Sins of Greed E-Book

C. Tarradell

• Herausgeber: C. Tarradell
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Following the death of his famous scribe and author father, Abben Dindle is thrown into life at court, expected to serve his nation and perform his duties just as his father did; but when both his King and his King's Royal Seer are broken people, hurt and full of personal vengeance, Abben finds his job to be harder than he expected as he's thrown into the middle of the plotting and scheming of nations and the greed and sins of men.

No one betrays the Gods - and survives.

Unrest simmers within the once magical realm of Lurinlia. A broken king sits on the Ivory Throne, corrupted by his own paranoia. His vengeful royal seer condemns to death all who stand in her path. Under binding rituals they swore oaths to the Gods to rule and wield their powers with benevolence.

But now their vows are broken, and the once great nation of wizards and sorcery stands on the brink of war. One enemy crouches upon the doorstep, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

The other conjures treachery from within.

Abben Dindle seeks only to follow in his father's esteemed footsteps. His sworn and honored duty is to protect and cultivate the kingdom's knowledge as Royal Scrivener to the court. But when he is caught between the plots and schemes of arrogant men and the complex crusades of nations, Abben faces an impossible choice: serve his country and honor his duty, or betray his oath to his Sovereign to save the human race.

And face the wrath of the Gods.

Buy this epic fantasy tale of wizards, swords, and sorcery readers are comparing to GAME OF THRONES and HARRY POTTER!

Leseprobe

SINS OF GREED

SINS OF GREED

A Tale of Two Fools – Book One

C. TARRADELL

Copyright © 2019 C. Tarradell

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 9781090952936

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Part One – The Arrogance of Men

Chapter 1: The Joker and the Thief

Chapter 2: Abben

Chapter 3: The Man Who Sold the World

Chapter 4: The Scrolls

Chapter 5: Bromwich

Chapter 6: The Director

Chapter 7: The Syndicate

Chapter 8: Evelia

Chapter 9: The Council

Chapter 10: To Be a Dindle

Part Two – Lady Conflict, Lord Turmoil, and All Their Children

Chapter 11: Zardu, Chieftain of Epria

Chapter 12: The Making of a Man

Chapter 13: Into Thin Air

Chapter 14: Their Master

Chapter 15: A Will of Steel

Chapter 16: The Troll and the Hare

Chapter 17: What One Does

Chapter 18: What One Does, Part Two

Chapter 19: The Assassin

Chapter 20: The Assassin, Part Two

Part Three – Why

Chapter 21: The Academy

Chapter 22: Manna

Chapter 23: Enania

Chapter 24: Aias Gaverlin

Chapter 25: Jora

Chapter 26: The Lockdown of Ash Imlith

Chapter 27: The Lockdown of Ash Imlith, Part Two

Chapter 28: Sparks

Chapter 29: A Reunion of Old Friends

Chapter 30: A Reunion of Old Friends, Part Two

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

Abben Dindle quickly scuffled through the damp, dark side alley and turned the corner onto the main plaza just steps away. The heavy bundle strapped under his left arm was beginning to weigh him down; mentally more than physically. He tried to not look suspicious as he made his way through the crowd of common folk that were browsing the wares of the merchants that regularly held stall on Jording Square, colloquially known as The Market Plaza. His destination was just on the other side of the courtyard; a quaint little book shop called Kirlin’s Scrolls and Scryers. It’s proprietor, Kirlin Pinof, was a rickety, bent over old man nearing his eightieth year, with the mental clarity of a twenty-something and the sharp tongue to match. Kirlin was an unofficial “advisor” to His Majesty the Sovereign of Lurinlia, Faelin Jording. Abben was sent by Sovereign Jording’s Royal Sibyl herself, Evelia Ingrin, to deliver a set of mysterious scrolls with a particularly strong magical essence attached to them.

As Abben made his way across the veranda, pulling his cloak’s hood tighter around his face and zigzagging through the crowd of peasants and merchants, he spotted a familiar commotion on his right in front of a stall of fresh fruits and vegetables; someone was being arrested by Sovereign Jording’s City Watch. A small crowd was beginning to circle the guards and the man that was being arrested. Abben looked closer at the guards and saw what he feared; the WSD (Wizardry Subservience Division) logo visible on their uniform.

“Show it to me!” yelled one of the three guardsmen, who looked to be in charge.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” screamed the man on the floor. He looked to be in his middle ages, balding, in middle-class clothing. The man was on his knees.

“If you cooperate, you’ll find your accommodations in the dungeon to be fairer than most. Sovereign Jording is not an unreasonable man.”

“Kelek, maybe he doesn’t have anything,” muttered one of the other guardsmen, under his breath.

“Quiet, Iloin.”

“Please, I’m not lying to you! I don’t have any magical trinkets on me! I don’t know the first thing about sorcery! You must be confusing me with someone else, please!”

Kelek looked unimpressed. He hissed, “Take this lying rat to the dungeon. We’ll have Director Sarvis question him. Get him out of my sight.”

The crowd of cityfolk were muttering amongst themselves, some shaking their heads in disapproval and others showing their signs of agreement and applause to the spectacle they had just witnessed.

“Let this be a reminder of Sovereign Jording’s stance on magic use – those caught tinkering with any form of sorcery or wizardry will be dealt with,” Kelek announced to the crowd that had gathered. “Now move along!”

Off to the side, Abben stole a nervous glance at the bundle of scrolls teeming with magical energy under his left arm. After recollecting himself, he took a couple more strides and opened the door into Kirlin’s Scrolls and Scryers, firmly shutting it behind him.

PART ONE – THE ARROGANCE OF MEN

Chapter 1

THE JOKER AND THE THIEF

Entering this seemingly cozy book store was like crossing portals into another realm. Appearing much bigger than it’s size outside could ever depict, Abben found himself staring at leaning towers of books, stacked on top of each other almost to the ceiling a full fifty feet above him. There were dozens upon dozens of bookshelves lining the walls, ranging from different shades of purples and blues all the way to browns and greens. Every bookshelf was littered with beautifully woven baskets holding books and parchments of all sizes. There seemed no end to the amount of scrolls, inkwells and quills in sight. Planted in the middle of the entire space was a gigantic round table made of marble with an incredibly realistic, three-dimensional map of Olvion embedded into the stone.

