Fernan I: The Scout

They were to set off on a warm day early in spring, snowmelt trickling down the mountainside in streams great and small.

Fernan traced a path down the slope effortlessly, flicking his eyes up and down the wider trail to make sure it remained safe for the wagons to traverse.

Traveling down the mountain was dangerous enough in winter, when an errant step could collapse half a mountain’s worth of snow down upon you. Last year they’d lost an entire wagon of coal, sent tumbling off the side to crack open in the depths below. If Alderman Jerome hadn’t been there, they might have lost far more.

But now the snows were melting, and that meant floods. On the north side of the pass, most of it flowed East, draining into the Sartaire. Still, it didn’t take much to block the path down, and fording it was all the more dangerous when a missed step could see you plunging off the edge of a cliff.

Not to mention the geckos. In the winter season, their lair was easy to spot, the only part of the mountain where snow refused to settle, but now it blended right into the mountains. Geckos would do far worse than lose you a wagon.

That was what made scouts like Fernan so important. He’d been at it for two years now, since his fifteenth birthday, and already the mountains around the village felt as familiar to him as the back of his hand. Without him, the wagons of coal might never reach the city, nor would the food and goods reach the village. He was essential, just like Jerome and the caravan guards, even if he weren’t the one fighting geckos and bandits. One day he might even become the village Alderman himself, so crucial was his role.

Fernan breathed a sigh of relief as he found the little bridge still standing. The wood was warped and gnarled from the moisture, the stream flowing under it once again, but it hadn’t been flooded or buried. He would have to leave an offering for the Sun now, as thanks for leaving the route open and safe.

Past the bridge, the path grew wider and wider until it joined up with the road through the pass itself. That was the point where traders usually met them and purchased their coal to take into the city. And where his people could buy supplies that were hard to come by up in the mountains.

That meant his work was done for the day. If he hurried, he could probably make it back to Villechart in time for the caravan to set out tomorrow, but that would mean spending the bulk of the trip in the dark. Geckos would leave you alone if you went empty handed, mostly, but the crags didn’t care what you were carrying.

Tumbling into the abyss from a missed step because he couldn’t wait a day seemed a particularly stupid way to die, so Fernan decided to spend the night down in the pass. No one would be expecting him back before tomorrow, and the trading post at the base of the mountain was always a great place to stay, anyway. The innkeeper, old Louis, would let him sleep for a pittance if there were any rooms empty, and talking to the traders was the best way to find out what was going on out in the world.

The First Post was nestled tightly under an overhang of rock, its stone walls nearly blending in with the mountain from far away, though the iron sign hanging above the wooden door marked it out, as did the gathering of people milling around in front of it. A large wagon of coal was sitting nearby, a bored-looking girl watching over it.

Enquin villagers, Fernan guessed. Enquin was far closer to the base, safer from the wrath of the geckos but less bountiful in its haul, according to Jerome. The Villechart people were braver and more courageous for facing the peril they did, and the Sun had rewarded them in kind with rich veins that seemed inexhaustible.

The caravans from the respective mining villages would see each other from time to time, as one might expect, but the party looked larger than their usual wont. Younger too, he noticed as he came closer. Enquin only had a few people near to Fernan’s age, and it seemed as if nearly all of them were playing with wooden sticks out in front of the inn. Florette was with them, which was something.

Fernan gave them a wave as he passed, stepping through the open door into the foyer of the inn. The little room was crowded thick with Enquin caravaneers, and beyond it the tavern looked even more heavily inhabited, though it was hard to tell by whom past the crush of bodies. Old Louis was behind his desk, looking so vehemently occupied by an argument with Enquin’s alderman about the price of the rooms that one could almost see the steam coming out of his ears.

Probably best to give them a moment.

He slipped back out the door before anyone could notice him, turning back to approach the Enquin kids. It looked like Florette was mock-dueling a tall boy named Gaspard, each brandishing a thick tree branch stripped of its leaves and standing in a fencer’s stance.

