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One thousand years after The Great Calamities and the fall of human civilization, the Trinarchy dominates what was once the United States of America.
Warlords, High Priests, and Magi, along with their kith and kin, rule over most of the population, protecting Civilians from the barbarians outside the walls.
The fragile, quarter-century alliance between The Carniss and the Trinarchy has recently shattered because of disagreements over The Scourge, while the people of Appalachia sign a defensive treaty with the Pirates of the Great Lakes.
In the Central States Authority, the Merchants of Selenia continue to develop their Outpost into a fully functioning city-state, vying for admission as a Neopolis. In the Grand Duchy of Evergreen, a book Smuggler named Jay Oselen stirs up trouble, and comes into conflict with the powers that be.
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A flowery themed Merchant wagon, pulled by two skittish horses, rolled to an unexpected stop at a well-fortified roadblock. The vehicle was a standard Selenian model, with modifications known about by only a trusted few. The crunch of the vibrant fallen leaves echoed throughout the tall, wide trunks along with the uncomfortable jangle of military presence. An individual colored in the multi-shaded, earth toned uniform of the Grand Duchy of Evergreen appeared like a dry throat tickle.
“They’re not gonna buy it, Jay,” Sarah sardonically surmised.
“It’s going to be just fine. I was assured, oh wait, here they come,” replied Sarah’s co-driver and husband.
“Your passports!” the heavily armored sentry commanded, holding a gloved hand out, palm up.
Jay Oselen nonchalantly handed the requested documents to the officer with a smile and a nod, then turned to his wife when the officer had left earshot. “I know things have been a little… abstract…”
“… Abstract?!” Sarah countered with a whispered shout. “The Carniss just took a major Neopolis three days ago and we’re about to meet up with some…”
“…I love you…” Jay interrupted with a pat on her left knee using his right hand and a subtle signal in Continental with his other.
The original sentry, now accompanied with three more similarly dressed soldiers, strode toward the wagon, weapons drawn.
“I don’t think they bought it.”
Jay cast his hood over his head. A soft glowing orange sphere slowly emanated from the Smuggler, then stopped at a thirty yard diameter. He tossed four darts to Sarah, dropped off the front of the wagon, then flung four darts of his own into the surrounding foliage.
Three struck true and instantly immobilized their target with a distinctly subtle but effective pulsation of Orgone. Sarah deftly ascended to the wagon’s roof, took note of the approaching counter attack, then subsequently struck two of her targets directly in the neck. The other two were saved by the additional turtleneck armor they had fortunately been equipped with.
“FLERSH GERGL ERNCERNDERD! VERN DERSC NERV!” shouted Jay. He flipped a blackened pair of lenses over his eyes and his wife quickly did the same. Jay then threw a thin medium-size disc high into the air.
Just as the remaining soldiers were about to surround the battling couple, their shouts of surprise and annoyance could be heard, but neither Jay nor Sarah could see their opponents’ expressions through their protective goggles.
Instead, Jay’s hood emitted short bursts of Orgone, whose impedance was redirected to he and Sarah’s goggles, creating an orange outline of the surrounding objects on the inside of their lenses. This allowed both Smugglers to restrain their final two opponents before vision returned. After working with professional haste, a total of six militiamen and two Warlords were tied and gagged to two trees roughly ten yards off the road.
Jay and Sarah Oselen were far from any Trinarch or Merchant sanctioned highway, and days away from the nearest Outpost, Neopolis, Homestead, or Carniss Mall. They had been enroute to meet with the captain of a pirate ship on the east coast of The Great Lakes, set on the western boundaries of the Duchy of Evergreen.
Detour after detour had pushed the two further off course, erasing hours of travel time they would have normally gained by rarely stopping the wagon, taking short naps instead, and switching drivers on a regular basis. Most typical Merchant wagons either traveled in a convoy or could afford their own sentries, who did need to rest. Sleeping on schedule was a part of life on the road. But Jay and Sarah were not typical.
While they considered themselves Independent Merchants, the Union, Trinarchy, and many Homesteaders considered the two Smugglers. They had been married for five years, but had known each other for far longer. Although their marriage wasn’t legally recognized by the Merchant Union or the Trinarchy, Jay and Sarah consider their Carniss ceremony to be as valid as anyone else’s.
Sarah’s olive skin was tanned as ever, she and Jay having spent nearly the entire summer on the beaches of the Atlantic Dominion. Jay was his seasonal “off-pale” as he called it, getting dark enough not to burn and peel, but always at the end of the season. His thinning blond hair hardly bleached out at all anymore, due to his proclivity for both anonymity and use of his hood.
“Hornsuvikus,” Jay mumbled as whispers and orange glow emanated from his magical attire .
“What is it?” asked his wife.
Rather than answering, Jay expanded the size of the hood two-fold and engulfed his spouse’s head and shoulders underneath the shroud with him. The chatter of half a dozen Trinarchy units made one thing clear; they were all headed in the two Smugglers’ direction.
“We’re surrounded,” Sarah concluded.
“Not completely,” replied Jay, looking up above their heads.
“How much Pf do we have?”