Feeling much more confident now that he arrived safe and sound at his destination with his incredibly dangerous cargo, Abben looked around, stepped up to the table, and ran his fingers across the image of The Vorilian Sea. He slowly circled the table, touching the peaks and valleys, cities and towns, and everything in between, until he was on the other side of the table and was able to feel the ridges of The Gryphon’s Nest Mountains. He leaned forward to scrutinize the incredible craftsmanship and detail when WHACK!, something small, leathery, scaly, and flying in the air smacked right into the right side of Abben’s head.

“For the love of Ubios!” screamed Abben. Reeling over and nursing what would surely be a bruise on the right side of his head, Abben looked up to see what had hit him with such force.

He found himself looking at a small, skittish, annoying looking creature, with a gigantic nose too big for it’s face and large leathery wings too big for it’s tiny body. It was a dark shade of brown, almost black, with bald, scaly skin, and a very thin frame.

An imp.

“Ah!” cried Abben.

“Ahhhh!” cried the imp.

Apparently Abben’s reaction had frightened the little creature, and it flew off to hide behind a stack of books.

“Morticus?” came a quizzical voice from somewhere in the back of the shop. “Morticus, was that you? You Gods’ forsaken creature, you know I can’t hear like I used to! How many times have I asked you to stop muttering from so far away?! Get over here and say what you want, you stubborn rat with wings!”

Morticus shot a scornful glance at Abben and emerged from behind the books, flying over to the direction of the voice. “I’m sorry, Master. You have a visitor.”

“Wha-what?! A visitor?!”

“It’s okay Master, it’s not the City Watch. It’s a customer. Albeit a rude one…” Morticus muttered the last part under his breath.

An old man, very frail and eccentric looking, with a pair of goggles on his face that had numerous magnifying glasses attached to them, emerged from behind multiple stacks of books. He was dressed in workers’ clothing, a simple white shirt (very stained with ink), a pair of bottoms, and a pair of normal boots. His stark white hair was standing up on all ends on top of his scalp, and his bent over posture showed that his back did not agree with his age.

“Oh, a customer. Very good, Morticus. I trust you to be aware of who comes in this place. And always remember the phrase! If the City Watch knew I had you here with me, they’d ring my fucking neck!”

Abben coughed under his breath at the old man’s choice of language.

“What’s that son? Do you have something in your throat? Morticus the young man has something in his throat, please get us some water. I’d go get it if I had wings. Too bad I don’t.”

Morticus shot another glance at Abben and flew off to the back of the store.

“Well now, while that creature gets us something to whet our whistle, I can help you out with whatever you need. Are you looking for a book today? We just got in Pavlov’s latest work, ‘The Ballad of June Uriel.’ Phenomenal read. Or maybe you’re looking for something more adventurous? I have many copies of numerous types of Bestiary’s in here, if that’s more your style.”

“Actually, sir, I’m here on business from Sibyl Ingrin.”

“Sibyl Ingrin? Evelia Ingrin?” The old man ran his fingers through his hair nervously. “Oh, dear. Please, have a seat. Morticus! Morticus, scratch the water, bring us two glasses and my strongest bottle of rye!”

Abben cleared his throat.

Kirlin shot a quizzical glance at him. “I suppose if you’re here on Evelia’s orders, I should probably know your name.”

“Abben Dindle, sir.”

Shocked, he replied, “Dindle?! As in Jora Dindle? The famous Scrivener for Sovereign Gaverlin who penned Lurinlia’s largest collection of information on beasts and sprites over thirty years ago?”

“Actually yes, sir. I’d bet some of those Bestiary’s you mentioned earlier were written by my father.”

“By Ubios’s hairy ballsack, I should have known you looked familiar. Why, you’re the spitting image!”

Abben chuckled under his breath. “Well thank you, sir.”

“Kirlin Pinof.” He outstretched one hand for a handshake while leaning on a particularly low stack of books for support. “But of course, you knew that already. It’s all over those damned signs outside.”

Abben reached his free hand out to comply, “The pleasure is mine.”

With the outstretch of Abben’s right arm, Kirlin seemed to have noticed the bundle of scrolls under his left for the first time. “Are those what Evelia sent you for?”

“Yes, actually. Here. I’d rather not hold onto them any longer than I have to.” Abben laid the scrolls out on a nearby end table. As he laid them down, the scrolls opened up of their own accord, and the faintest blue mist could be seen wafting in the air above them.

“By the Gods…” whispered Kirlin, as he clicked in place another set of magnifying glasses on his goggles to take a closer look.

“Yes, they have quite a magical energy attached to them. I was wrought with grief on my way here. Sibyl Ingrin requested meeting with me this very morning and privately asked me to deliver these to you for ‘extraction of information,’ as she put it.”

Just then, the front door to Kirlin’s shop opened up and in entered the WSD guard from the spectacle outside; the one that was in charge who called himself Kelek.

Now that he was much closer and in a controlled environment, Abben was able to get a much closer look at the man. He was very tall, dressed in an all black trenchcoat, with military style clothing underneath. He wore a beret with very stringy, medium-length, jet black hair showing from underneath. A pair of all-purpose boots was on his feet. His eyes had dark circles around them, almost as if he didn’t sleep well last night and developed bags under his eyes. His skin was very pale. Abben couldn’t help but feel that something about this man looked… strange. Out of place, even.

Kirlin looked up and quickly stuffed the scrolls in a secret side drawer on the same end table they were resting on. Abben noticed the quick and clever movement from the corner of his eye and thought to himself never to underestimate this man.

“Morticus! Please fetch me my spindle, one of the book baskets needs to be re-woven. And be quick about it!” He turned to Kelek. “Good day sir, how can I be of service?”

Kelek barked back, “Is Master Pinof in?”

Kirlin responded. “That would be me.”

“Master Pinof, my name is Kelek. I have the honor of serving as the Overseer for Sovereign Jording’s Wizardry Subservience Division of the Bidvale City Watch.”