Not knowing the other boy well, it was difficult to guess his skill, but just looking at him was enough to see that things didn’t look promising for Florette. Gaspard was twice her size, for one thing, thick where she was wiry and towering above her menacingly. He barely even blinked when she jabbed him with the end of her weapon, stepping forward to meet the blow. For another, he was advancing on her, bit by bit. If it continued like this, she’d be stuck with her back against the wall in short order, nowhere left to retreat.

Florette was dodging most of his attacks but losing ground every moment, and she seemed to realize it too, since she stopped stepping backwards and charged forward, swinging her stick directly at Gaspard’s legs. The blow struck him in the knee, forcing him to step back, but his stick lashed outwards as he did. It collided with her shoulder and knocked her to the ground.

“Conceded,” she grunted, lying on the scraggly dirt with a scowl on her face.

Gaspard smiled smugly and walked back to the others who had been watching. “Who’s next?” he called out triumphantly. No one seemed particularly eager to answer the challenge. “What about you, Villechart boy?”

Fernan shook his head. “I’ve never bested Florette; the conclusion is forgone. Thank you for the invitation though.” Normally he might make the attempt anyway for the fun of it, but it would make for a miserable slog back up the mountain tomorrow if he were covered in bruises.

With a snort, Gaspard nodded his head, seemingly content in his victory.

“Smug prick,” muttered Florette as she dusted herself off. Fernan helped her to her feet with a chuckle. “Nice to see you here, Fernan.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.” He smiled. “Shall we find somewhere else to talk?”

“Please,” she exhaled, flicking her eyes over to the bout starting between Gaspard and two of the others at once. “It’ll make it easier to recover my dignity.” She undid the bit of twine holding her long black hair up, swinging her head back and forth to try to shake out some of the dirt without much success.

“This isn’t the typical trading party for Enquin, is it?” Fernan jerked his head in the direction of the others. “Seems like a lot more people than usual.”

Florette grinned. “You haven’t heard? The Festival of the Sun is only weeks away.”

“And?” It was a fun enough occasion, climbing further up the mountain with Mother and Jerome and the others on the longest day of summer, setting the great pyre aflame and watching the sparks and embers spiral into the sunset sky. But it didn’t seem to have much to do with this.

“Aaaaaand”—she drew out the word far longer than necessary—“we’re going to Guerron this year. The young blood, at least. Duke Fouchand opened the lists to everyone for the yearly tournament. We don’t have the horse and armor for the joust, but Gaspard’s not half bad with a bow, and the rest of us thought we’d make a go of the melee.”

“Enquin can spare you?” If five of the able-bodied left Villechart for weeks just to compete in a tournament, those remaining would not take it kindly.

She shrugged. “This time of year, half the mines are flooded. People are already being turned away most days; we won’t be overly missed. Besides, the winners are to be honored at the Duke’s ball, with a prize of five thousand florins. That would be more than worth a few weeks away.”

“That’s why you’re training so hard.” Fernan frowned. “But there will be Lords and Ladies competing, knights and spirit sages. Surely you don’t think you can win?”

“Thank you for faith and support, Fernan.” Florette chuckled as she shook her head. “Probably not, but you never know. More to the point, if we can make a good showing while representing Enquin, we might be able to get a spirit sage to come protect the village. Recognition for valor, you know?”

“Really?” Fernan raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think Enquin needed the protection.” Although, the geckos had been getting bolder lately. “Why don’t you just ask our Alderman, Jerome? I could relay it to him.”

“I asked the same thing.” She sighed. “My Alderman forbade me from even mentioning his name. He said Jerome would only make things worse, wouldn’t explain any more than that.”