“Enough to get ourselves out of here. I’ve already given up on this current rendezvous. I just hope they let us reschedule.”
“They will. Pirates are such forgiving chums,” she laughed as she unhitched the horses and sent them running off into the woods.
As they playfully bantered away their terror over the oncoming militias, the two Smugglers quickly activated their wagon into wyvern configuration. The side panels folded down and inward, evolving into a pivoting landing platform. On top sat an egg-shaped craft, colored in a scattered pattern of blue and white. Two poles extended up and out from the front and back, then produced two blades which immediately began spinning. The wyvern shot into the air like an arrow, leveled out, and then was navigated northwest, where a mountain range would provide the two with both cover and time.
Originally named after a favorite childhood horse, Jay had instantly agreed to a change in moniker for their wyvern when Sarah had suggested Wybrary one evening while enjoying food and drinks around the campfire. Jay maintained the helm while Sarah sat back against her husband’s, manning the skybolt array.
“I can’t believe there’s this much Trinarchy activity this far west,” Jay commented as he scanned the horizon for bogeys.
“I told you that Encampment looked thin back in Coral Heaven,” Sarah reminded him.
“I wish I had taken it more seriously. I’m sorry for that,” he apologized, set the controls to self-navigate, then turned to face his wife. “I’m… we’re so close. One more fragment and the Cornerstone will be complete. Let’s land up ahead, recharge some Orgone, then try to intercept The Sandbar.”
Sarah released the controls of their defense system, then turned around to face Jay. “Sure. Let’s do that. While we’re recharging, I’ll find a squirrel who can cover me on the array while the two of you go on another suicide mission,” she hurumped.
Jay stared at the window, clenched his fist in rage, then counted down from eleven.
“We’ll get ’em next time,” he swore, kissed his wife on the cheek, then turned back to his duties as pilot.
“We will, Jay, I know we will. Deeka is with us, as is Vikus, and all the Creator Gods. We have been so blessed for so long because the path we are following is the path of the Oracles. And the sacrifices you’ve made. So that the World can be shown the truth. You can’t put a value on that. Just remember that you cannot fulfill your destiny if you are dead. Let that be the compass that guides you, and allow the Oracles to lead you to The Cornerstone. To lead us,” she concluded with a loving peck on the back of Jay’s neck
“I don’t even know if I believe in those Gods anymore. Or Oracles. You and I are alive because we’re smart. And when we’re not, we have a cadre of contacts who know whatever we don’t. Maybe it’s luck. Maybe it’s Oracles. I don’t know. But I also know that the Gods and Goddesses have given my family hope. They’ve provided comfort for so many in need. Whether they’re real or not, they serve a purpose. And so do we.”
“My perpetual agnostic,” Sarah joked as she scanned the skies behind their craft. “I think we’re being followed,” she noted as she handed Jay her goggles of farsight.
“Looks that way,” he agreed.
“We must be moving up the most wanted list.”
“I dunno. They’ve never wasted that much Orgone on us before.”
“First time for everything.”
“That wyvern is coming in way faster than normal. How is it maintaining its acceleration for that long?”
Sarah returned to the skybolt array and locked her crosshairs on the faraway target. “I see what you’re saying. That’s gotta be at least three times as fast as I’ve ever seen one of those guys move.”
Jay approximated they were three minutes from their landing spot and they would be overtaken by the bogey in about half that time. He pointed the farsight lens towards the mysterious craft, then redirected the interface to project the view from a momentbox. While not an exact replica, this contraption of Jay and Sarah’s design allowed them to record various long-range events for further examination.
“I’ve never seen one like that,” Sarah remarked on the magical craft. Its body was longer and thinner than the normal egg-shape wyvern. Its two blades were set to the left and right of the fuselage instead of parallel with the body.
“Me neither,” he whispered, simultaneously horrified and impressed.
“What are we going to do? It’ll be on us in less than a minute,” Sarah warned as she continued following the unique wyvern with the crosshairs.
She was an accomplished shot, but more from practice than actual aerial combat. Situations didn’t normally advance that far.
Jay sighed before reluctantly opening a hatch on the floor on the Wybrary. He dropped down into the wooden underbelly of their craft and retrieved a few precious items before quickly returning to the main cockpit. “Dropping the wagon,” he announced as he played with the controls.
Nearly half the vehicle’s weight detached and fell towards the forest below. He prayed whoever found those hundreds of books one day would use them for reading instead of kindling.
“Jay, hurry,” Sarah shouted as the enemy craft continued its approach and the Orgone disruption sensors began flashing and beeping.
“Hold onto your eyeballs,” he warned before entering another set of commands into the helm and pushing the accelerator lever forward to the extreme.
Sarah braced herself as the Wybrary initiated a full Orgone burn. The sudden acceleration reduced the craft’s Proteugeon fuel to almost zero, but the two Smugglers were able to reach their destination in seconds rather than minutes, leaving their bogey predator far behind.
Jay commanded the craft to land on its own, knowing the helm would maximize their remaining fuel. As the two landing bars touched the ground,
Jay entered one last command, evolving the blue and white pattern of the Wybrary to a mottled green, brown, and black. He then shut down all other functions and held his breath.
