a few drunken occasions of vulnerability, he’d cast shade on the memory of his old friend which had emboldened his drinking buddy to outwardly mock Inla when given the opportunity. It shamed him to think about, given the context of his past relationship and his admiration for the swordsman, but fortunately Volen didn't harbour a sense of expectation for him to join in with the snide remarks despite it being their shared past-time with all else. It was a subject understood to be off-limits, for which Fern was grateful, mostly because he didn't care to assess and conclude his loyalty’s on the matter. In the interim, to Fern and others, Inla remained a question rather than a statement, and if nothing else, he was still a steadfast blade against the trying evil; and today, a capable courier.

  Inla marched into the chamber and onto the stage with a determined, unfaltering pace that was out of sync with the percussive rhythm that beckoned him. His frayed, black robe that he refused to have mended or replaced for over a decade, billowed in his wake revealing the bone-white of scalemail underneath, and Ishti, the smaller sister of his two blades. He looked strong and capable, but weathered, as if he'd travelled from Sheadun without rest. It was clear that the life he’d chose was taking its toll, though Fern knew he would argue that it chose him.

  Eclipsed by him and clinging to the shadows to escape attention, was the surprising addition of Fox. She propped herself up against an exterior wall not far from the entrance for a quick escape once she inevitably grew bored. Fern watched her scan the room until she eventually found him. Irritation automatically stirred in him as they exchanged looks, but his inebriated dullness thankfully kept his feelings from display. Similarly, she made no reaction and looked back to Inla.

  "I'd have a go, ey Ferno? Just a night," said Volen, nudging Fern with his elbow to illicit a response, having just noticed her too.

  "Not a chance. I'll pass," said Fern frankly, his feelings on Fox much less ambiguous than Inla.

  Volen wheezed with laughter.

  He laughed along, but he was distracted and bemused by the two of them arriving together. He knew Inla to have a vulnerability for Fox, though he could never parse why given how much she toyed with him. He could never understand how someone of enough integrity to stand resolutely alone could allow themselves to be so easily manipulated. Fern knew the answer was probably within himself and his inherent distrust of women, but he’d still never been able to bring himself to like her.

  Inla stepped forth onto the engraved spiral at the centre stage, the finish worn from the anxious shuffle of countless boots, but there was nothing nervous about the petitioner that day. He stood bold, with legs planted and head held high, as if he was addressing the heavens themselves, and as always, facing away from Blackstone in a simple, but powerful gesture that originally caused considerable controversy. Since then, and much like the nature of the Kalakshi, Inla's behaviour had become an uncomfortable truth to be endured. Those that gave him the benefit of the doubt had urged restraint, and those that denounced him as a disrespectful whelp, rebel, or even traitor had found no purchase on his wall of conviction. Fern had always considered his friend to be fatalistic in his unwavering stubbornness and could never understand the forced absolute of it, but at the same time, he knew it wasn't born from stupidity like Volen and others claimed.

  The Warden relaxed one hand on the hilt of Ishti as he waited for the room to hush, then spoke loudly and confidently. "Thank you Amona. I bring you my report, and also tidings from the shadow of the Ryne. Hear me."