Kirlin grunted under his breath, all of a sudden seeming uninterested. “Hmph, and what an honor it must be…”

The man ignored Kirlin’s remark and kept talking. “I’m here on express orders from Director Sarvis himself. The Director would like to solicit your assistance in maintaining the law and order of magic use throughout Lurinlia. It is his assumption that you, being the proprietor of one of the most visited book shops in Bidvale, the capital of Lurinlia, might run into certain persons of interest. He would like you to keep us informed on the identities of any of these suspects; for the good of all Lurinlia, of course. We trust that the aid you’ve given to the Sovereigns of Lurinlia over the years, including Sovereign Jording, can be extended to us as well.”

“What exactly are you asking of me, Master Kelek…?” Kirlin hung the question in the air, clearly asking for the man’s surname to be able to address him properly.

“Just Kelek.”

Kirlin gave him a puzzled look. “Well, Master Just Kelek, what exactly are you asking of me?”

“Just for your cooperation and adherence to the law, Master Pinof.” He flashed a very eerie smile. “Good day.” He looked at Abben as he turned out the door. “Sir.”

Abben nodded curtly in response.

As the door closed behind Kelek, Kirlin remarked, “Well that man was a right fucking oddity! And here I thought I was strange.”

Abben agreed, “Yes… there is something… off about him.”

“Morticus! Morticus come out, our unexpected guest has left the premises.”

In the blink of an eye Morticus reappeared, laying in one of the empty book baskets in the shop. He apparently had had enough time to cast an invisibility spell on himself. He wiggled out of the basket and flew up into the air to stretch his wings a bit, floating back down to sit on top of a stack of books.

“If you would give me sooner notice next time…” he said.

“He came in very abruptly. Odd now that I think of it… I couldn’t even hear or see him from outside. But then again, I’m old as dirt.”

Abben butted in, “Was that bit about the spindle your ‘phrase’?”

Kirlin remarked, “Yes. It’s the only way Morticus has been able to stay with me so long. If any City Watchmen enter my shop, Morticus knows that phrase as warning to hide. Usually he casts an invisibility spell on himself… Imps have a certain degree of innate magic, you see. They’re very fascinating creatures, for being so small.”

Morticus grunted.

“I actually have a book around here somewhere outlining imps and all they can do. It actually may have been written by your father! Ha, imagine that. Where is that dusty old thing…”

Abben cleared his throat.

“Your father was actually quite the writer. His observation of beasts was unmatched. His attention to detail…”

“Master Pinof.”

“I never thought I’d meet his son. Our friendship must have fallen off a long time before you were born. By Ubios I’m getting old…”

“Kirlin.”

“Morticus, where did we put that Imp Bestiary written by Dindle? I could have sworn I saw it the other day…”

“Kirlin!”

Kirlin spun around, seeming surprised. “Huh?”

Abben gestured towards the scrolls.

“Ah, yes! You better leave those with me, Master Dindle. I’ll go over them tonight and have them ready for Evelia tomorrow. Please stop by then.”

“Great. I’ll be back tomorrow morning, right after I break fast.”

“Yes, yes. And don’t be a stranger, Abben. Your father and I were quite the acquaintances many years ago, when we were much younger. He was a good man. I can’t imagine the apple fell far from the tree.”

Abben smiled. He was growing fond of this old man already… He understood what his father saw in him. “Good day, Kirlin. Good day, Morticus.”

Morticus waved.

And Abben turned and stepped back out onto Jording Square.

Evelia kept her chambers dark, like her soul. Like her soul lately, at least.

Even with the black atmosphere she seemed to enjoy living in, her chambers were fully illuminated with multi-colored magical orbs and weavings that gave her nest an enchanted glow. She stayed in one of the tower suites on the Palace’s West End; this meant that any visitors to her room had to travel up a very tall flight of stairs. She did this on purpose as she normally didn’t like many visitors. Her chambers were effectively just a giant circular room, portioned off into many different sections. There was a tub and a chamber pot in one section, a study that included a mini-library, an alchemy table and a writing desk in another, and the rest was a culmination of wardrobes and sitting areas. She had her bed in the center.

As Royal Sibyl, Evelia had leave to explore magic a tad bit more freely than the rest of Lurinlia’s populace; with the aim of using it for the general good and progression of Lurinlia and the Sovereign in which she served, Faelin Jording, of course. Despite this so-called “freedom” however, Evelia’s magic use was on a tight leash. She was under constant watch by Sovereign Jording’s Palace Guard, and she was required to thoroughly document all of her research and magical delving, reporting in weekly with High Augur Petris. She was also convinced that her handmaiden, Deliana, was secretly spying on her and reporting her activities to Sovereign Jording.

Though that could have simply been paranoia.

High Augur Petris was head of the Church of the Tribune, the predominant religious organization in Lurinlia. It’s teachings followed the worship of the three main deities in Lurinlian culture; Ubios, the God of Life; Jerin, the God of Mayhem; and Vastrix, the Goddess of Death. When Sovereign Jording decreed the all-out restriction of magic use five years into his reign, over fifteen years ago, and anointed Evelia as his Royal Sibyl, he brought her to High Augur Petris and had her swear an oath upon the Tribune’s altar to practice her magic “benevolently,” and to stay away, at all costs, from The Forbidden Magic.

The Forbidden Magic was a study of wizardry that included the magic that the teachings of the Tribune viewed as “un-natural”; resurrection of the dead, extension of one’s life, summoning of higher demons, and general tampering with fate. Evelia’s oath, sworn upon the Tribune’s altar and in the presence of the High Augur of the Tribune, was a divine contract that tied her words to the very essence of the Gods, a process known as “binding.” Tribune teaching taught that breaking the oath sworn under a binding was the highest offense to the Gods and would be punished with unfathomable severity. Of course, the majority of the population of Lurinlia didn’t believe such nonsense.

Evelia surely didn’t.

She walked up to her dressing stand and sat down in front of her mirror; she was still getting used to the lines in her face that creased her brow and her eyes now that she’d turned her forty-fifth year. She didn’t mind it too much though; she wasn’t as vain as that.

Just vain enough to use her magic to stay the graying of her hairs and the fattening of her body; she kept her hair a luscious, deep black, and her figure trim and attractive.

She grabbed a nearby brush and ran it down her hair. She liked to brush her hair with a certain degree of force; softness bothered her. Then she thought about that for a moment, and the fact that that bothered her bothered her again even more. The inner turmoil that she constantly felt played through her head again, for the thousandth time. Evelia hated and loved herself, simultaneously.

