(THOB) Chapter 91: Tarr (Patreon)

The next day proved uneventful, and so did the days that followed. Two days became three, and three became four. In time, seven days grew by with boring, unprecedented monotony.

The days lumbered by in agonizing sluggishness. Ezril found solace only in the nights he spent with Lenaria when she told him tales of ancient times and ancient people.

She rarely had much to say of the Tainted, but her tales proved pregnant with gods. Slowly, he fell into a game of sorts with himself where he would wonder which parts of which tale were told to her by the Abbess, and which were told to her by Rin.

Of all the tales she told, he found a focus on that of the Talinais. One of the tribes lost in the vacuum of history. Tonight, she told more on it. It was a tale Ezril had no doubt was bestowed upon her by Rin.

They were a tribe with skin a blight fair, easily reddened by the sun, and eyes that squinted in search of the unknown. They were a peaceful people with a life filled with but two purposes: the worship of the old god Tarr and the long wait for death. Her tales claimed they lived during a time before the existence of the kingdom, and ages before the war of the Scorned.

Ezril knew the people she described. Anyone in the realm would know them from her description. However, not as the great people she spoke of, but as a condition which often birthed itself in the children of the realm. A strong rarity. But there was no denying that they walked amongst them, born with skin color that shied away from the sun, turning a crimson red, deeper even than Salem’s blush, and a propensity for terrible eyesight.

There was no known reason for how two healthy people would birth such fickleness in physical presentation. In his years, Ezril had only seen one of these men. Banoils, the Alduins called them. They belonged to no race, and were born to any race. Once, they had been considered unfit, and were often left in the forest to die at birth. Now they were accepted as Vayla’s children, although some people still harbored them as Vayla’s failed creations; the mother being too kind to bring them to an end, despite it all. Ezril had always thought it all rubbish. To him, despite having never spent time with any, they were just like everyone else. they merely had poor eyesight and extremely fair skin.

“The Banoils,” Ezril said, interrupting Lenaria’s tale. “How do they fit into this?”

“They are the same as the Talinais,” she replied.

“How do they still walk amongst us then?”

Lenaria gave a shrug. “We are all descendants of the Talinais,” she said. “At some point they bred with other peoples, and eventually, the generations became what we are today.”

“So we descended from a people who worshipped the old god, Tarr?”

Lenaria nodded. “Every one in three people has at least a drop of Talinai blood in them,” she educated him. “Some more than others. And the Banoils, most.” Her tone dismissed the question as she returned to her story. “They weren’t a people who lived long. Fifty years perhaps. To strike the sixtieth was a sorrow. They believed it a sign that one had sinned against their god and he had refused the person sanctuary into his abode. Getting killed was not considered, as Tarr was the god of natural death, most especially death in old age…”

Lenaria went further, telling of the arrival of the foreigners as well as the first man who took a wife from the Talinais. Apparently, he was amongst the people who ended up settling in the south, a people with skin the black of night and hair thick as wool. The tale wasn’t much, and tonight Ezril found it lacked most of her usual zeal. Unfortunately, this was how the tales—Ezril had discovered—told to her by Rin went. Still, tonight’s was too bland. Something was wrong.

“Aria.”

There was a pause born of a woman lost in thought. “Yes?”

“What’s wrong—”

A sound cut him off; a knock on his door. It did a good job at pulling their attention. With a sigh, Ezril rose from the floor. Mildly annoyed, he pulled the door open. One of the new maids stood in front of him. Ezril thought a moment. When her name proved absent from his memory he kept his tongue, giving her the liberty of first speech.

“T… the Lord commander… w… would like to see you,” she stammered.

Ezril bit back a smile. There were a lot of maids who could have held their own while talking with him. He knew a few who held the night shifts too. Still, Bilvion had thought it wise to send the child before him. He could only imagine how much fun it was to see the girl squirm when she was told she would have to wake the most feared priest on the fort—at least to those who hadn’t seen his brothers on the battlefield.

He offered her a gentle smile to her obvious surprise and said, “You may leave. I’ll see to the Lord commander.”

He turned to Lenaria with an apology, perhaps a reminder that their conversation wasn’t over. His words died on his lips as he saw her retire into the sheets. It seemed she wanted their conversation for the night to be over. Turning back to the door, he found the maid long gone. This time he smiled to himself. Somehow he was growing accustomed to their fear. How much fear would they hold if they saw what I’m capable of? he thought as he left the room.

The walls of the hallway felt coarser than he remembered. You’ve only been this way once, he reminded himself as he walked up the stairs. The last time he’d been to the Lord Commander’s room a few people of import had died. And you bashed the head of the culprit against the wall.

Not one of my finest hours, he agreed. But she deserved what she got.

True enough.

The only thing he found strange about talking to himself was his complete normalcy towards it. To him, it was nothing out of the ordinary. He’d always done it, more so since leaving Green Horn. His mind was as much a companion as it was a judge.

The lights hanging from the walls did little to banish the darkness of the night. With each step Ezril could feel the battle between them as the shadows clawed at the edge of their warm glow. However, what amazed him most was the knowledge that beneath even the glow, the darkness waited. Temporarily kept at bay, it awaited its freedom. Not everything could be trapped forever.

Not trapped, his companion corrected, veiled.

Perhaps, Ezril thought as he came face to face with the Lord Commander’s chamber door. Its visage spoke of a greatness. When compared to it, every other door in the fort paled. To the door before him every other door was simply mediocre, and yet, a lot had been lost on its other side.