A few moments later their stalker made a few passes over the area hundreds of yards above before dashing off to another unknown destination.
The two Smugglers exited their vehicle and observed their surroundings.
“What in the name of Urson’s Teeth is going on?” Sarah whispered to herself, although silently hoping her husband heard her.
“That was absolutely not any Trinarch craft I’ve ever seen,” Jay admitted, shaking his head.
“Who else has those kinds of resources? Or magic?” Sarah wondered.
Jay was in the process of gathering downed foliage from the area to assist with the camouflage. “I have a few ideas,” he mumbled.
Realizing her husband was lost in thought, Sarah helped hide their wyvern from any prying eyes, then plopped down on a nearby stump.
Jay quickly joined her, taking from Sarah a water canteen, from which he quickly drank.
“Now what?” Sarah asked.
“First thing, I’m going to send a message to our friend in Sojourn Caverns. I’m hoping he can shed some light on whatever that thing was.”
As Jay entered the cockpit of the Wybrary he was followed by Sarah, who watched over his shoulder. First, Jay activated a small messageball. He then took three plastic coated silver wires and twisted their thin threads onto another set of wires coming out of the back of the momentbox. After that he adjusted a couple of toggles, then traced a message across the surface of the communication artifact.
Had a bit of an incident. I was hoping you might be able to enlighten me on what in the name of Vikus this strange device could be.
“If anyone knows what that was, it’d be him,” Sarah guessed.
“Or he’ll know someone who does,” Jay added before shutting down all the wyvern’s functions again.
Sarah was in the process of supplying a backpack for what appeared to be several days of travel.
“Going somewhere?” her husband asked.
“Staying here?” she retorted with a chuckle.
“We can’t leave the Wybrary unattended,” he explained.
Sarah turned back around at the wyvern’s door. “Good luck with that.”
The disgruntled Smuggler sighed, then packed his own bag before following his spouse outside, knowing by the tone of her voice that he’d be wasting his time engaging in an argument she had already won through her logic.
Sarah was walking a perimeter of about twenty yards, holding an Orgonometer up towards her face. “We’re good,” she assured Jay.
“I hope so,” he prayed, standing next to his wife.
She gently placed her hand on Jay’s back and gingerly rubbed. “There’s no one around for miles and miles. No one’s gonna find her,” Sarah promised, knowing that her husband was running through all sorts of terrible scenarios of the Wybrary’s demise in his head.
He smiled and nodded. “You’re right. And even if someone did come across it, they’d have no idea how to use her anyway.”
“There’s my smart Merchant-Man,” Sarah joked and chuckled.
At one time, Jay had been a Merchant. He still considered himself one at heart, but things certainly had changed over the years. The “discovery” of The Carniss, as the Trinarchy preferred to refer to it, happened an entire generation ago. But from the perspective of The Carniss, there was nothing new to be discovered. They had always been there. Longer than the Trinarchy if you were to ask them.
However, that’s not how most Trinarchs viewed the situation. And that was why the Continent was in its current state of chaos and uncertainty. The consistency of life that had been enjoyed by the different Neopolii began to unravel when some of The Carniss began to move into the protection of the walls, becoming Citizens. These former denizens of The Ruins of the Ancients would have most likely died had they remained in that wild environment.
But for some of the more authoritarian city-states, their populations declined as Citizens chose the freedom of The Ruins over the tedium of service to their rulers.
They were welcomed at The Carniss Malls all over the Continent, and an entirely new generation of multicultural children were born into the Mortal Realm. For the first time in over one hundred years, The Trinarchy was starting to lose power.
Jay and Sarah kept underneath the ever thickening foliage as their stalker continued making occasional passes above. Although more silent than any wyvern they’d ever encountered, it still gave off the slight hum of magic and the whistle of wind as its blade spun at amazing speeds.
“How… many more… flying?” Sarah fumbled and shrugged to her husband using hand-only Continental.
Jay shrugged, shook his head, and then pantomimed shooting himself in the head with a bow and arrow.
Sarah snorted, then grabbed her nose to stop making a sound, only to have two strings of snot shoot out her nostrils.
Her husband quickly covered her mouth with his right hand and apologized with his left.
The two stood as statues as their stalker paused its patrol. The wyvern slowly descended and sent a blue-colored cone into the woods where Jay and Sarah currently stood. Each Smuggler dashed in the opposite direction of one another, retraced their path several steps, grabbed a hold of one another’s hands, then quickly moved in tandem and into a mess of fallen trees and dried, broken thorn bushes.
A hatch opened on the bottom of the terrifying wyvern and a black box fell towards the ground. Seconds before collision, eight insectoid appendages broke the energy of the fall, bending and twisting in shape. The walking box dashed atop the Merchants’ hiding spot and proceeded to remove brush and cover with its whirring metallic limbs.
Jay Oselen’s legs became tree roots and Sarah’s heart turned to stone.
A person next descended into view, tethered to a ladder attached to their back. As their feet touched the ground, the bungees on the ladder snapped it back into the hovering vehicle. By now, the insectoid black box had completed its task of revealing the terrified Smugglers.
