Solitudes and Silence



  SOLITUDES AND SILENCE

  Volume 1 of The Orphan Chronicles

  by Conrad Baines Talbot

  The text of this work is dual-licensed under the Open Setting License 1.0 and the Creative Commons Attribute-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. For more information see https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ and https://osl.theonosis.com

  The front and back cover are ©2011 Jeremy Thevonot and are dual-licensed under the Open Setting License 1.0 and the Creative Commons Attribute-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. The Open Setting License allows you to develop the fictional setting used in this book. Your own work may utilize the same places, characters and other elements. For more information, see theonosis.com. The titles “Solitudes and Silence” and “The Orphan Chronicles” are the exclusive property of their respective owners. Neither the Open Setting nor the Creative Commons licenses grant any usage rights over these terms. Use of “The Orphan Chronicles” is allowed with restrictions; for more information, see theonosis.com.

  This book is dedicated to my parents for all of their support

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 - Peace and Pall

  Chapter 2 - Smack and Tear

  Chapter 3 - Drab and Rags

  Chapter 4 - Smooth and Loam

  Chapter 5 - Ferocity and Fury

  Chapter 6 - Rasp and Clutch

  Chapter 7 - Solitudes and Silence

  Chapter 8 - Clang and Clash

  Chapter 9 - Thrash and Swirl

  Chapter 10 -Wail and Warble

  Chapter 11 - Wound and Balm

  Chapter 12 - Echo and Boom

  Chapter 13 - Crawl and Claw

  Chapter 14 - Found and Unfound

  Open Setting License

  Chapter 1

  Peace and Pall

  His first soul was a woman who worked in the monastery where he lived and trained.

  Waimbrill guessed it was time for his initiation when he was summoned from the deprivation room, an unlit stone chamber, scrupulously clean, clear of scents, silent and smooth-walled. Its contemplative atmosphere conferred satisfaction and complacency under the tutelage of an elder monk with dreary eyes and a doddering grin.

  He was met by high-ranking priests of his church and followed them through the winding halls of the temple. Waimbrill wanted to ask whom his first soul would be, hoping for a high priest or visiting dignitary, but an almost palpable quiet filled the air, and he didn’t dare speak, afraid to breach decorum, to stutter and stammer like some dullard, to shatter the silence and solitude that permeated the monastery. Modrobenians were not known for speaking well, or much, and Waimbrill’s years among them had ingrained in him a love of seclusion and laconism.

  Covering his mouth with one hand to suppress a grin and hide his smile, Waimbrill nodded, presenting the most solemn face he could muster. He was relieved his life as a Soulclaine was starting. He’d been preparing since his parents sent him away as a boy of barely twelve years old, to the monastery where he’d been ever since, training for this day. He learned the tongues and customs of far-off lands, practiced his meditation, calming techniques and the defensive dance-like martial arts of the church, alongside lessons on self-sufficient living: gardening, trapping and hunting, carpentry and tanning and a thousand and one crafts and bits of lore.

  After descending a flight of stone stairs, they came to a storage room, wherein were three sobbing women. He clasped his hands in front of him and awkwardly avoided their gaze, trying to conceal his eager excitement, not realizing how obvious his sweaty palms and pale face were.

  The dead woman laying on the smooth, polished table in the center of the room was a cook named Zendra. Shelves with pots and crates of root vegetables lined the walls. The smell of earthy tubers and musty soil pervaded the room. His heart booming, beads of sweat breaking out on his face, Waimbrill beheld her worn skin, beset with wrinkles and a disturbingly slight smile. Her eyes were closed, and he closed his too. He recalled his training and pushed away the sights, smells and sounds of his surroundings. The small sobs of the survivors grew faint. He was dimly aware of one woman choking out encouragement to him on this, the first soul he would cleave on a long journey of service.

  He recited the High Prayer in his mind. At first he couldn’t think of the words, the enormity of the moment overwhelming him with worries and wonder about the future, about whether soulcleaving a lowly cook was an auspicious start or not, about whether Modroben would judge him unworthy or if he would fail as spectacularly as he imagined. He focused on his body, the relentless in and out of his lungs, the rise and fall of his chest, the incessant pounding of his heart which he felt in his temple and heard echoing in his skull. His brain was buffeted by ideas and images: a hoarse caw, a flurry of feathers in flight, a sallow beak, long-winged silhouettes circling in the light of a setting sun, the stench of decay, the red and brown of meat torn from a carcass.