“Mistress, would you like me to brush your hair for you?” came a soft and squeaky voice from the far corner of her chambers.

Evelia let out a heavy sigh. “Deliana. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I’m not a cripple. I can manage brushing my own hair.”

“Right. I’m sorry, Mistress.”

“You always are.” She sighed again. “Deliana, it’s not that I find you specifically annoying, it’s the whole handmaiden nonsense that gets under my skin. Any woman that submits to someone else doing something as petty as brushing their own hair doesn’t have a spine, in my eyes. I am fully capable of taking care of myself. If I need you to do something for me, I’ll ask it of you. If Faelin insists that you be here with me, then it’ll be on my terms.”

Deliana stayed quiet.

“In fact, I’d like you to go fetch something for me. If you can get down to the Library’s Supply Room on the first floor of the Palace, I could use some new parchment, ink, and quills. Find Cornelius, the Librarian, once you get there; he knows precisely which ones I like.”

“Right away, Mistress.”

“Take your time, Deliana. I won’t need you for anything else today, and I’ll be out in the town for most of the day anyways. After you get my supplies, bring them back here to my chambers, and spend the rest of your day as you wish.”

Deliana nodded, “Thank you, Mistress,” and turned to exit.

Evelia turned her eyes back to her mirror and to the reflection that looked back at her. Her beautiful gray eyes, full pink lips, and fair white skin were the true epitome of beauty to many men in Lurinlia. She stood up, went to her wardrobe, and began to get dressed. She pulled out a beautiful black and white blouse with lace sleeves, black skin tight trousers, and black leather boots. It seemed that everything in her wardrobe was black and white. She liked it that way.

After dressing, she pulled on a black cloak and turned to the door just as Deliana did minutes before. As she was turning the latch, she heard something that she had almost forgotten about.

“Coo… coo…”

She took her hand off the door latch and walked back to her bed; more specifically, to the cage right next to it. Her familiar, an owl she called Vessa, was hooting for her attention.

“I’m sorry, Vessa. Just a lot on my mind lately. There, there.” She opened the cage door and stuck her arm into the cage, allowing Vessa to perch on her hand. She brought her to the window, opened the curtains and then the window itself, and let Vessa fly off into the sky. She always thought it was strange that Vessa, unlike most owls, enjoyed hunting during the day.

After closing the window back up again, Evelia went back to her chamber doors and exited her room.

Chapter 2

ABBEN

“Get down, little one. Follow Papa’s lead. We don’t want them to see us.” Little Abben did as he was told. These were the moments he looked forward to; following his Papa around in the fields and swamps and unknown territory of Lurinlia, researching the hundreds of creatures and beasts that called Lurinlia home.

“Okay, little one. When I say so, I want you to poke your head just a bit over these rocks. Just enough to be able to see them. Be careful not to make any noise; for being such big creatures, gryphons are also very skittish towards humans. If they hear us and feel threatened, they’ll fly off before we can even think twice,” whispered Jora.

Little Abben peeked over the rocks. Just a short way off, he saw a trio of gryphons resting in a field of wheat. The majestic creatures were just as magnificent in plain sight as his Papa drew them in his books. As beautiful as the legendary beasts were, however, they confused Little Abben just as they always did.

“Papa, why do gryphons look like an eagle and a lion together?” Little Abben was referring to the body, back legs and tail of a gryphon, which resembled a lion. They had an eagle’s talons as their front legs, with an eagle’s head and wings to match.

Jora chuckled. “That’s a story I would be happy to tell you later, little one, but not right now. Remember, we’re here for work. And you promised you would help me.”

Little Abben nodded enthusiastically.

“Good, Abben. Remember why we’re out here. Never forget what I’ve told you. A good man does his work for himself and his family; a better man does his work for the rest of the world.”

Little Abben whispered, “Yes, Papa.”

Jora handed Little Abben a parchment and quill. “That’s my boy. I’m going to take out my pocket scope to get a better look. I’d like you to write down whatever I tell you, okay?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Jora took out his scope and focused in on the trio of gryphons.

“Fascinating. One of those gryphons is much smaller than the other two,” he whispered to himself.

Jora focused his lens a bit more. There were two adult gryphons and one cub. One of the adults was a tad bit smaller than the other. She had bright white feathers on her head and wings, a light brown coat on her lower body, and a dark brown tuft at the end of her tail; typical female gryphon characteristics. The larger adult gryphon looked exactly the same, except it had a gold streak of hair on the tail tuft and a gold streak of feathers down the wings. Male.

Jora let his scope drop a bit. He looked at his son with a huge, beaming smile on his face. “Son, this is a gryphon family. A mama, a papa, and their cub. Here, have a look; the larger of the two adults, with the gold streak, is the papa.” Jora handed his son the pocket scope.

Little Abben took it from him and had a closer look. He saw exactly what his Papa was talking about.

As he was observing the gryphon family and how they interacted with each other, he heard a charging of hooves that sounded like rolling thunder coming from the northeast, from behind a group of cliffs and hills.

Jora perked up. “Abben hand me that scope. Quick.”

Little Abben handed the scope to his father. Jora looked through and could barely contain his excitement. He whispered to his son, “Abben, there’s a group of hippogriffs charging towards the direction of the gryphons. We may see something never before witnessed!”

“Hippogriffs? Are those the ones that look like gryphons, but a horse instead of a lion?”

“Exactly, Abben! Smart boy. Here, have a look. And pass me that parchment and quill; I’ll take care of the notes while you watch.”

They swapped items. Little Abben looked through the scope at the scene that was unfolding before him as Jora readied his quill.

A team of hippogriffs were charging towards the gryphons; not angrily, Little Abben noticed, but with friendly curiosity. As they got closer, they began slowing down and gradually came to a complete stop just a few feet away from the gryphon family. The baby gryphon was hiding behind his mother, with the father in front of his family, forming a protective barrier between them and the hippogriffs. There were no foals in the hippogriff team; just a collection of male and female adults.

One of the hippogriffs, a male according to the extra layer of feathers on top of his head, slowly walked up to the male gryphon and sniffed inquisitively. Hippogriffs were much more outgoing creatures compared to the timid and conservative gryphons.

“Papa, are you sure you shouldn’t be the one with the scope? How will you see?”

Little Abben took a quick glance at his father and saw that he had put his spectacles on.