A Mercenary, dressed in black Warlord armor and wielding a quickbow began walking forward.
“Jalen of Selenia and Sarah of Riversbend. You are under arrest.”
Two Trinarchs, a Magi and High Priest, casually strolled down the hallways of the Temple of Wintershire. They chatted about the affairs of the Continent, oblivious to a young Merchant boy who stood just yards away, halfway listening to their banter, one quarter the way daydreaming, and the last bit of thoughts about places anywhere but here. The Trinarch’s voices echoed down the passageway, becoming muddled and muted along the way.
“I’ve heard the Inner Trinarchy is being reconvened.”
“I, as well. Although, the rumors these days, how is one to know?”
“We should watch what we’re saying.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. The boy’s practically a mute.”
“Might as well be a two-legged donkey”
“Don’t be such a suernort. That’s a Selenian you’re talking about. They’re very close to joining, you know. His grandfather is out west as we speak, finalizing votes.”
“Bah. Let them remain an Outpost. They stink of The Carniss.”
Larry felt heat climb his neck and settle behind his eyes. His hands found the fabric of his trousers and gripped until his knuckles whitened. The Trinarchs continued walking, their voices fading into the Temple’s stone walls, unaware or unconcerned that the boy they’d dismissed had heard every word.
Two-legged donkey. The insult was specific in its cruelty, pointed at his silence, at his failure to be useful, at every nightmare his grandfather’s people had warned him about since he was old enough to understand.
The Temple of Wintershire stretched long and vaulted above him, its ceilings lost in shadow where the orgone lanterns couldn’t quite reach. Carved figures of the 32 Creator Gods lined the walls in descending order of importance, their stone faces worn smooth by centuries of faithful hands. Vikus of the Northlunds stood at the passage’s end, carved in eternal motion, running, always running toward something only he could see.
The Gods were important to Larry and his family, more so than many Merchant families. His grandfather’s prayers to Vikus had been heard, and Larry’s father, Jalen, was returned home safe. Byron quit drinking, dedicated himself to worship, and was blessed with wealth beyond measure.
October, the Month of Writing, was about to pass into November, where the Laws of Juris Prima dominated. Each month was represented by one of the Twelve Circadian Gods, Time of course being the first, with Wintershire’s patron representing the month of February, a month when fire is most important in the plains.
After November, the Month of Sleep, when the night is long and the Mortal Realm renews, preparing to start the cycle again. He heard the shuffling of his grandmother’s robes and shoes, noting her return from the powder room. “You look disheveled,” Monica of Selenia pronounced.
Larry immediately went to his communionsphere to express himself, although doing so out of habit, knowing full well what was coming.
“You put that thing away. You will speak like a proper Merchant and not some degenerate. Everyone does things at their own pace. I know it’s difficult. Now, use your words.”
“I. I’m. D. Do. Doing. F. Fi-fi-fi. Fine,” he finished after an eternity of linguistic limbo.
“See. Now that wasn’t that difficult, was it?”
Difficult didn’t begin to scratch the surface. Larry had been born under the Sign of Vercerox, the God of Tragedy. Much like his Comedic twin, Vercerox affected each victim differently. Larry’s inability to articulate would have left him in the lowest of Merchant positions. His unique pedigree gave him a fighting chance. His grandmother was trying to give him the weapons.
Monica extended her left arm into a hoop, and Larry linked up, walking in unison through the Temple halls in typical Trinarch fashion. They passed the two Trinarchs from earlier, and Larry could tell he was silently being scored while they pretended to admire Monica. As if reading their minds, she noted aloud, “Larry, I know that Apostle Matthew was very excited to hear you would be coming along with me this trip. I’m quite certain he’ll be very interested to hear about this past season.”
The loyal matriarch and clever Merchant continued to talk up Larry, knowing both that what she said was true, and that the Trinarchy needed to know where her loyalties still lied.
Monica’s hoop held firm as they rounded the corner toward the Audience Chamber. The passage narrowed here, lined with tapestries depicting the Month of Fire, Wintershire’s patron month, when flames held back the endless cold and the Mortal Realm proved its worth to the Creator Gods. Larry traced the figures with his eyes, finding comfort in the familiar stories. The Hero and the Beast. The Sacrifice and the Gift. The Silence and the Song.
His stomach turned at the last one. The Song had been his mother’s favorite.
“Apostle Matthew,” Monica announced as they entered the chamber. Her voice carried the particular resonance she reserved for important spaces, warm but commanding, a Merchant’s weapon sharpened by decades of practice.
Matthew sat behind a broad desk of reclaimed lumber, his fingers drumming a rhythm against its surface as they approached. He was younger than Byron by perhaps a decade, with the lean build of someone who had once been dangerous and had since allowed himself to soften. His robes were immaculate, too immaculate for a man who claimed to spend his days among the faithful.
“Lady Monica.” Matthew rose, his smile arriving a half-second before his body followed. “And young Larry. Your grandfather speaks of you often.”
Often landed strangely. Byron spoke of him, yes. But mostly about the stutter. About the silence that had swallowed his grandson whole since birth.
“A. Apo. A. Apostle,” Larry managed.
