From Cinders
“The storm binds us, the storm defends us, the storm breaks us, and in the end, the storm has betrayed us.”
—Morag ni Conall,
The Dawnstorm Teller, 17 Novan 842 2d.A
Warmth and hearth are oft argued to be the greatest companions of all. More so than the brethren to stand at one’s side with steel in hand, more so than words crying loyalty and honor, more so than the pen that puts to writ such solemn pledges. It is the sun that deigns to break the clouds, or the shelter to shield from the storm, that, to a man, could find no more faithful a comrade.
Long had Roban reflected on such a credo, one that any Glenian would argue was truer than any other proclamation. Flames crackled in the fireplace adjacent to his table, a welcomed bead of sweat trickling down the nape of his neck. He was soaked to his underclothes, his limbs numb from the cold, whilst the furious rain pattered against the rooftop and windowpanes of the Dripping Bucket. As he pushed back rain droplets from his curly red hair, he surveyed the tavern’s occupants, estimating that half the population of Silt was present, sitting at round oaken tables, or loitering near the bar for their next mugs of ale. Of that half, a quarter appeared perturbed he and his five companions claimed the table nearest the fireplace. Their whispers took on an accusatory tone. Despite the company he kept on this day—this fortunate reunion he had long thought impossible—the warmth beside him and the roof above yet felt the most familiar of all.
No greater ally had he over these last six years of seclusion. Though he was glad that such a reunion with his band of old was possible at all.
Collectively, they raised their wooden mugs, bashing them together as the ale within splashed and overflowed, coating table and hands alike with froth.
“To yer return, then,” spoke first Edrik from Roban’s immediate left, a burly man with arms thick as tree trunks and a hairless head mirroring the embers sparking from the fireplace. He placed his hand atop Roban’s shoulder in a vise grip, near enough to crunching the bones within.
With a wince, Roban offered a half smile and drank, the ale as bitter and unpleasant as he remembered. “A return on borrowed time, it feels.” He scoffed, his nostrils flaring against the pervasive smell in the air of stale beer and musty wood. “Though that you’re here at all, Edrik, is a boon.” He bowed his head to the man, and then to the others seated with him. “And to you all, as well.”
Edrik barked a laugh, drawing annoyed glances from the Bucket’s nearest patrons. “Years locked away, and all a-sudden, yer figurin’ yerself some diplomat, ent’cha?”
“Plenty time to practice, if’n he’d fuck-all to talk to,” added Sigmund, a sly smile lining his one-eyed face as he tapped his mug on the table and nudged Edrik with his elbow.
“Ballbusters still, the lot of you,” Roban bemoaned, feeling the heat rise in his face. “Glad that’s changed not a whit, at least.”
“Someone’s gotta take the stick out from yer arse,” Edrik said, a smile brimming on his face and revealing a row of mismatched teeth. “Ent doin’ us a lotta good if this whole thing is gonna involve ya sulkin’.”
“He’s right, that,” added Finn, youthful exuberance shimmering from underneath his mop of tangled chestnut hair, ever still the ray of light to break through Glenia’s perpetual storms. “Show a little enthusiasm, Roban. Six years since we seen ya. Six years!”
Six years that, to Roban, felt akin to an eternity. Six years that had seen him locked in a tower for reasons beyond his control, for a betrayal in which he took no part, for a stand he took for the good and all of Glenia.
And yet, as he took in the five faces before him, permutations of exuberance and enthusiasm in their eyes, Roban felt that little had changed. Edrik still maintained that boisterous amicability and personability that he had long been known for, even as his wild strength earned him the nickname “Stonedown” in his hometown of Coldstone. Finn, likewise, seemed all too keen to illuminate the tavern with his wide smile. The twins, Iver and Sigmund, ever the stoic and stern pair, kept their watchful eyes on Roban, often to the point of discomfort. Had it not been for Sigmund losing an eye during the Black Eventide of thirteen years past, it would have been all the more unsettling having two identical faces keeping watch over him.[1] And Stig sipped from his mug as quiet as he ever was, though it would have been a surprise had words ever escaped his mouth, given his tongue had been cut out by brigands many years ago.
Circumstances great and small once brought this company of men together. That different matters brought them back into Roban’s life, however, offered a conflicting array of feelings, from joy to anxiety to dread. A fool’s errand it would be to attempt the task ahead alone. Foolish more was it to ask his closest friends to join him. And most foolish of all were they who accepted without hesitation.
And to that, Roban had to again raise his mug and drink deep. For celebration, and also for a sense of calm. Goosepimples formed on his exposed skin, the hair on the back of his neck standing tall as though blades of grass wisping in the wind, his eyes cast askance toward the occupants offering him foul looks and murderous sneers.
“Six years a prisoner, six years of name sullied, six years of living but an inch beneath the executioner’s blade.” Roban rapped his fingers along the body of the mug, a grimace on his face. “And a tavern of daggers directed at me, as though it were I who rose a hand to Lord Ozarion.”
“But hey,” Edrik said, patting Roban on the back, “yer still here now, ent’cha? We know ya fer who y’are. Blood ent definin’ ya, eh?”