“But–”

Florette interrupted him with a scoff. “Honestly, Fernan, it’s their loss. Don’t you get it? This is my chance to finally escape that village. To go out and see the world! Making a good showing in the tournament isn’t just good for the village; it means I could prove myself. The alderman and the others can handle things once the tournament is over. I’ll be on a boat headed far away.” She paused, her eyes flicking up and down. “You should come too.”

“I can’t abandon my village!” He stepped back. “I’m too important. How could you even ask something like that?”

“To the tournament, Fernan.” She rolled her eyes. “You can head back with Gaspard and the rest once it’s over. But our Festival of the Sun here is nothing compared to the one in Guerron. Don’t you want to see it?”

“Uh…” Fernan rubbed the back of his neck.

“Really?” Florette’s eyes widened incredulously. “There will be more people there than either of us have ever seen! That singer Edith Costeau is going to perform for everyone at the outset. Not to mention the city itself. Don’t try to tell me you’re indifferent to seeing the ocean, or all the temples in the spirit quartier.”

“That would be nice,” he conceded. The truth was, it was extremely tempting. The traders had always painted a strange and scary picture of the world beyond the mountains, but a fascinating one nonetheless. If Villechart weren’t depending on him, it wouldn’t even be a difficult choice. “Still…”

“Ugh. Why are you so determined to be boring about this?” she groaned. “Look, your village makes a run down the mountain––what?–– every two moons? Less? You’ll be back long before they need you again.”

More often than that, but the sentiment was true, provided nothing delayed him on the way back. And the road through the pass tended to be safer than the higher paths, according to the traders. Bandits might take your things, but they wouldn’t leave you begging for death.

“Just promise me you’ll think about it,” she continued. “I’d really appreciate having someone a bit less thick-headed around to see me off. We have to wait here a few days for the traders to show up anyway, plenty of time for you to check in with your village.”

“Fine. I promise to consider it.” No harm in that.

“Good.” She clapped him on the back, just hard enough to smart. “Now let’s go get a drink. I need to nurse my wounds.”

“That’s not what that means,” Fernan muttered as Florette began leading him back to the inn.

As they grew closer, he could hear strange sounds emanating from the tavern area. At once discordant and fascinating, it sounded shrill like a bird’s chirp and yet rhythmic like those occasional times that Jerome broke out his lute to play a song.

Fernan shot Florette a questioning look, but she simply shrugged in response.

Bracing himself, he cautiously opened the door. Inside, it seemed as if everyone in the inn were here. The Enquin alderman must have worked things out with old Louis, since they were both sitting at rapt attention at the source of the noise, all the other caravaneers filling out the space around them.

At the back of the room, a man with dark brown hair and high cheekbones held a large box of metal and wood, moving his fingers back and forth across it as it played the noises. Music, Fernan realized, though it felt strange to call it that. He looked about forty, and handsome in his purple cloak, although far too old for that to mean much.

The bard was flanked by ten guards in matching dark red jackets over brown breeches. Fernan had never seen it himself, but he had heard enough stories of the War of the Foxtrap to know what those colors meant: these were Avalon soldiers.

Florette’s eyes were narrowing beside him, her fists clenched.

“Do you want to go back out?” he whispered.

“No,” she snarled, shaking her head. “I’m fine. Let’s get that drink.”

They slid past the crowd to the bar easily enough, each placing a few worn copper pieces on the aged wood. “Gold Coast Ale, please,” Fernan requested from young Louis. Florette held up two fingers in addition without another word.

They received them just time, as it turned out. The moment the performance ended, half of the onlookers needed to replenish their glasses, overwhelming poor Louis as he scrambled to keep up.

As they approached, the wave of reactions washed through the small tavern room, little fragments poking out above the general din. “Incredible!” “Almost spiritual, wasn’t it?” “Like nothing I’ve ever heard before.”

Florette rolled her eyes as she took a sip of her ale. “It’s like they forgot the Foxtrap already. They shouldn’t even be allowed in here.”

Fernan frowned. “These ones look young enough that they probably had nothing to do with it.”

