Chapter 8: Mysteries

Faerel took cover behind a rock with the rest of her crew, her fingers in her ears. The explosion shook the canyon around them, and the sounds echoed deep and prolonged. The Sunken Squad, deep within the Drain itself, probably could have heard that.

“Another good push,” Gramton Haus said. “Nicely placed, Fae.”

Faerel gave a bow, a big grin plastered on her face. “All thanks to your good tutelage.”

“You make a much better blaster than a priestess.”

“So I'm confined to the Drain for the remainder of my natural life,” Faerel said. “That doesn't make me a bad priestess. I've gotten out of worse.”

“Going to the Drain doesn’t make you a bad priestess… but I have yet to see you help a single person with something,” Gramton.

“I help people all the time! I'm helping you now blow a giant hole in the mountain!”

“Help people spiritually. Fix my problems, Fae.”

“I do help people spiritually, from time to time.” Fae said. They climbed out of the rock shelter and made their way towards the Screw. “You’re just not invited to those conversations. And how can I help you? You don’t have any problems.”

“I'm here, aren't I? I got problems, same as you.”

“I pray you do,” Faerel agreed.

Faerel and her crew had been assigned to blasting another hollow column in the mountains that lead from Loch Inferoir to the plateau of Ard-Abthen above. No one in the Drain was certain whether it would work or not-- the first Screw was commonly believed to have been placed there by divine intervention. Faerel didn't concern herself with whether the attempt was an affront to the gods or not. If the King in the Deep wanted the second screw to be completed, it would be completed. If the King in the Deep wanted to cast it down amongst the other failed projects of the Drain, there it would remain.

It was certain that the need was great-- the amount of novitiates had only grown over the many years since Faerel had lived there, and there were in constant need of water.

They continued to make progress further into the mountain. At a certain point, they could blast no more and needed to wait for another crew to remove the excess rubble. They headed back down towards the Drain for their evening meal. Only the most kind observer would call it supper.

The prisoners lived in stone houses that surrounded the bottomless hole. Three massive pillars, rising out of the mists, held the three main buildings: the mess hall, reception, and the grand court. Knotted rope bridges swung over the depths, connecting the three structures together and leading back out to the houses nestled among the cliffs. One bridge ran from the reception hall to the guard house on Loch Inferior, the only entrance to the Drain from the Island Above. It was heavily guarded at all hours, and the bridge itself could be cut at a moment's notice in the hint of a riot. In addition, the gate at the edge of the bridge could be closed, further cutting off the prisoners if they were to somehow skirt along the ledges and cliffs. Such attackers could be easily repelled; the prisoners would be easy targets.

Potential problems were almost always caught ahead of time. The prisoners, as a whole, enjoyed a good life if they adhered to the rules. The meals were always hot and on time, even if they weren't particularly delicious. Good crews were rewarded with luxuries, extra blankets, the occasional desert, and time off on Revels.

If other prisoners started making trouble, they all suffered: prisoners were woken at odd hours of the night to work, they were denied regular meals, and other abuses that the guards saw fit to heap on them. Those instigating the situation were turned into the guards without a fault, and they were confined to the cells after a fair bit of torture. Those making a supreme amount of trouble were rarely turned in. It wasn't uncommon to find a prisoner abandoned on the stone pathways, their throat cut ear to hear-- or perhaps they would be found swinging from the bridge, hung from a makeshift rope. And, occasionally, they would simply disappear-- pushed down the Drain, most likely, where legend reassured the prisoners that those unfortunate souls would keep falling forever.

The cells wound along the inside of the Drain on a spiral staircase jutting out from the otherwise smooth rock, weathered by water and time. When the staircase was close to the falling water, it would reverse directions to avoid it. The cells had been carved into the rock at regular interval by crews of long ago, and went as far deep as the prisoners and the guards were willing to dig, but there was always room for expansion. The staircase, legend had it, went down forever.

All in all, the possibility of a prison break out was unthinkable-- which was one of the reasons that Faerel was taking so much pleasure in planning one.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Gramton scarfed down bread, liberally dipping it into the communal bowl of hot stew that had been provided for the table. Their ale sat in the center of the table, one glass per person, untouched.

Faerel sat there, eating with considerable dignity. Doing so reminded the others of her status as a priestess. And other prisoners approached her with some frequency to take advantage of her position.