“Aye,” Iver said, rubbing his hand over the brown stubble on his chin. “Not all of us think there’s such a thing as ‘traitors’ blood,’ you know.”
“And ’sides,” added Sigmund, “for bein’ locked away, you were still treated better’n most. Under lock’n key but still in the Storm’s Keep?[2] Least you weren’t rottin’ in the cells. Perks o’ bein’ the son of the Prim—gyah, sonnuva . . .” The one-eyed man winced and reached down to his ankle, sneering at Iver.
“Brother,” Iver hissed, raising his brow at his twin.
With a grunt, Sigmund nodded toward Roban. “Apologies, lad.”
Roban shrugged. “None needed. Not like you’re incorrect.” He continued his survey of the tavern, awaiting the moment the figurative daggers turned to true steel.
Finn dug through his coat pocket and withdrew a scroll, the seal broken, the fractured sigil of Roban’s family, a bird with wings aflame, plain for all to see. That his House’s heraldry was split in half spoke in loud enough volumes. “And now,” Finn said, “Lord Ozarion would see you on an errand.”
“Would see me on a death sentence, more like,” Roban muttered. “But for now, he has seen fit to turn me loose.”
As Finn unrolled the paper, Sigmund grimaced, seeming to recall the contents of his own summons here to Silt. “What’s our Lord want with a folk legend anyway?”
“Worse than a folk legend, supposedly,” Iver said. “A demon made flesh.”
“Words is just words, stories just stories. No man is capable of all that.”
“And yet, Lord Ozarion is enraptured with the man all the same,” Roban said, frowning. He felt a pit opening in his stomach. “A snake come to bite the throats of us all. A venom to transcend time and history itself.” He shook his head, let loose a long sigh. “The Ashen Viper.”
Stig grunted, his eyes deep-set with disbelief. He took a swig of his ale, the liquid dripping out from the corner of his mouth.
“Things the man has supposedly done, he cannae be real,” Edrik assured. “Could just be Lord Ozarion is havin’ ya chase ghosts.”
“He never were the type,” Sigmund said, a hint of lament in his voice.
“Seems he is now, brother,” Iver chided. He outturned his hands. “Seems he’s a lotta things now that he weren’t before.”
Finn hunched over, gritting his teeth. “Watch your words, friend. We don’t wanna . . .” He motioned with his hands, gesturing subtly to the crowd around them.
The implication was clear enough to Roban. Try not to be cast in the same black light as he. He could hardly blame them.
“Ent for us to say,” Edrik said, trying to divert the conversation’s direction. “None of us’ve been in Dawnstorm any time recently. All we know, could just be false hearsay comin’ in from the Kingdom.”
Roban found Edrik’s words considerate. After the incident six years prior, Roban knew any association with him would spell poorly for all of them. He had urged them to return to their respective homes, and they all obliged—Edrik back to his parents’ in Coldstone, the twins returning to the service of the castellan of Craddoch’s Hold, Finn to his uncle’s inn in Resthaven, and Stig reassuming his post as a confessor’s witness here in Silt. Roban wanted them all to live their lives as though he did not exist. And yet, when tasked with the impossible, he could place his life and trust in no surer hands than of these present few. Even as they knew little of what had transpired in Dawnstorm over the last six years. Even as they knew not of the change in Lord Ozarion.
He shook his head. “For once, this is not something we can place on the Queen’s machinations.” He flashed a half smile at Edrik, lightly knocking his fist on the table. “Let the truth of the matter remain with me—I’ll not see you all tainted as I have been. Know only this: if indeed we are chasing a ghost, it has returned to the land of the living. And should this Ashen Viper be truly returned . . . then I am concerned less with our Lord’s change and more with the death that has chosen again to walk on our earth.”
“Then you believe it to be true?” Finn asked, eyes wide. “Everything about the Ashen Viper?”
“What else have I to believe, if I am at last spurned from my cage?”
“Can it with the dramatics, Roban,” Sigmund said, rolling his eye. “You’ve been in an unlatched birdcage—ow, dammit!” He rubbed his ankle once again, snarling at Iver.
Edrik crossed his arms, grunting to himself. “Still, seems so far beneath Lord Ozarion to believe. What do the tales say of the Viper? That he killed a god or somesuch?”
“Or that he quelled a riot with one swing of the sword,” Finn said.
“Or he’s a royal assassin—or is it assassin of royals? Forget which.” Iver scratched the back of his head.
“There’s also the rumors that he stopped the Revolution all by hisself,” Sigmund added.
Iver scoffed. “That one’s a bit farfetched.”
A dismissive chuckle escaped Edrik’s lips as he raised an eyebrow. “But killin’ a god ent?”
“Least we can confirm the Revolution’s end. Cuthbert Folles had half the bleedin’ Royal Army out there.” Iver took another drink of his ale and found it to be empty. “If it was only one man what stopped Lord Carleon, it was a hell of a smokescreen.”