“Good day?” Matthew asked, directing the question at Monica but watching Larry.
“He had a lovely time at morning prayers,” Monica answered. “The Choir Master was quite impressed.”
Matthew’s fingers found the edge of his desk. Wrapped. Always wrapped around something, wood, fabric, the stem of a glass. Larry had noticed that the Apostle never seemed to still.
“Impressive indeed,” Matthew said. “The Choir Master has mentioned young Larry’s… unique talents. His ability to perceive melody where others hear only noise. A gift from Vikus, I’d say.”
Larry felt heat climb his neck again. The Choir Master had said no such thing. The Choir Master had barely acknowledged him beyond a pitying nod.
“I had hoped,” Matthew continued, “to speak with Lady Monica regarding the upcoming tithe collection. The treasury is… under pressure this season. Certain repairs to the Temple’s orgonic infrastructure…” He gestured vaguely at the ceiling, where Larry could now see the faint discoloration of old water damage. “…require immediate attention.”
Monica nodded, her expression perfectly neutral. “Of course, Apostle. Perhaps we might discuss this over tea? Larry, dear, perhaps you’d like to explore the Temple gardens while the Apostle and I discuss boring matters?”
Matthew’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly. Larry saw it.
Larry nodded. He bowed, took Monica’s hand for just a moment, feeling her fingers squeeze his in silent farewell, and retreated from the chamber.
The corridor outside felt like the first full breath after a lifetime underwater. Larry’s legs carried him forward without direction, past the carved gods and the flickering lanterns, until the stone walls gave way to open air and the smell of turned earth.
The garden still had squash, hearty greens, and root vegetables, but unlike his grandmother’s suggestion, it was not his destination. He passed through the garden, into the Magi campus, beyond the Warlord encampment, and out passed the security of the Neopolis’s perimeter.
Here, he found more solace in the language of The Carniss, then the silence of being around his own people.
It didn’t take long for Larry to find his friend and companion, a Carniss his own age named Smothered Grass, or Grassy for short. He had arrived with his family earlier in the summer, following a large wildfire in the nearby Ruins. And like a good number of The Carniss, many became ill with orgone sickness. But Grassy’s name didn’t really matter to the Trinachs or Civilians living inside the walls. Just like all The Carniss living on the outskirts, Grassy was simply referred to as Ward.
In the years following the Tragedy of Rachel, explorers, Magi, and Merchants, and scoundrels flocked into the once feared Ruins. Their presence disturbed what had been hundreds and hundreds of years of The Carniss living in harmony with the remnants of The Ancients. And so The Carniss fled their lands, following the same trails that had brought the very looters to their front doors and into their pristine paradise.
Unaccustomed to the orgonic pulses, The Carniss quickly became enraptured with the Trinarch’s magic. They began taking the biggest risks in the Ruins, serving as guides and fodder for rich Merchants and curious Trinarchs. Those who didn’t fall prey to the wild fell victim to the flashing pictures of the momentboxes that were ubiquitous in Neopolii society. Grassy and Larry slowly approached Grassy’s mother. Her once toned muscles had atrophied into twigs. Gaunt eyes unblinkingly stared into the momentbox, lost in another person’s day from long ago.
Larry stood frozen at the edge of the Carniss camp, the smell of smoke and sickness filling his nostrils. Grassy’s mother had been beautiful once, he could see it in the architecture of her face, in the proud set of her jaw even now. But the momentbox had hollowed her out, leaving only skin stretched over longing.
MERMÁ, LERER ERSTÁ ERQÍ.
No response. The momentbox pulsed with light, casting blue shadows across her face.
Grassy knelt beside her, taking her hand. The withered fingers didn’t squeeze back.
Grassy pointed to the God of Harvest on his communionsphere, shook his head, then held up three fingers.
Larry’s throat closed. He wanted to say something, anything to make it better. But his words had never been made for moments like this. He signed “three days?” in Continental, to which Grassy nodded.
Instead, he sat down on the packed earth beside his friend. Outside the walls of Wintershire, the world was raw and honest in ways the Neopolis could never be. The Carniss called this place home, even as it killed them by the yard.
The communionsphere had served Larry well in overcoming his Tragedy, and he wasn’t the only one. When it was first realized that his verbal skills were an issue, Jalen and Emily spared no expense. High Priests had found using a communionsphere to communicate was both holy and universal. The symbols were known to any and every Trinarch, Civilian, and Merchant. The Carniss were familiar, but only as baubles and trinkets. Larry still remembered the day he, Grassy, and a Carniss translator had gone over the communionsphere, helping to forge the beginning of a growing friendship.
Communionspheres were a 32-sided spheroid, technically known as a triacontadigon by the Magi, but most would refer to it as a league standard phute ball shape. Each sphere was composed of twelve pentagons and 20 hexagons. The pentagons represented the 12 months of the year and their respective gods.
Time
Fire
Fertility
Hunting
Crafting
Construction
Agriculture
Metal Working
Harvest
Writing
Laws
Sleep
Each of the Major Gods is connected to five of the Minor, or Concomitant Gods. Larry explained how for instance, Crafting is associated with Magic, Wealth, Adventure, Beauty, and Love, while Metal Working is associated with Marriage, War, Luck, Wisdom, and Medicine. The technique had served Larry well, and it allowed Grassy to adjust to life in the outskirts, far from his home and life he once called his own.