“It’s okay, Abben. I can see well enough. I want you to get a good look at what’s taking place.” He smiled. “This is true magic.”

Jora looked back down at his notepad and continued scribbling; Little Abben took a peak and saw that his father had already written two pages worth of notes and a detailed illustration of the scene exactly as he was seeing it through the scope. He shook his head in amazement.

He looked back at the creatures and nearly gasped at what he saw; there were two hippogriffs flying carefree circles in the air, apparently chasing each other and playing some sort of game. The male gryphon let out a low snarl, thinking their circles were some sort of threat. He backed up slowly. The male hippogriff from before watched him curiously for several moments. He then did something that was truly spectacular; he opened his wings to their full extent and showed off his frame to the gryphon family, issuing some sort of challenge. The baby gryphon cowered and the female gryphon let out a series of low rumbles. In response, the male gryphon stepped up to the team, puffed his chest out, and let out a deafening screech. It was akin to the sound of an eagle’s scream, but with the ferocity and intensity of a lion’s roar.

The male hippogriff closed his wings and backed up; the duo of hippogriffs in the sky came immediately to the ground. The entire team silently watched the gryphon family for a couple moments, until they turned around and charged off in a different direction, a pip in their step, as if what had just happened was an entirely normal thing in their lives.

“Fascinating…”

Little Abben looked down at his father, who now had a substantial section of notes and drawings regarding the scene they had just witnessed.

Jora seemed to be muttering to himself.

“I just don’t understand what the hippogriffs were intending. A challenge of some sort? Or was it meant as play?…”

Little Abben spoke up, “Papa, why did the papa gryphon scream like that?”

Jora looked at his son and answered him. “Well, little one, the interesting thing about gryphons is this. From birth, they pick a mate and stay with that mate until they pass. If their mate dies before them, a gryphon will never pick another one. It is this loyalty that causes gryphons to have a fierce territorial protectiveness of their families. Even if the hippogriffs just meant to play, which I suspect is the case due to their blithe and easygoing nature, a gryphon will not take any form of challenge displayed in front of their mate and cub lightly.”

“Oh,” said Little Abben.

Jora spent the next couple of moments scribbling some more notes. He then closed his book, took off his spectacles, and looked up at Little Abben.

“Time to go, little one.” He had a glow to him. It made Little Abben smile.

“Ok, Papa.”

Quietly, they crouched and silently stepped their way out of the gryphons’ line of sight. After they were a safe distance away, they stood up and brushed off.

Holding hands, they walked to their carriage just a few miles off.

Abben stepped into The Drunken Elk just a couple minutes past dusk. It had been several hours since he left Kirlin’s Scrolls and Scryers; he had spent much of his afternoon stocking up on his materials for his work as Royal Scrivener for Sovereign Jording; journals, quills, parchments and ink, as well as the more rugged materials for the job; horseshoes and hay for his carriage horses, plenty of fresh water by the barrel, and dried and salted meat for the road. A peaceful drink was much needed after this eventful day, he thought to himself.

As he walked into the commotion that was standard to any Bidvale tavern, he noticed multiple things right away. He had a keen eye, just like his father. First, there were no WSD guards. Abben, along with the rest of Lurinlia, Bidvale especially, learned to keep an eye out for the dreaded WSD uniform wherever he went. The WSD of the Bidvale City Watch were fast becoming one of the most hated enforcement groups in Lurinlian history since their inception a year ago. Second, there was a handful of off-duty Palace Guards and non WSD-City Watchmen sitting at the various stools and tables enjoying a cold drink and a hot meal.

Third, and definitely the most problematic thing Abben noticed, was a particularly rowdy man in the far right corner of the tavern. His dark brown hair and long scraggly beard were extremely disheveled and he appeared to be wearing low class clothing; tattered and ripped pants and a shirt that looked the same. He had a dagger at his hip, was clearly drunk, and also seemed to be in a very foul mood. He was joined at his table by a very small group of both men and women alike.

Abben took a couple long strides to get to the bar and have a seat. He ordered a mug of mead from the barmaid, left her a gold coin tip, and got comfortable so he could listen closely to the rowdy man who was now just a couple feet away, behind and to the right, of Abben.

“Oi, I’m tellin’ all o’ ye’s, this ‘ere no-magic shite is exactly that; shite! Now I’m not one fer slingin’ ‘em fancy spells er what not, but our “Sovereign” or whate’er that prick is callin’ ‘imself these days ‘as taken this durned grudge o’ ‘is too far!”

His Claeg Bor accent was thick, heavy. The man wasn’t speaking loud enough to be heard over the steady din in the tavern. Yet.

The barmaid came back with Abben’s mead. After thanking and tipping her with a gold coin, he took a couple sips and kept listening, nonchalantly.

“Them Syndicate boys ‘ave the right o’ it, I tell ‘ye. Aimin’ ta take down Jording and e’erthing ‘e stands fer. Git things back ta ‘ow they were when Ol’ Gaverlin ‘ad the Ivory Throne! And not a ‘ot second too soon.” He paused and drank a giant gulp from his cup, letting a foamy and thick, dark as night liquid run down his mouth and stain the top of his shirt. “I’m not ‘riginally from ‘ere, ye know. Me and me da came over from the Bor when I was but a wee lit’le runt. Me ma died and me da says there was naught left fer ‘im there. So we came ‘ere.” Another pause, another gulp of liquor. “That son of a bitch Jording is gunna be the death o’ this ‘ere entire land! All o’ it! Lurinlia! Me ‘ome! Oh, ‘ow me da must be turnin’ over in ‘is grave…” The rowdy man began heaving with heavy sobs.

The men and women sitting at the table with him were nodding their heads in unison, some drinking with him, some not.

All with the exception of one, a man on the other corner of the table. Abruptly, he stood up and walked over to the rowdy man’s seat, took the drink from his hand, and tried to calm him down. “Syler, you’re a good man. And so was your father. And Ubios knows I agree with you. This oppression and irrational policing that we’ve been living under is not befitting of Lurinlia. But you mustn’t say these things out loud. Like it or not, Jording is our Sovereign, and what you speak is treason.”