Roban wrapped his fingers around his mug and sloshed its contents about, a drop of his ale splashing out. “Regardless,” he said, “whatever the man is capable of—or not—it’s drawn enough of Lord Ozarion’s attention that he wants him brought to Dawnstorm.” Frowning, he added, “Come what may.”
The words hung in the air as the band sat back in their chairs and drank in silence. The implication was sharper than any blade Roban himself could conjure. As their own conversation quieted, it seemed the collective din of the Bucket’s patrons grew louder, as though they no longer had to take heed of the content of Roban’s words.
Leaning his large forearms on the table, Edrik sighed and turned his downcast eyes toward Roban. “Does it nae bother ya? All o’ this?”
Staring into the puddle of ale resting at the bottom of his cup, Roban allowed a soft chuckle past his lips. “Of course all this bothers me, Edrik. None of it sits right with me.”
“What’s it? Thinkin’ it’s either a ghost hunt or a suicide mission Lord Ozarion’s set ya up on?” Edrik grimaced, as though the next words were to cause himself pain. “Or that our Lord’s just fixin’ to get rid of ya one way or the other?” He immediately looked down. “Sorry.”
Roban quickly shook his head. “No need. It’s fine. The question’d be valid if Kahne weren’t still around.”
Stig grumbled and sneered at the mention of Kahne’s name.
“Full agreement there, Stig,” Sigmund said with crossed arms. “Always hated that bastard of a brother of yours, Roban.”
Hate ill described Roban’s feelings toward his older brother. Fear was a more appropriate word, but now was hardly the time to discuss it. It still failed to dissuade Roban’s view of the mission ahead. All he could do was cast his gaze toward the Bucket’s patrons and all the icy stares he would receive in return.
Seeming to note Roban’s misgivings at the mention of his brother’s name, Iver leaned forward and asked, “Kahne’s got a hand in all this, doesn’t he?”
Roban gave a halfhearted chuckle and said, “A hand? He was the one who insisted to Lord Ozarion that I take on this task. He’s the reason I’m out of the Keep to begin with.”
Everyone sat back in their chairs as one, dismay apparent on each of their faces.
“Huh,” Edrik huffed. He smacked his lips and shook his head with stern deliberation. “Don’t like the sound o’ that.”
“Nor I,” Roban agreed. “There is precious little that appears right to me about this. Not my brother’s involvement, nor Lord Ozarion’s casting resemblance to his father prior to the outbreak of the Revolution, nor the Ashen Viper himself, and all the tales that follow in his shadow. It is clear on all fronts that I may well have been set up to fail.”
“So, then, why?” Finn asked, earnestness glinting in his icy blue eyes.
Roban raised his brow, his mouth frozen in a frown. “What do you mean?”
Outturning his hands, Finn said, “Why would you accept in the first place, is what I mean.”
“Not to mention your brother,” Sigmund added, spitting on the ground. “Has Kahne also been turned loose from the birdcage?”
With a scoff, Roban remarked, “Kahne has indeed been given the chance to spread his wings. Not that he’s needed the opportunity. He’s always found his way to stay in Lord Ozarion’s good graces. He gets a hunt of his own, a quarry of no lesser import to our Lord.” Though, to Roban, it remained all the more dangerous.
“And what of you?” Finn asked, his unanswered question still drifting in the air.
Roban closed his eyes, a flash of a memory splayed across the blank canvas within. A recollection of blood and ash, smoke and cinder, betrayal and death. He returned himself to the Bucket, a long sigh escaping him. “I accepted my role, for I am in no position to refuse.” He held up his hand, flexing his fingers, feeling the flames of the fireplace dancing along with them. The energy of Natura coursed within him before he released it, the momentary warmth leaving him. “It may be that I am well equipped for this task. If lineage and blood indeed guide me, they may also permit me the power needed. That is my hope. But even if I were without that hope, I would still be in no position to refuse.
“For my options were twofold: I accept a Lord’s command, or I refuse.” He closed his eyes once more, the image of that night six years ago all too clear. The memory of a man once pledged to his Lord, only to raise his hand in defiance. And a defiant hand need only face defiance in return. “And all I wish to refuse is to be viewed in the same traitorous light as my father.”
[1] Records of Glenian history are notoriously murky around the end of the Second Age, unsurprising given the Kingdom’s aversion to acknowledging the Free Cities after 838 2d.A, and independent Glenian archives were naught but ash by the beginning of the Third Age. It is thus difficult to determine the events of a “Black Eventide” in 847 2d.A, the only record being a surviving edition of The Dawnstorm Teller dated 17 Secan 847 2d.A referencing a hurricane that hit the eastern Glenian coast, though details beyond that are sparse. Whether circumstances external to this storm were part of a “Black Eventide” are unclear.
[2] Though the Storm’s Keep no longer exists, it can be surmised to be a place of great import, likely a home for a family whose power is eclipsed only by the Lords of Glenia. King Arther I implied as much in his memoir with reference to Dugal mic Rand and his ancestors, who could be viewed as staunch retainers during the King’s reign from 203 2d.A to 228 2d.A. See Our Storm in the Sun: The Memoir of Arther I mic Boltan, published in 227 2d.A.