  Master of life and death

  Let us thy servants give thanks in thy name

  For it is through thy gifts of glory and grace

  And our fidelity grown great,

  That thy way bringeth rest in the end

  And not turmoil and grief.

  Through thy gentle tapping of time’s relentless beat

  Dost thou pound the march of our lives, and the rhythm of our deaths.

  In thy name, we thus give thanks

  For the mercy thou dost grant in death

  Even unto the meekest of us, the least, the lost, the lame,

  Even unto our most terrible foes, who shall find redemption at last.

  Thy works give serenity to evil and good the same, and man and elf

  And paupers and princes, and all of them alike.

  Though our hearts may ache despite thy words which bear truth

  It is through thy will that, with the strengths of our souls and the songs of thy spirit,

  We shall find peace amid the pall of death

  His head bent into the rough stubble-skinned, cruelly regal visage of a vulture, and, leaning forward, he snapped his crooked beak deep into the center of the woman’s forehead. Her skull splintered, and he tasted her oily, fatty brain, leaving behind a small hole above her brow.

  Waimbrill stood, his face returning to itself, regaining his composure though his mind remained in a thick fog. Someone clapped him on the shoulder, congratulating him, and the other cooks smiled, cheeks drying. They addressed him as “Mortiss Waimbrill”, emphasizing the title he was now due.

  But their words of praise and thanks failed to sink into his still-dazed mind, and he was given the rest of the afternoon to meditate. He sat crosslegged, recalling countless hours of practice coping with his cleaved. Grief rushed through his body and coalesced into a dull, dense stone weighing on his heart and mind. A part of him wanted to leave it there, pushing on his viscera and pulling him away from his god. That would be easy for now, but there would be other souls to cleave, and the stones would multiply and he would become unable to control them. And that was why he had prepared so long for this day.

  The rock of grief at the base of his spine cracked, and emotions bubbled within him. Tears welled before he could identify their cause: the pain of Zendra’s bereaved. Messengers must have already told her family, Waimbrill thought, as their sadness suffused his mind and body. The sensation was not as he had expected. They say it never was, but still, he was surprised. He didn’t know what dreams she regretted not fulfilling, or what words she regretted not saying; he didn’t know why her kin and neighbors felt remorse and guilt over her death; he knew only that their melancholy and sorrow was his, and his body shook with their fear of the loneliness of life without her.

  The emotions of Zendra’s sur
vivors reminded him of his own family, his father and mother, his brothers and sisters, and the sun-drenched fields of his youth. Waimbrill wished he was back there again, amid his own loved ones, but he focused on his pride in service to Modroben.

  After many hours, he stretched, knees letting out a satisfying pop. His ruffled dark hair was tangled, face still red from exertion and tears, his thin white training robes blending in with his pallid skin. Grief gathered in his throat and caught there, rubbing and grinding as pebbles in a gizzard, breaking down his soul like eons of water eroding caves through veins of soft stone.

  Waimbrill finished his training over the next few months, soulcleaving two additional people, their pain joining that of Zendra’s beloved, rubbing against the spot in his belly where his instructors said was the spleen. One was a doe-eyed girl, an initiate, dead from a sudden illness. The other was an elf who wore the gray tunic of a monasterial administrator. Waimbrill’s irritation worsened with the aching loss of the young woman’s parents, the sadness of her friends, the administrator’s grieving widow and his son, now orphaned. That their lamentations reverberated in him rather than them gave purpose to his struggle, and he was glad that his cleaving could protect them from undeath.

  He had come to the monastery because that was the traditional fate for a third son among his people. When he returned to the windswept coastal plains of his homeland, he’d be the resident Soulclaine for his family estate and village. He longed for the warm touch of his mother’s hand and the jolly smile of his father, and to see again a young lady he had known, whose flowering body, glowing smile and gleaming red hair danced through his dreams atop the smooth and slippery rocks of the local streams that seemed more beautiful in his remembrance of them than they had when she and he played in their cool, flowing water as children.

  But soon after his third cleaving, Waimbrill received a messenger from his homeland, who reported that the young lady of his youth, with the sparkling scarlet hair, had died of a fever. Waimbrill twinged with jealousy that someone else had cleaved her, as though she was his by right, and he wondered if the Soulclaine serving his home followed the dictates of Modroben and practiced his work soundly. His lachrymosity at the loss of his long ago love was lessened by the sacrifice of another Soulclaine, but he mourned nonetheless, and promised to visit her grave when he could.