A priestess was a rare thing in the Drain at all-- followers of the King in the Deep didn't tend to be the type of people who would commit crimes. And so people would come to her. They would rail at her, blaming both Faerel and the gods for their fate. Others would come to her and ask for guidance, for assistance in making reconciliation with the deity of their choice. She would do her best to help both these people, in her own particular way.

“Faerel's turn tonight?” Gramton asked.

“I still want to go,” a slim, red-haired youth complained.

“Shut up, Harrow. You'll get your chance, perhaps next week.”

“You've passed me up twice before,” he persisted.

“And how many people do you count at this table?” Gramton asked. His voice remained as patient as a priest, but it was an icy calm. His eyes hinted at the dark, dangerous depths that lurked beneath if his patience was to be broken. “You can count, boy?”

“Twelve,” Harrow said.

“That's right. Now, I'm guessing that the act of counting has overwhelmed your young mind, so let me summarize: twelve divided by two is six. That means you had a one in six chance in getting picked for this game already. Tell me, if I asked you to roll a dice, and I predicted that you would roll a five, do you think I would be right?”

Harrow paused in thought. “Jerome Malcaster has this dice that always rolls fours. You should have guessed four. Then you'd probably be right.”

Gramton pressed his hands to his eyes. “Harrow, I am continually amazed that your mother saw fit to nurse and care for you after birth.”

“Maybe she didn't,” said Lewer Brown. “Maybe that's why Harrow's so broken.”

Harrow glowered at him, but didn't start a fight.

“Your patience is an example to your elders,” Faerel said.

“Gives us hope for the new generation.” Gramton agreed.

The game was this. The past, especially the reason for one's incarceration, was usually a closely guarded secret for the prisoners. Gramton's crew, who all worked on blasting the new screw, had come up with a game about it to keep the conversation light during supper. One person would be chosen each night. They needed to tell four quick stories about the crimes that brought them to the drain, and only one of these stories would be true. Three would be false. Once the stories were told, the table, as a whole, would discuss the tales and judge one of them to be the truth.

If they were successful, the unlucky story teller was obligated to give up his or her ale for the next eleven nights, donating it to each of the eleven guessers on the table. If they were not, the eleven were obligated to give the storyteller their drinks, one per person, on any night they requested. If two successful storytellers were to request the drinks of one twice-unlucky guesser, the first storyteller had precedence.

Faerel cleared her throat. The rest of the table quieted down in appreciation.

“I'm not a priestess,” Faerel began. “It's a story I managed to successfully sell to gullible villages and farmers all throughout Glen-Clachan. I'm the illegitimate child of a priest and his lover, a brewmaster in Invercard.”

“That's why she's so good at drinking!” Lewer Brown exclaimed, to general approval. Faerel shushed him.

“He taught me everything I know. All the mystical symbols, the hidden hand gestures that the priests use to communicate with each other.” She made a few cryptic motions with her hands to demonstrate. “I could pass myself off as a priestess with great ease. And for years, I did. I would go to a town, displace the current counselor with the appropriate signs and countersigns, and live off their hospitality for months and months until the elders at Ard-Abthen figured it out and sent a replacement for me. Once they did, I would move onto the next town.”

She scooped up some stew with her portion of bread, ate it, and continued.

“I fell into the same trap my father did.” Faerel sighed, theatrically. “His name was Westmore. He was a farm hand with bronze skin and toned muscles, and gorgeous gray eyes. He would ask me for advice about all his love problems with the local girls... I had no choice but to, ah, assist him in his struggles. We were caught, and I was banished from my love and sent here.” She wiped imaginary tears from her eyes.

Amidst the whoops and laughter of the table, she brought her voice to a harsh whisper.

“I lied. I'm a priestess, born and bred.” She leaned back, sweeping the hair out of her eyes. “You know how every lay person has their own little devotion to one of the four deities? Burning memories, throwing the best of your produce into the Rush?”

“I've always wondered,” interjected Lewer Brown. “What do, ah, productive women do on Gift Days?”

“Pray for twins,” suggested Gramton, “One's a spare, right?”

Faerel shushed the laughter. “But what do we, the priests and priestesses, do for the King in the Deep? Aye, that's the question, my friends. Everyone does something different, depending on what they believe that Aigean really, truly wants.”