“So what? Avalon doesn’t conscript levies. Those soldiers made a choice to be part of that army; they can be held responsible for what it did.” She took a long swig, more than half the glass. “Everyone here should be. Instead they’re so impressed by a shiny toy that they forget these people conquered our capital and murdered our King.” Murdered her parents, he had a feeling she was really saying, since King Romain had died in an honorable duel, fatally wounding Avalon’s previous King Harold in the process. The soldiers under his command, however, had not had the same chance to perish with honor. No one would sing songs for the villagers crushed under the boot of Avalon’s conquests. “And now I’m going to be stuck here with them until the traders show up.”

“I understand.” Leaning closer, Fernan took a sip of his drink. “But what are they supposed to do? Do you think a bunch of drunk coal miners are a match for ten soldiers?”

Frowning, Florette shook her head. It looked like her drink was already empty, but the bar was so crowded that it would be a while before she could order another.

“Take mine.” He slid the glass over to her. “I should probably be getting to bed soon anyway. Early morning.”

Florette sighed. “That’s right. All the way back up the mountain again.”

“You should come with me.” Although having her along would make it much harder for him to say no to the festival trip, in all likelihood. “We’ll be back before your group needs to leave.”

“Fantastic! That’ll be so much better than having to endure them here.” She slid the roughly two-thirds of his ale remaining back across the bar to him. “Here, you can finish mine. I’m going to turn in so we can leave early.”

Fernan chuckled as he waved her goodnight.

“Your friend doesn’t seem terribly fond of me.”

“Soleil’s Grace,” Fernan swore, nearly jumping out of his seat. “It’s rude to surprise people like that.”

The purple-clad bard put his hand over his heart. “My deepest apologies, young sir. That was not my intent.” He spoke with a harsh accent Fernan had never heard before, though fully intelligible for all that.

“Fernan,” he introduced himself, dipping his head in greeting. “And your apology is accepted.”

“Excellent.” The bard clasped his hands together, bowing his head in turn. “I am called Magnifico, personal bard for the royal family of Avalon.” That explained the guards, at least.

“That can’t be your name.” Fernan raised his eyebrows over a sip of his ale. “Magnifico, really? It’s the name of a clown, or a child’s toy.”

“Or a performer on his stage.” Magnifico shrugged. “It’s not the one I was born with. In my field as in the world at large, success is contingent on the cultivation of a persona, a recognizable identity. I first entered Cambria with nothing but the clothes on my back and the ideas in my mind, and look at me now!”

“What brings you here, then?” Guerron Pass, the route between the Sartaire river to the East and Guerron City to the West, was hardly the epicenter of music and culture. When farms had to be terraced and snow covered them for up to a third of the year, there was little reason to live here save the mines. “Were you perhaps exiled for playing that bizarre contraption instead of real music?”

Frowning, Magnifico signaled for a drink of his own. “It’s called a pulsebox, a new invention of the Cambrian College capable of playing music never before heard. There are only twelve in the world, and I am without a doubt the best player in existence.”

“I shudder to think of what the other ones sound like, then.”

Magnifico chuckled. “It’s not everyone’s taste, I suppose. But for your information, I’m headed to the Festival of the Sun to play for Duke Fouchand, a gesture of friendship from King Harold to the Lord of Guerron.”

“I suppose that makes sense enough, but I feel compelled to warn you that you won’t have an easy time of it. There’s a whole quartier of Guerron filled with refugees from Malin. They aren’t likely to take kindly to Harold’s friendship.” Fernan took a long sip from his glass.

“I’ll have my work cut out for me.” The bard nodded. “But I’ve dealt with worse. If Duke Fouchand can forgive us for the War of the Foxtrap enough to keep Avalon well supplied with your coal, I’m sure he can forgive a performance from an honored member of our royal court. His Majesty sent me forth with the best of intentions, I can assure you.”