  The established priests said he would be given his choice of first assignment. Subsequent placements could be all around the world, but generally each Soulclaine chose his first and every third or fourth assignment after that. This reassured him as he completed his training in ceremonies and rituals, meditation and contemplative exercises, fasting and artistic projects, all hollow to him, designed to cope with a torrent of emotions he didn’t feel, having cleaved but three souls.

  Waimbrill knew he was going to be an exception as soon as he was called to receive his orders. He saw it on the pained, sympathetic face of the waiting monk. His first assignment was a place called Crikland, a rural province far to the east and south of the monastery, and even farther from the home and family he missed so much.

  He journeyed to Crikland across tall mountains, dark bogs thick with shadows and muck, and lush valleys teeming with wildlife. Waimbrill traveled with a church caravan of carriages carrying cargo and relics, guarded by an elite force of paladins. Aside from a few chores and a three hour watch each day, he had little to do. The one time a threat approached the camp - a small brown bear - while Waimbrill was on duty, he failed to notice until it was eating scraps of food scattered around a smoldering fire. Brigands and robbers ignored or oven offered aid to the procession when they saw it marked with symbols of Modroben. Beasts and monsters stayed away due to its size and its legion of well armed warriors, so the trip was uneventful, though long and rough.

  By the time they neared his destination, his dread had transformed into relief and joy. His back and shoulders ached, and his head throbbed to the steady rhythm of a horse’s gait.

  Crikland was a remote part of a civilized land, a small plateau nestled amongst five mountains. The provincial capital, Crikburg, sat in the center on the shore of a large lake that drained into a river flowing south. Most travelers came that way, approaching along the river from the large and warlike kingdoms that spread from its fertile floodplains. But the caravan came from the north instead, winding through the mountains and emerging straight onto the plateau.

  The northernmost mountain, Mt. Rekkerkem, peaked higher than any mountain Waimbrill had ever seen, reaching well into the clouds, so large and overwhelming looking at it sent waves of dizziness washing across his mind, which reeled with the thought of being at the top and seeing the rocky forests beneath, trees like little green moss and boulders like dirt.

  He separated from the caravan a few miles outside the city, and walked through farmland towards his new home. He chanced along a farmer’s wife, small in stature but with an impressively round figure, who insisted he come in for a meal. After some pleading on her part, he did so, and the rustic stew with bits of mutton and a heaping pile of mashed beets filled his belly with warmth. The farmer’s wife and a pair of rotund daughters stared, nibbling on their own portions. It was not every day they entertained a novice Soulclaine. But they didn’t seem to know what to say, perhaps sensing the dark cloud of his cleaved, or his ongoing ache for the girl with the red hair, whose face lingered in his memory, more beautiful than he had remembered, more delicate and fine than he would have thought possible when he had known her.

  Before he left the farm, they asked him to soulcleave a kitten. Those who disturb death value sentience more than lesser life, so thou needst not cleave animals unless asked or if there be a risk of undeath. It had been a favorite of the youngest daughter, who wasn’t present. Her sisters asked him amid fits of nervous stuttering, their mother nudging them along.

  Waimbrill wished he knew words whose truth would bear comfort to the daughters, but he could only pray and cleave, biting into its fragile skull with his vulture head, swallowing its little brain and a few bits of cartilaginous bone that rubbed against his throat like rocks. The girls clutched each other while he cleaved, and the youngest, who had been hiding since his arrival, leapt down the stairs to watch, teary-eyed, hugging her sisters and hiding her face.

  He left the farmhouse and arrived in Crikburg in the early evening. It was a bustling little city, with a wide main thoroughfare lined with shops selling simple clothes, farm tools and traveling supplies. Stalls and carts filled the streets, vendors shouting their wares and prices, shoppers haggling and inspecting the produce and meats. A crowded fish market was near the lake, and beyond that was a ramshackle assortment of houses suspended over the water on sturdy stilts, connected by planks.

  People inquisitively stared at him until his eyes met theirs. Thou art a constant reminder of the regret and loss due to man and elf alike. Thou shalt serve a flock who loveth thy sacrifice, but whose visage is filled with fear, and whose words and glances offend thee. The memorized mantra didn’t help much. Knowing that their fear hid respect and awe did not reduce his desire for acceptance.