Syler took the drink back from the man’s hand and took a long, healthy swig of whatever he was drinking. “Treason? Treason?! And since when are ye the fuckin’ Tribune’s Altar Boy, Ginder? I could give o’ rat’s ass if what I speak is treason! It’s the bloody truth, ye dolt!”

“I know, Syler. I just don’t want you to say anything you’re going to regret. Come on, I think you’ve had a little too much to drink tonight.” He tried to grab Syler by his hand to lead him out the door. Syler allowed him, for a brief moment, even going as far as standing up and taking a couple steps. But then, in his drunken intelligence, he decided against it.

“No, you listen to me ye fuckin’ coward! All o’ ye’s!” He slapped Ginder’s hand off him. “Get off me, ye cocksucker!” He turned towards his table and raised his voice above the noise and music being played by the bards, nearly yelling now. “We live in ‘orrible times! Mark me words! Our Sovereign is a fuckin’ demon!”

The bards stopped playing. The troubling sign of abruptly ended chords, notes muted too soon. Everyone in The Drunken Elk stopped what they were doing and looked at Syler. The Palace Guards and City Watchmen stood up out of their chairs, their hands going to their weapons.

“Syler please, I don’t want any trouble tonight. If you’re going to speak nonsense, speak it outside of my tavern!” yelled the barmaid.

Abben finished his mead and tried to stay quiet and to himself.

“Nonsense, eh Belinda? If what I’m tellin’ is nonsense than I’m as crazy as a bat! When yer da was sick with gout and barely able ta move, ‘twas the clerics that fixed ‘im up and gave ‘im anuther couple o’ years. With magic! They fixed ‘im with magic! And now none but that she-devil be allowed to dabble in sorcery. Sorcery that could ‘elp us! ‘Elp the crops grow, ‘elp the sick, ‘elp the schools! What ‘ave we become?! We’re no better than those savage brutes in that durned Epria! Jording is runnin’ Lurinlia to the durned ground, and I won’t fuckin’ stand by and rub me balls while it ‘appens!”

All of the Palace Guards and City Watchmen drew their swords.

One of them spoke up. “Citizen, you will not deface the name of your Sovereign. It is a high act of treason. We give you this warning now; take your head out of your cups and go home. None of us want this tonight.” All of the guards were agreeing. “Most of us have wives and children waiting at home for us.”

Syler’s dark liquor gave him the courage to speak, to defy the guards. “And what will ye do, soldier? Lie to yer woman and all yer lit’le runts? Will ye tell ‘em that Lurinlia is still an enlightened land fer free men?”

“Citizen, I’m giving you one last warning. Enough.”

“Bah! Don’t e’en bother callin’ me a citizen no longer. That son of a ‘oremonger on the throne ‘as made slaves o’ all o’ us!”

Many gasps went off in The Drunken Elk, all at once.

“That is enough! Men, shackle him and bring him to the jails.”

Syler let out a whooping guffaw. “Hah! To do what, mister? Hang and make a martyr o’ me? Do it, ye prick! It’s long time I’m with me da. I’ll not live in this ‘ell no longer.”

The guards surrounded Syler and shackled him. He didn’t put up a fight. Rather, he looked like a man truly defeated.

While being escorted out the front door of the tavern, the patrons and customers parted to allow him and the guards to get through. As he passed the seat that Abben was at, Abben could have sworn he heard him mumbling to himself.

“May the strength o’ Ubios go to ye, Rawlins…”

Ginder was chasing them, pleading with them to let him go. “Sirs, please, he’s drunk! He didn’t mean it, he’s just drunk and upset! His father passed recently, he didn’t mean it!”

He followed the guards and Syler all the way out the front door, until it closed behind them. It was a couple moments before the bards in The Drunken Elk and the general commotion rose back up to a healthy uproar. During those moments, Ginder could still be heard outside pleading with the guards to let his friend Syler go. Abben could hear his voice gradually getting farther and farther away.

What was Syler saying? Was he mumbling about someone named Rawlins? Strange…

“That man is a nut. A good man. But a nut. Apologies for that, good sir.”

Abben was startled out of his thinking.

“Hmm?”

“Just saying sorry is all. Here, second mug is on me,” said Belinda, the barmaid and apparent owner of The Drunken Elk.

“Oh. Thank you, miss. And no harm done.” Abben smiled.

After she brought him his mead, he drank it all in one gulp, left her another gold coin tip, and stood up to exit the now-lively tavern known as The Drunken Elk.

Chapter 3

THE MAN WHO SOLD THE WORLD

“I don’t trust it.”

“Trust what, sire?”

“I don’t trust the magic. Nor the person using it.”

“But sire… if we don’t lend magical aid, there will be an extreme shortage of grains this year.”

“Then we need new farmers, Endis. If they’re not good enough to plough their crops and deliver their penance to this kingdom, then we need new farmers. Under no circumstances will we be using magic. For anything.”

Endis, Sovereign Jording’s chamberlain, bowed. “Of course, sire. I’ll see to it that our farmers are replaced.”

“And punished,” replied Sovereign Jording.

Endis looked troubled, but nodded. He turned to leave Sovereign Jording’s throne room.

Alone, or so he thought, Faelin took off his crown and put his head in his hands. It had been so long since he’d gotten a good nights’ sleep. It felt like all he did lately was sit on the Ivory Throne, so named because of the hundreds upon hundreds of mammoth tusks collected to craft it, in this gargantuan throne room. He rubbed at his temples, trying to relieve the migraine he had.

“Are you not afraid that you’ll be starving your people?” came a voice to the right.

Faelin kept his head in his hands, his eyes closed. “Kima.”

“In the flesh,” she replied. Kima was Sovereign Jording’s official advisor. Similar to how he solicited Kirlin’s advice and vast knowledge on, well, anything, he solicited Kima’s opinion on almost any matter of state or decisions of consciousness.

Faelin looked up and towards the direction of her voice. “I did not ask for you to meet me here after my council with Endis.”

“And yet, here I am.”

Faelin smirked and chuckled. This was the only person in all of Lurinlia who he wouldn’t hang for speaking to him in such a manner. “What would you advise I do then, Kima?”

“I would caution you to heed my advice and reconsider your stance on magic use. If you…”

Faelin cut her off. He stood up abruptly, red hot anger flashing across his face. “Advisor Kima, you will not question my authority. Magic is the art of the devil. I will not allow it in my kingdom!”