Fernan shrugged. “Just don’t confuse having people over a barrel with possessing their admiration or respect. It’s an easy mistake to make, when they show you smiles and courtesies, to miss the knife held behind their back.” If they even bothered; he knew Florette would spare the mask.

“My my, you’re honest, aren’t you?” Magnifico raised his eyebrows. “The warning is appreciated, as is your candor. Come find me at the Singer’s Lounge in Guerron once you arrive, if you like. Most of my critics aren’t nearly so bold.”

“I’m not–” Fernan couldn’t even get the sentence out before the bard clapped him on the back and stood to go, not bothering to pay for his drink. But then, he was likely drinking for free after a reception like that.

Some people have no taste, Fernan thought as he stepped out of the tavern. Between the Enquin villagers and the Avalon guards, there was next to no chance that old Louis would have a room for him.

No great tragedy, that. The early spring air was running hotter than last year, decently comfortable even with the breeze blowing through the pass. The grass was soft enough to make a decent bed, so Fernan found a nice spot under and overhang of rock and drifted away.

The morning came too quickly, as it often did. Fernan squinted as he wiped the dew off of his body, trying to shake himself dry in the morning chill.

Florette emerged shortly thereafter, looking in far better spirits than she had the night before, and the two of them set about ascending the mountain. It was slower on the way up than traveling down, and more exhausting to boot, but they managed to reach the bridge by midday, putting them on track to reach Villechart well before nightfall.

“Is that rickety old thing really stable enough to get your wagons across?” Florette raised an eyebrow, panting slightly as she caught her breath.

“It’s done its job so far.” Fernan shrugged. “And Jerome will be on hand in case anything goes wrong.” Although… Fernan stepped ahead of her and tapped his boot against the wood carefully. “It should still hold, but it might not hurt to send some people down to reinforce it first. The wagons are overloaded this time. I heard Jerome mention he might have to keep some back for the next trip so we don’t get too undercut on price.” Though with Enquin’s deficiency, that might not end up being necessary, callous as it was to think of things that way.

“Woe is you. Such a bountiful haul it won’t even fit in the wagons.” Florette sighed with barely disguised bitterness.

“There’s no need to be jealous, Florette.” Fernan turned back to face the path, talking over his shoulder. “If the Enquin wished to tap into these veins, they could have settled further up the mountain. This new one the miners found looks like it goes all the way down to the base. Perhaps even further.”

Florette only hissed in response.

“What a mature response.” With a roll of his eyes, Fernan spun back around to face her.

Florette was frozen in place, staring at the enormous gecko blocking the bridge as it hissed at her.

Merciful Sun, it was fully grown too. The largest of its kind Fernan had even laid eyes on, it stood eight feet across from head to tail, its soulless black eyes visible even from behind its dark green body.

“Stay calm,” Fernan whispered. “You don’t have anything it wants.” He had never heard of them eating any humans that were still alive, at least. They attacked caravans flush with coal, leaving nothing but splintered remnants and bones, but people without it were supposed to be safe. He was supposed to be safe.

The gecko turned to face him, likely drawn by the sound of his voice.

That’s good, he forced himself to think. Florette can go get help.

She didn’t seem to be backing away, though. Bending down slowly, she reached her hand out for a large rock laying on the ground beside the path.

“No,” he breathed as lightly as he could, shaking his head. When they sent a caravan down the mountain, ten of the miners would hang up their pickaxes and carry pikes to guard the wagon, and even that wasn’t always enough to scare them off. A rock would do nothing more than anger it. “Get help.”

With another hiss, the gecko stepped closer, its tail swinging lightly back and forth.

“I don’t have what you want,” he said, recognizing the futility even as the words passed his lips. “Please, just go away.”

The gecko stopped. It lifted its head in what almost looked like a nod, the gesture hanging for a moment in the tense air.

Then its mouth dropped open, a jet of bright green fire spewing directly towards Fernan’s face. He saw the green fill his eyes before he even felt the pain.