  Searching for someone, maybe a child, to guide him to his new home, Waimbrill passed by a rough, grizzled man with a thick belly and wide beard, standing behind a cart laden with horseshoes and other ironwork.

  “Aye, Mortiss,” said the man, “Do ye but travel through this land? We have need for your kind to live.”

  Waimbrill’s mind raced as he realized his career had really begun. “Greetings, good sir,” he said, “My name is Mortiss Waimbrill, and I am newly assigned to your fair town.”

  Expecting a handshake and an expression of welcome, Waimbrill forced himself to smile enthusiastically, but the man only frowned and drawled, “Been waitin’ a few days, reckon. My ‘pprentice did die some time ago. Ye ready now?”

  “Uh, certainly,” Waimbrill said, following the blacksmith to his smithy.

  “I done bury him in the yard. If I shows ye where, can ye dig him up
? I must return to the market,” the blacksmith asked.

  Waimbrill nodded, and they walked to the grassy yard behind the smithy. The blacksmith showed him the spot, and Waimbrill started digging into the soil, which was rich and loamy, and heavy with the weight of recent rain.

  Before he left, the blacksmith promised to send a boy as a guide. By the time he arrived, Waimbrill was dripping with sweat and his muscles ached. He turned out to be older than Waimbrill had expected. The blacksmith must have had difficulty finding a child willing to show a Soulclaine to his cottage, and had settled on a boy of at least eleven. Though adults understand and respect our position, children can not comprehend death, and thus fear our grace and solitude.

  The boy was a skinny skeleton wrapped in mismatched scraps of crumbling cloth caked with discolored mud. The wide nostrils of his crooked nose flared beneath deep-set dark brown eyes. He was breathing heavily, as though recently running or swimming, and he carried a package wrapped in white paper and smelling of fish.

  “Greetings, M’rtiss,” said the peculiarly accented boy, “I be Terredor Delver. Me clan do sprawl atop this city and b’yond. Right loyal we be to yon lord, be praised.”

  Waimbrill was at a loss for words, unable to understand the boy’s singsong words. He heard tumultuous shouts, and saw a trio of plump women running with flowery hats in their hands.

  Terredor seemed about to flee, but stopped, whether deciding he had no chance of escaping or not wishing to abandon him, Waimbrill didn’t know. The women stopped shouting when they saw Waimbrill.

  “Hand back the fish,” said one.

  “We always say,” said another, “Delvers are not as bad in spirit as gentle folk see them.”

  “But thee, young man,” said the third, “Dost threaten to prove us wrong.” “Don’t force us to take drastic action in front of...” said the first, nodding in Waimbrill’s direction.

  “Fine,” Terredor said, “I shall eat sand and lake water this eve’.”

  The ladies grumbled to each other, uncomfortable now about taking it, but one of them grabbed the package.

  “We need nourishment as well, Delver,” she said, and turned to leave, followed by the other two.

  “Wait,” Waimbrill said, “I’ll pay for the fish.”

  The women thanked him, introduced themselves and promised to send all the respectable households with welcoming gifts. One, her fat lips pursed in a sour, flat line, said, “The Delvers are wont to lie and steal, Mortiss Waimbrill. Don’t let them trick you into being an unwarranted hero.”

  Waimbrill nodded awkwardly as they maligned Terredor, who dug into the ground nearby. When the women were gone, Terredor thanked Waimbrill and pledged to pay him back.

  The coffin contained the worm-ridden corpse of the skinny young apprentice. Waimbrill doubted he could have become a blacksmith with that thin frame. But perhaps his muscles had rotted away, Waimbrill thought. Bones were visible under wisps of brown meat and flaps of skin. Desiccated flesh stank like overripe fruit, and Waimbrill gagged. He took a deep breath through his mouth, cleared his mind and prayed over the apprentice. He felt that now familiar transformation, saw the vulture beak extend from his face, and tasted the must of decaying brain. The experience left behind a spoiled, mealy taste that lingered even after gulping from the waterskin his mother had packed for him so many years ago.

  It wasn’t until later that Waimbrill realized he hadn’t stopped to meditate, or even to simply ponder the apprentice’s death. He attributed this to his impatience in finding his new home, and decided that this compromise of his training meant he was no longer a novice slavishly imitating his teachers. But he worried that he was losing competence already, having only soulcleaved four people and a kitten. Or maybe, he thought, no one grieved for the death of the lowly blacksmith’s apprentice.