Ezril knocked and awaited the invitation. It came shortly in the Lord Commander’s voice. He pulled down on the handle and pushed.

Much had changed about the room since he was last in it. The number of books had reduced, so had the decorations. Bilvion was not a man for vanity, it seemed. Nor knowledge… Ezril thought. It was a thought he felt he would have to reanalyze at the sight of a game of war paused in progress on a stool at one edge of the room.

The black pieces were in a tight situation; they had lost most of their important pieces. Still, Ezril couldn’t help but feel they were far from defeated. He smiled at the knowledge that once upon a time he wouldn’t have understood what was going on upon the board no matter how long he watched.

“You play war, Father?” Bilvion asked. He sat behind a massive table, the same one Oddor had used.

“I dabble, My lord,” Ezril answered, not taking his eyes of the board.

“You could make a move for the black,” Bilvion enjoined him. “They seem to be in quite the dilemma, and no one seems to be able to help them.”

A lie.

“I fear I would need more time than you are willing to offer to save them, My lord.” Now Ezril turned his attention to the Lord Commander, sparing the young man beside him the barest of attentions. “You summoned me.”

“Yes,” Bilvion said. “Yes, I did. How are your injuries?”

“Healing admirably. Nixarv is good at what he does. We’re more than lucky to have him.”

“True.” Bilvion nodded briefly. “Dare I say Truth smiles on his skills.”

Ezril placed the boy standing beside Bilvion somewhere between his seventeenth and nineteenth year. Not yet past his second decade.

The boy possessed active eyes, constantly surveying the room, his head never moving. They settled on something behind Ezril, and they grew slightly wide.

Not enough mastery of his reactions, Ezril assessed. The boy was also not as quick in his observation as his eyes had portrayed. A quick thought to his past reminded Ezril of a few boys Olnic had taken up; boys Olnic claimed were skilled at looking but not so much at seeing. The spear head mounted so close to the ceiling of the room behind Ezril had been among the first things he had catalogued on his entrance. The game of war hadn’t served as a sufficient enough distraction, however, it was never a bad idea to present his audience with an illusion. An ally is not always a friend.

“How may I be of service, My lord?” Ezril asked.

Bilvion’s gaze narrowed in feigned thought. Ezril knew the man knew what he spoke of and had it at the front of his mind. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one presenting illusions. Now he found himself wondering who presented it better.

“Oh, yes,” the Lord Commander began. “This right here is Foln Nilwatch,” he said, referring to the boy beside him. The boy stiffened in attention. Or discomfort. Ezril found he couldn’t care enough to deduce. “He arrived with Lord Dragmund a few hours ago.”

Ezril had been well aware of the hero’s arrival. He hadn’t known for certain it had been the hero who had arrived. However, the commotion he’d heard from his room more than an hour ago told of the arrival of a man of great import. Ezril offered the boy a simple nod then returned his attention to the Lord Commander.

“Good Evening, Father Urden,” the boy greeted.

Ezril was less than pleased to find a hint of reverence in the boy’s voice. He didn’t need one of the soldiers worshipping him. He had long grown accustomed to their caution around him and found he favored it to all other alternatives.

“How may I be of service, My Lord?” Ezril repeated.

“The boy isn’t new to violence,” Bilvion said after a while. “Still, I cannot say he is well versed in the art of war, neither can Lord Dragmund. He did have a tutor. However, circumstances have made his continued tutelage a thing of the impossible.”

Ezril gave the man’s words visible thought.

“On that note,” Bilvion continued, “we were hoping you would be willing to teach him a thing or two to help keep him alive when he does go into battle.”

Ezril thought a while longer. It was an easy no, and he was more than certain Bilvion was fully aware of this. Still, the man had asked. A gesture that wasn’t simply a gesture. The man expected himself capable of gaining an answer beyond the only option available to him.

Bilvion opened his mouth one more time and the words that left his lips spoke volumes. “I find it imperative to add that he is from the city ofGreen Horn.” He paused, watching, searching. “The underbelly to be more precise.”

It was clear he sought a reaction, something to give him more information.

Ezril kept his face an impenetrable mask. “I see.”

Bilvion had sent his message but Ezril was not willing to return one of his own. Like most of what the man did, this was a game Ezril had no strength to play. With the understanding that this was not a game he had to play against only the Lord Commander, he found himself even less willing to engage it.

‘No’ was still an option, however, that was all it was now: an option. The decision was his, but he knew whatever choice he made was certain to incite a reaction from Darvi. He could accept the boy, and he could reject him. Both would be quite simple.

You aren’t that much older than he is, he thought. No more than five years older. And yet, he analyzed the boy, as the priests in the seminary did the boys who came, abandoned at their gates.

“I will think about it,” Ezril answered, turning to the door.

“Please, Father,” Bilvion said. “Don’t take too long.”

It took Ezril less than eight steps to reach the door, his strides unconsciously long between each step. He stopped, door open, nothing but the empty corridor before him, and turned, a question on his lips.

“My Lord,” he began, “how do you know I’m from the city ofGreen Horn?” … and the underbelly. The thought not having to be voiced.

“I didn’t.”

Another lie.

Ezril spared the boy another glance. He would have his time, and he would find out. For now, he would disregard the Lord Commander’s lie. He nodded, and closed the door behind him, casting himself into the controversial hallway.