She lowered her voice again. “I've figured it out, friends. He wants blood. Blood and sacrifice.”

Harrow whistled. “And there I was, workin' on my prayerful habits like a total chump. I shoulda been a priest, if I could get away with murder!”

“You’ve never had a prayerful day in your life, Harrow. And you can't just kill anyone, moron,” Faerel said. “You can only kill people who are being good. Then everyone wins: Aigean greets more servants to his silvery halls, our victims aren't condemned to the sunken hells, and we follow his will.”

Faerel grinned. “I've killed dozens of people, from the lands in Invercard to Caeledonia itself. I've killed in places far off, beyond the maps of men, in hidden and secret places where no river runs, where the men labor underneath a forest as red as blood.”

Her face fell, her eyes brimming with tears.

“I lied, my fellow prisoners. I'm just a young--” Gramton snorted, and Faerel continued. “A young and innocent girl. I've never killed anyone, I wouldn't...” she choked back tears. “I couldn't. I shouldn't be here at all; my life has been one unfair mishap after another. All my life I’ve been outmatched by cleverer, ruthless men and women.”

“I counseled for a syndicate of brewmasters in Glen-Deoch. Inadvertently, I discovered that they were pouring addictive substances into their beer. If you were to have a sufficient amount, you would be a, ah, loyal customer for the rest of your life. I was shocked, my friends, shocked, and decided to denounce them to the town. In return, they imprisoned me in a hideous torture device of which I dare not speak. When they had finished their punishment, they sent me to the Drain on trumped-up charges. They couldn't have me ruining their reputation.”

Harrow looked nervous. “Did... did they make this ale?” He gestured his cup wildly. “I want no part of that!”

“Harrow,” Gramton said, “we make this ale. You've been on the brew crews a few times!”

“Oh, yeah.”

Faerel shook her head. “You have nothing to fear, Harrow. Because that wasn't true either.”

She leaned forward. “This is the truth. I'm not from here.”

“None of us are, love,” said Gramton, gesturing to the cold depths of the Drain.

“I'm not from Olean,” Faerel clarified. “I'm from a place called Ingerwald, another island a hundred miles away from here. My people cast me out for egregious crimes against the gods, and set me adrift on the sea, to die in whatever way the Fish God deemed appropriate. I foiled them all, and was wrecked on rocks below Ard-Abthen. One of the elders saw me during his morning prayers, a thousand feet below. They gathered rope and rappelled down the rocks, rescuing me from the unyielding ocean.”

“My days as a novitiate passed without incident, and eventually I was assigned as counselor to one of the merchant districts of Cael Proper. I advocated fairness and right play towards their customers, but they preferred to cheat and lie and steal. For speaking out, they sent me to the Drain, on trumped-up charges. They couldn't have me ruining their reputation.”

Faerel sat back, and spread her hands, inviting the inevitable questions from the rest of the table, to pry into her stories and glean the truth. As the questions came around, the guards brought around a sort of desert for the well-behaved crews as a reward for their cooperation. Gramton’s crew was among them.

“Thank you, kind sir,” Gramton said. “What do we have the pleasure of eating?”

“Pastries with honeyed almonds,” the guard said, placing a bowl of sweats down onto the table.

“You are excellent caretakers,” Faerel said, and the rest of the table voiced their assent.

The guard moved away to distribute to other bowls to other deserving tables. Gramton offered Faerel first choice.

“No, thank you.” She shuddered. “I can’t stand honey.”

“Fair enough.” Gramton popped one into his mouth, and talked through a mouthful of the confectious substance. “Tell us about these strange gods in Ingerwald.”

“They didn't worship the one and the four, as we do,” Faerel said.

“They? We? I thought you came from there.”

“I did,” Faerel said. “But I'm a priestess of Aigean, aren't I? I follow him, and no longer recognize those false gods.”

“Yeah, because following Aigean has worked out great for you,” said Lewer Brown. Gramton hit him on the back of the head, and Faerel continued.

“They worshiped gods based on the animals. There was Ranea, the goddess of the spiders. Iscae, the god of the fish. Estia the goddess of the beasts... do you want more?”

“That's enough,” Gramton said. He leaned back, satisfied.