Kima bravely responded, “Your Majesty, my duty is to advise you on what is best for Lurinlia. If that means going against your best judgment, then with a heavy heart do I say that I will. But my foremost duty is to serve you. I only wish to find a middle ground in which both you and your kingdom will benefit. I do not say anything out of disrespect.” She bowed.

Sovereign Jording calmed a bit, but he stayed standing and tried to retain an air of command. “Very well, Kima. But the outlaw of magic use will stand. For everyone. As it always will.”

“For everyone except your Royal Sibyl?”

He hesitated before answering. Kima did not let him.

“Pardon, Your Majesty. You’ve told me before. It’s just… magic can be used for many things. Some bad, some good. Why is Evelia not lending magical aid to Lurinlia’s farmers and harvesters? It’s a practice as old as millennia. To rely on just Mother Nature for the growing of our food and crops is, well… primal. Magic is what creates surplus. Magic is what allows Lurinlia to brand itself as a land of quality. If you will not permit magic use amongst Lurinlia’s populace, then where is our Royal Sibyl when we need her? Is this not why her position at Court was created?”

Faelin sat back down on the Ivory Throne with a heavy, tired thud. Again, he went back to rubbing his temples. “Evelia is busy with more important matters.”

Kima laughed. “More important matters? What could be more important than ensuring your people, the very people you’ve sworn under binding oath to protect, have sustenance?”

Faelin sighed. “You’re right, Kima. As always. I will speak with Evelia at once and have her begin preparations to lend aid to our farmers.”

Kima replied. “Why don’t you let me speak to her, sire?”

Faelin looked up, again anger flashing across his face. “You find me incapable, Advisor?”

Kima giggled. “No, sire. Never that. I just feel that Evelia has a certain… way to her. She is cunning and practically overflowing with feminine wile. I believe it’s why you’re so soft on her.” Kima had a knowing smirk on her face.

Faelin looked bothered. “Fine, Kima. Just get it done. And please let Endis know that I rescind the punishment I commanded from him. As to my reasoning… make something up. I can’t look fickle, you understand.” He hated admitting he was wrong.

Kima bowed and took her leave.

Faelin went back to nursing his migraine. He wondered, for the millionth time, if he was doing right by his people.

Was he being irrational? Unreasonable? Was he becoming another Mad King? He didn’t believe so. He felt, deep down in his heart, that he was doing good for Lurinlia. Magic truly was the art of the devil. It wasn’t to be trusted. It couldn’t be trusted. All magic came with a price. His mind went back to when he was a young man, impressionable, no more than sixteen or seventeen years… his entire family, entire village, clouded in the signature purple and blue mists that marked strong magic. He cried out for his mother. She couldn’t hear him. His neighbors, his cousins. No-one could hear him. And then, right before his eyes… his home vanished. Right into thin air. He wandered and called for his family for days. Nothing. He stumbled his way to the nearest town, hungry and dirty, calluses and blood on his feet. He asked about his village, what had happened to it, please help me. No-one even knew what he was talking about. It was as if his whole life, his whole family, everything he had known… just erased from history. From living memory. His village never existed.

“Your Majesty?”

Faelin looked up, dazed and confused, to see Endis again.

“Your Majesty, the emissaries from Epria have arrived.”

Faelin, surprised, responded. “Already? They weren’t expected for weeks.”

Endis shrugged. “We can’t send them back, sire. Chieftain Zardu would surely be insulted.”

Faelin just stared at Endis. “Oh, really Endis? I didn’t think of that.”

Endis looked confused.

Faelin rolled his eyes. “Send them to my study. Don’t allow them to want for anything. Provide them with food, drink, and entertainment. I’m going up to my chambers to wash up. Advise them that I’ll be down shortly. Also, reschedule the rest of my councils today.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Endis scurried off.

Faelin stepped down from the Ivory Throne and made his way up the side staircase to his suite on the floor at the top. It was time for business.

Abben opened the door to exit his unsophisticated chambers on the third floor of the palace. He had much to do today; after breaking his fast, he had to get back down to The Market Plaza to visit Kirlin and retrieve the scrolls for Evelia. He was nervous; he wanted this whole business with the scrolls to be over with. He almost wished that Evelia hadn’t asked it of him to deliver and retrieve them to begin with.

Or that he hadn’t agreed to it.

He hated carrying around a bundle of anything that was heavily dosed with magic. After this, he’d be glad to get back out to his true home; the wilds of Lurinlia.

As he stepped outside his door and turned to lock the latch, he bumped into a tall, imposing, muscular figure.

His Sovereign. Faelin Jording.

Abben’s heart stopped.

“Oh, excuse me, citizen.” Faelin turned his head slightly to look at who he bumped into. His face lit up at the sight of Abben.

“Abben! There you are!” He slapped Abben on the back with a friendly, inviting gesture.

“Oh, hello, sire.”

“How goes it out in the field? I want to get a new set of theses out to our neighbors. Lurinlia has a reputation as enlightened scholars to uphold!” Despite being against magic as a form of progression, Faelin Jording was a man of education and a massive fan of scholarly activity. Of the more mundane type.

“Yes, Your Majesty. I’ll be riding out today, mid-afternoon, as soon as I take care of… something. I expect to be gone for two weeks, no more.”

“Well, Abben, I hope you don’t take too long doing “something.” And once you’re back, I expect to see some exciting stuff. What will you be studying?”

“Spriggans, Your Majesty.”

Sovereign Jording nodded, looking impressed. “Great. That sounds great, Abben. I wish you fair travels.” He gave Abben a warm smile as he walked off.

Abben’s heart started up again.

Evelia had told him. She told him, “Faelin cannot know about these scrolls.”

“Why not?” replied Abben.

He remembered how she looked. Guilty. Anyone else would have missed it, but not Abben. Not the son of Jora Dindle, the greatest eye in Lurinlian history.

“Because, Abben… what’s on these scrolls might be something very good for Lurinlia’s future. I want to be more certain of what it is first, before he knows. Think of it as a surprise.” He remembered how she giggled.

What will be will be, Abben thought to himself. Evelia asked him for a harmless favor, and he complied. It wasn’t his business to get involved in the workings of Lurinlia’s Royal Sibyl. Nor in her relationship with it’s Sovereign.