Over the last several months, Larry and Grassy had cemented their techniques, and a savvy combination of their communionspheres, hand gestures, and common sense allowed the two friends to speak without hindrance.
\HUNTING/ Larry suggested, pointing to the sphere then her mouth.
\WRITING+ADVENTURE,/ Grassy replied before collapsing to his mom’s side. “ER, DERS. ¿PER QERÉ LER ERSTS HERCERND ERST A MAH PERBL?!” he cried to the heavens.
Most of Larry’s family spoke fluent Carniss, and though he couldn’t speak it, he was able to understand well enough. He patted his friend on the shoulder. The young Carniss looked up. Larry pointed to the heavens and shrugged. Then pointed again to the heavens, then to his heart.
It took Larry a moment to put the sentence together in a way Grassy would understand.
\TRAGEDY+WAR/ he pointed, then shook his head. He then pointed to the Heavens. \GAMES+ALCHEMY+TIME/
“Larry of Selenia!”
“Larry of Selenia!!”
“LARRY… OF… SELENIA!” Monica’s voice carried throughout the outskirts. Her meeting had run short. And apparently so had her patience.
Escorting the Selenian Merchant Matriarch was a Warlord, Quinn. Although having served for many years, Quinn had been entered into the faction with a commission of Acceptable, meaning he would never rise above the rank of Recruit. His detachment from politics is exactly why Monica requested him as her personal sentry.
“Larry OF Selenia! I TOLD YOU to wait for me in the garden. And here you are, in the outskirts, putting yourself, and possibly myself and Recruit Quinn’s lives in danger.” She only stopped to face Grassy. “Ward, if you think your presence is going to help this situation, you are frightfully wrong.”
Smothered Grass knew looks well enough to vacate the premises, hearing only the tone in Larry’s grandmother’s voice as he scurried off.
“This is the last straw, young man. I told you if you defied me again you will be spending the rest of the year with your uncle in Skyhome. So, congratulations. Go home, pack your bag, and be ready to leave by tomorrow morning,” she commanded.
“No!” Larry screamed. “No, no. I. I’m, so, sor, sorry.”
“Now he finds his voice.” Monica grabbed her grandson’s arm, digging her nails into his flesh. “I have already lost my only son to madness. I will not lose his child to… to… to the wiles of indiscretion!” she yelled, then sniffed. “Recruit Quinn, please return Larry to his quarters and keep a watch on him until I return. I’m going to survey the outskirts a moment.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Quinn replied, then pulled the squirming Trainee away.
He only looked back once, seeing his grandmother fall to the ground with a Banshee’s wail; wishing her grandson would listen, that her child was well, and that her husband was here to hold her, and to tell her that everything was going to be alright.
A diplomatic-class Selenian Merchant wagon rolled smoothly along the terrain of the western CSA. Years before, this journey would have been unwise, if not impossible. But contemporary orgonics allowed the combined strength of horses and magic to create a comfortable ride for the passengers, and an easy haul for the horses.
The passengers in tow were Byron of Selenia, Sergeant Martha of Juris Prima, and Scholar Walter of Dalfeena. They traveled west, towards a small Homestead that wasn’t on any Trinarch map, nor did it receive the benefit of the militia’s protection. Instead, it was a relic lost in time, discovered by Walter through sheer diligence, and supported by Byron through faith in the Creator Gods.
“That jog, sir?” the Sergeant requested.
“Jog? Oh, yes, I’m so sorry,” Byron replied, returning from his mind’s wanderings.
Martha had requested her daily jog a few moments ago, but she allowed the Merchant time to hear her words, not just her voice. The ride had been long and boring, cutting through the valley, and her muscles had tensed from both physical and mental reasons.
“You know, you can always just stop the wagon if I’m off in my head,” Byron suggested.
“For now. But soon you’ll be my superior. Best to practice before it becomes official.”
“A good point,” the Magi, Walter, concurred.
Byron pulled the reins on the horses, causing both them and the orgonic wheels to stop. “Jog away, Sergeant.”
Martha dismounted from the wagon’s rear bench with the practiced ease of a soldier who had learned to make herself comfortable in every possible position. She rolled her shoulders, circled her neck, and set off at a steady pace around the wagon’s perimeter, first left, then right, then left again. A ritual as familiar to her as breathing.
Walter remained seated, adjusting his spectacles and reviewing a sheaf of documents that crinkled with each turn of the page. He was a thin man with ink-stained fingers and the kind of scholarly pallor that came from decades spent in archives rather than outdoors. But his eyes were sharp, and his mind sharper.
“Twenty minutes,” Martha called over her shoulder as she completed her first lap. “Then we push on. I want to reach Ashley’s before full dark.”
“You’re the tactical expert,” Walter said without looking up. “I’ll defer to your judgment on such matters.”
Byron watched Martha run, his hands resting loosely on the reins.
“Byron.”