Lewer closed his eyes in thought. “I've never heard of no other island. Now, we've had two stories of craftsmen turning you in on false charges,” Lewer said. “I don't think you'd be dumb enough to play the same bad trick twice. That suggests that one of them is the true story.”

“Unless she wants you to think that!” interjected Harrow.

“True,” admitted Lewer. “My vote's for the fourth story. If there were addictive substances in ale, I'd be drinking that as fiercely as mother's milk!”

“A delicacy Harrow never had,” said Gramton, sorrowfully, kissing the back of his hand. “You poor dumb bastard. But really? No questions, Lewer?”

“None whatsoever, Grams.”

She fielded the rest of the questions with relative ease. Harrow seemed fascinated by the first story, and requested all kind of obscene details until Gramton explained, in no uncertain terms, that further attempts to pry into Faerel's love life would earn him a quick shove and a long fall.

“We have reached a decision,” Gramton said, cracking his knuckles. “We believe that the brewmasters turned you in, on trumped up charges. Our hearts weep for you, poor child.”

“The third story, then?” Faerel asked.

Gramton nodded. “The third.”

Faerel whooped and clapped her hands together. “Boys, you're going to be keeping this poor child in drinks for days to come, because you are dead wrong.”

They laughed and shook their heads in disappointment at that.

“So you did, uh, spend some time with a farmhand,” Harrow insisted.

“That's not how the game works, Harrow,” said Faerel. “I don't have to tell you.” She smiled, and clapped him on the back. “I look forward to your contribution some other night, friend. Thanks for playing.” She swung her legs off the bench and walked out of the mess hall, to applause from her table.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Gramton and Faerel had climbed into rocks above the Drain, and watched the lights below. It was a secure and safe place for talking.

“Something tells me you lied on all four stories tonight,” Gramton said. “Your manner, perhaps. I don’t know.”

“That’s the sort of thing Lewer would do, not me,” Faerel replied, quietly. “But I did joke around a bit more tonight, yes.”

“It’s just a marked change from when you first arrived,” Gramton said. “You were always joyful, I guess, but you were never…”

“Irreverent?”

“That’s a good word, and it’s close to what I mean. Especially that second story— I don’t feel that a real priestess would ever joke about such things. Even in a situation like this. That makes me lean towards the first story.” Gramton stretched his arms out, yawning. “Except I don’t believe you’d be tripped for a muscled youth in that way. You’re too clever.”

Faerel stayed quiet.

“Ah well, I’ll stop prying.”

“Have you given any thought to the problem of escape?” Faerel asked.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” Gramton admitted. “We could use the cell digging crews to tunnel from one of the lower cells up to the guardhouse. We could build a catapult to throw the rubble from our blasting over and destroy the guardhouse. We could use the explosives that the tinkers in Invercard made to destroy the guardhouse… but there’s too much stuff we need, Fae.”

In response, Faerel drew a small box out of her bag. She handed it over to Gramton.

“What’s this?”

“Something we received from the river.”

“It was addressed to you?” Gramton showed considerable disbelief.

“Not by name,” Faerel said. “Just to the priestess of the Drain. From a man called Salva Santori.”

“Someone’s heard of you.” Gramton mocked. “Stories of a poor priestess, condemned to the Drain for lifetime, who patiently tries to bring civilization and healing to us monsters down below.”

He examined the box. “This is exceptionally well made metal. The guards couldn’t break through to find out what was inside?”

“They could not. But it’s so small; they didn’t see any harm in it—especially if I was the one receiving it. They trust me.”

The box wasn’t much larger than his hand. It was dark metal, with an equally dark lock on the outside. No amount of pounding on the box with rocks could break either the box or the lock.

“He sent you a locked box with no key and no way to open it.” Gramton mused. “A puzzle indeed. What is this Salva Santori playing at? How could this possibly benefit us?”

“I don’t know,” Faerel admitted. “But I have several ideas. How hard would it be to steal another lock?”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

The sun had set hours ago, but it was still not time to sleep. Gramton had left after discussing her plans for the box, and after they had thoroughly discussed a few more half-baked schemes that Gramton had proposed. Faerel spend the rest of the time in prayer, hoping that the King in the Deep would forgive her irreverence and lack of subtlety, and that he would ensure the success of her ongoing plans.

The night was still young.

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