What will be will be. Just deliver the damn scrolls and ride out to the wilds, where everything makes so much more sense.

He put his head down and went right downstairs to get to the kitchens. He passed servant girls and Palace Guards as he walked through the wide, brightly colored hallways of Bidvale Palace. When Sovereign Jording decided to keep the themes that Sovereign Gaverlin installed in his palace decades before, the residents of Bidvale Palace were delighted. Lurinlia’s Capital Palace wasn’t like most palaces in the wide world; the common areas, and as much as the residents’ private chambers as possible, were full of every color in the rainbow’s spectrum. Every wall was a different color; tapestries were lively, bright illustrations. Rugs were some of the best art to be found miles around. Furnishings, staircases, sconces, fireplaces, all were heavily decorated and brightly colored. Bidvale Palace had a warm glow to it that resembled the Sovereign that decorated it many years before. It was a comfortable, beautiful, happy place to be.

Abben was walking down the staircase from the second to the ground floor when he ran into Deliana, Evelia’s handmaiden.

She was wearing a pink blouse, a bit open at the top, and a beautiful blue skirt.

“Oh! Miss Deliana!” Abben exclaimed.

She looked in his direction, noticing him for the first time. A look of warm recognition spread across her face. “Oh hello, Master Dindle.”

“Please, Deliana, call me Abben.” Abben smiled.

Deliana blushed. “Very well, Abben.” She smiled back.

“If you would, please notify your Mistress that I will be stopping by today with the package she asked of me. I’ll need to be quick, unfortunately; won’t have much time to chat. I must ride out today for research.” Abben did not want to stop and talk with Evelia if he didn’t have to.

“Very well, Abben. I’ll let my lady know.”

Abben nodded, hoping that the whole ordeal would be quick. “Thank you, Deliana.” He smiled again. “You look very pretty today. Those colors suit you.”

Deliana blushed once more, giggling to herself. “Master Dindle, you flatter me.”

“Weren’t you going to call me Abben?” he asked, laughing.

Deliana chuckled. “I suppose I was.”

Abben took her arm and gave her a kiss on the top of her hand. “Have a wonderful day, Miss Deliana.”

Leaving her blushing and baffled, Abben continued walking to the kitchens.

Once he made it, the smell of freshly baked bread immediately hit his nostrils. He looked around and saw Cook Yon kneading dough and yelling orders to his staff. A Royal Palace’s kitchen never sleeps. There were serving girls and boys darting in every which direction, and a dozen cooks and cook assistants handling what seemed like enough food to feed an army.

There was a deliciously fragrant stew cooking over the hearth, and the ripest fruits in a basket hanging next to the larder. Pitted olives were sitting on a plate next to Cook Yon; Abben glided his way over to grab some.

“Hey, Yon.”

Cook Yon looked up.

“Boy.”

“How are you today, friend?”

“Busy. Are you here to pick for scraps like a bird again?”

Abben gasped, feigning insult. “Oh come now, Yon. Not like a bird; more like a dog.” He laughed to himself.

“Not funny, boy. Grab me the carrots, please.”

Throwing an olive in his mouth, Abben replied, smartly. “Tell you what, Yon. I’ll cut you these carrots if you give me a taste of that stew over there.” He pointed towards the heavenly smell coming off the hearth.

“Not a chance, boy. It’s not ready. But you can still cut those carrots and I’ll whip you up a pickled sausage with sliced bread and goat’s milk to drink.”

Abben looked surprised. “Impressive, Yon. That sounds delicious. How about I cut carrots for you every day if we can agree on a hearty breakfast for me like that every morning?”

Cook Yon laughed and rolled his eyes. “You’re in a good mood today.”

“You know me better than most around here.” He smiled, glowing. “I’m going out for research today. Should be gone two weeks.”

Yon nodded knowingly, as if it all made sense now. “Ah. Just like your father.” Suddenly, a look of sadness spread across his face, like a dark cloud. “What a shame that man is no longer with us.” He looked up at Abben, small tears beginning to form in his eyes. “He was a good man, Abben. None better.”

Abben grabbed a red apple from the basket by the larder. “Yes. He was.”

Stopping his work on the dough, Yon came up to Abben, getting close. “He raised a good son, he did.” He patted Abben on the face lovingly. In the process, some of the flour on his hands as he was kneading got on Abben’s face.

Abben brushed it off. “Thanks for that.”

Yon chuckled. “Well, get the carrots, boy. Start cutting.”

Abben did as he was told, forgetting his little delivery for Evelia and allowing himself, momentarily, to be in a much better mood than he’d been in a long time.

Faelin made his way back down from his suite, heading towards his study to meet the emissaries from Epria.

Epria was a far off continent on the other side of The Vorilian Sea; much of Olvion considered Eprians to be an uncivilized people. They lived in largely tribal communities, often warring against each other for simple sport. Their God was their own; they did not worship the Lurinlian Tribune. Rather, they worshipped a being they referred to as “Ig.” Ig saw strength and therefore gave favor on war, violence, and savagery. Epria, divided as it always was, had a long history of raiding and pillaging the rest of Olvion, with whatever tribe responsible for the raiding having no qualms with starting all-out war with any continent they could. All except Lurinlia. An Eprian warship had never landed on Lurinlian soil.

Since the beginning of Jording’s reign, a man known as Chieftain Zardu had come to power in Epria. He was the closest thing to a King that Epria ever had. Since he seized power, rumors had it that recently much of the fighting and warring that Eprians normally reserved for eachother had stopped. Zardu was able to unite the dozens of different tribes under one banner; his banner. He claimed to be a civilized and learned man who was driven to unite Epria as one people, and to steer away from his homeland’s violent past.

This meeting with his emissaries is precisely what Faelin was waiting for to see for himself if that was the case.

He was coming up to his study. “Your Majesty,” said the two Palace Guards posted right outside Sovereign Jording’s study. They bowed.

Faelin nodded. “As you were, gentlemen,” indicating for them to relax and resume their post. They did. He opened the double doors.

Two men were sitting in chairs in the middle of the room. A woman; a bard, as Faelin took a closer look; was also in the room, further in the corner. She was beautiful. Her skill on the lute was equally as impressive. The men were transfixed with her; also with the plate of bread, olives and a glass of Marrensdale Red that was on the end table right next to them.