He turned. Walter had set aside his documents and was looking at him with that particular expression, the one that meant a question was forming that the Scholar had already partially answered in his own mind.
“The Homestead. Ashley Coleman.” Walter paused, choosing his words with the precision of a man who had been burned before by assumptions. “You believe in this?”
“Belief is a strong word.”
“You’ve funded it for three years.”
“I’ve invested in it,” Byron corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
Byron considered this. In Selenia, where every chip carried weight and every agreement contained seventeen clauses for breach, the distinction between belief and investment was a chasm. But out here, in the unmarked territories, no Trinarch held sway. And no Merchant Charter applied.
“Ashley Coleman’s Homestead has received fourteen families in the last eighteen months,” Byron said. “Refugees from the Scourge. People who had nothing and found a place that would take them in. That kind of work…”
“…deserves support,” Walter finished. “Yes, I understand the philanthropy. But it wasn’t easy to find her location. I spent quite a bit of your kairos investigating. And the fact of the matter is, you’ve already secured enough votes for admission. So why do you need her support? It’s not political, nor financial. That only leaves one other reason.”
“It is a bit personal, and I have the kairos to spare. You’re right, Walter. We have the votes. But do we have the support? That’s more important to the future of this Continent.”
Walter made a small noise, not quite agreement, not quite skepticism. He returned to his documents.
Martha completed her fifth lap and slowed to a walk, breathing hard but controlled. She was a stocky woman with close-cropped brown hair and the kind of weathered face that suggested she had seen combat and chosen not to speak of it. Her uniform bore the insignia of Juris Prima, capital of the American Federation. But soon it would be the symbol of Selenia, the Continent’s newest Neopolis.
“Feeling better?” Byron asked.
“Never feel better,” Martha replied, climbing back onto the wagon bench. “Feel less worse. There’s a difference.”
“Another one,” Walter murmured.
“Politics,” Martha said. “You’ll learn.”
Byron took this as the gentle ribbing it was intended to be. He had been told, by people who presumably knew, that his tendency to find philosophical distinctions in mundane matters could be exhausting. He had also been told that this tendency was precisely what made him effective as a Merchant, his ability to see the angle others missed, the clause no one had considered, the implication that wasn’t in the contract but should have been.
“Tell me about Ashley,” Byron said to Walter.
Walter was quiet for a moment, organizing his thoughts the way he organized everything into piles, categories, and hierarchies of importance.
“She’s competent,” he said. “More than competent. When I first contacted her about the Homestead proposal, she had already done the research I would have recommended. Water access was the key constraint in that region, and she had identified three viable sources and secured rights to two of them. She negotiated with the Scourge…”
Martha’s head turned sharply. “The Scourge?”
“Their representatives, yes. She has… diplomatic channels. Unusual for someone of her background.”
“What background?” Byron asked. This was something Ashley had never shared, and he had never pressed.
Walter removed his spectacles and cleaned them with a cloth from his pocket, an act that Byron recognized as a stalling technique.
“Her father was a Scourge,” Walter said. “One of the raiders from the outer territories. Her mother was a High Priest.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.
Martha had resumed her jogging, faster now, more aggressive. A perimeter check, she would call it, but Byron suspected she was processing.
“A High Priest,” Byron repeated. “Which order?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might.”
Walter replaced his spectacles. “Temple of the Western Watch. Dissolved twelve years ago under suspicious circumstances. The official record cites financial impropriety, but the unofficial consensus is that the Temple knew something the Priests wanted silenced.”
The wagon rolled forward, orgonic wheels humming their constant low thrum, as the sun continued its descent toward the western hills. Somewhere ahead, past the haze and the empty stretches of old extraction land, a Homestead waited.
Byron had spent sixty-four years building his life on the principle that every question had an answer, if one looked carefully enough. He had built Selenia from an afterthought to an Outpost on the cusp of Neopolis status. He had built a fortune, a family, a reputation.
“Another hour to Ashley’s?” he asked.
“Perhaps two,” Martha called from her jogging position. “If the terrain holds.”
Byron took the reins and urged the horses forward, into the fading light, toward whatever waited.
The sun vanished behind the mountains, but the homestead’s light led the rest of the way, accompanied by unexpected laughter upon closer approach. Most homesteads housed 25 to 30 individuals. Enough for protection, not too many for times of famine. An Outpost required sustained populations of over 50, while a Neopolii needed at least 100. Byron could tell from years of experience that the Coleman Homestead looked more like the Selenia of his youth than a fringe settlement on the outskirts of civilization.
The laughter continued as they drew closer, not the boisterous kind that came from drink or celebration, but something deeper. The kind that suggested people were genuinely glad to see each other.
The Coleman Homestead sprawled across a natural depression in the terrain, its structures built low and wide to catch the last light and hold it. Lanterns hung from posts and doorways, their orgonic cores pulsing with a warm amber glow. Gardens lined the approaches, with vegetables growing in neat rows rather than the opportunistic patches he saw on most fringe settlements. Someone had built a windbreak of young trees along the northern edge, their branches still flexible enough to bend without breaking.
“Company,” Martha said, her tone shifting from casual observation to tactical assessment. She’d stopped jogging. “Multiple figures. Ten at least, maybe more.”
“I suppose we’ll find out whether my security assessment was accurate or not,” Walter announced.
“Testing in the field is highly accurate, I’m told,” Byron replied, a wry smile on his lips. He thought about Archmaster William back at Riversbend. He was Byron’s greatest ally in this endeavor, having been an early advocate of Carniss, and then later Scourge, integration.
Following Councilor Timothy’s sacrifice, he became revered by both groups, bridging a 1000 year cultural divide. The Reformist faction of the Warlord Council gained strength, and visits such as this become more and more common. He turned to Martha.
“I wouldn’t unsheath your sword just yet.”
Martha nodded, though her hand remained near her blade. Old habits.
The wagon rolled to a stop at the edge of the homestead’s outer ring. The figures Byron had spotted resolved into people, men, women, a scattering of children emerging from doorways and garden rows to observe the new arrivals. They carried no weapons he could see, but their curiosity had a watchful quality. Survivors, all of them. People who had learned to assess strangers before committing to a reaction.
“Byron.” Ashley was close enough now that he could see the faint scarring along her left cheek, a burn pattern, old and healed, tracing patterns that might have been intentional or might have been the random violence of the old world.
“Mrs. Coleman?” Byron assumed.
“Ms. Yes. Perfect timing. We’re just shredding the pig.”
A pig roast was, is, and always shall be a delight for those who care to indulge in the smell of slowly cooked, feel of delicately pulled, then carefully slathered in sauce, and finally eaten with glutenous desire.
Any guard the Trinarchs had left up were defeated by a custom hailing back to what must certain be the time of the Primitives, for the primal salivation a pig roast induces strikes to the core of humanity itself.
“Lead the way,” Byron bowed, maintaining a staunch poker face, but wanting to run into the feast like a ravenous teenager.
The path to the main structure wound between the garden rows, and Byron found himself counting heads as they passed. Fifteen adults were visible, two infants he could see being tended near the eastern building, a scatter of older children helping with the preparations. Twenty-three, maybe twenty-five total. Exactly the size most fringe settlements stabilized at before growth or decline took hold.
The pig roast occupied the center of the homestead’s common area, a broad clearing packed hard by generations of feet. The animal turned slowly on a massive spit, tended by a wiry man with a missing ear who watched them approach without breaking rhythm. The smoke rose thick and sweet, carrying the scent of apple wood and something else, some herb Byron couldn’t name but recognized as intentional. The sauce, probably. A family recipe, passed down through hard times.
Tables had been set up in rough rows, already crowded with people, plates and cups, laughing in the amber light. Byron noticed the mix of faces. Carniss features alongside Continental ones, an elderly woman with the distinctive grey-green coloring of the Scourge sitting cross-legged on a blanket, children of indeterminate heritage chasing each other between the table legs.
“You weren’t kidding about the mixed household,” Walter murmured, close enough to Byron’s ear.
“That’s not the language they prefer to use. Mixed implies different. They see all of us as the same,” Byron whispered.
The astute Magi watched as a tiny smile touched Ms. Coleman’s lips, and he took note for future discussion.
The scene played out like any other Hallowtime feast. It was the final week of October, and it appeared these folks celebrated the time in similar fashion. Far off in Wintershire, Byron’s wife, Monica, and his grandson, Larry, would be partaking in similar celebration, albeit in the Temple of Vikus at the CSA capital city.
The 32 Creator Gods were now a part of Byron’s essence. He had given himself to Vikus when his son, Jalen, was a child, and continued learning in the ways of the High Priests. When Selenia is eventually accepted into the Territory, he will attain the rank of Bishop, holding the highest rank of any Trinarch in the city.
Martha had melted into the crowd with the ease of someone who had learned that standing alone drew attention. Byron spotted her near the drink table, accepting a cup from a young man with Carniss coloring and watching the room with professional detachment. Good. She would do her quiet work while he did his.
Ashley guided them toward a table near the fire, where a place had been clearly reserved. Three settings. She had known he would come, known he would bring exactly two companions, known they would arrive as the pig reached its peak.
“You’re wondering how I knew,” Ashley said, not looking at him as she arranged plates. “The western roads don’t have many travelers this time of year. Anyone heading this way with a Scholar and a soldier is either running from something or heading toward something that requires both.” She set down a plate with roast pork, its meat so tender it barely held its shape, covered in a sauce the color of autumn leaves.
“You, Byron of Selenia, have never run from anything in your life. Which means you’re heading toward something that requires both.”
“Logic and protection,” Walter said, seating himself. “A reasonable deduction.”
“I didn’t survive this long by being unreasonable.” Ashley handed Byron a cup of something dark and steaming. “Now. You came to talk about The Scourge. Ask your questions, Merchant Prince. But eat first. Cold pork is an insult to the cook and the pig.”
She left them to their meal, moving back toward the spit to direct the carving.
Martha stood at attention. Walter was a step behind and to her right. Both retained strict adherence to Code. Byron chuckled. “You two. Are officially relieved of duty. Now, go. Eat some pig and drink some cider. We’re with family.”