Of Sin & Sigil

The river ran backwards the day the Queen vanished; That’s what the rumors spreading throughout the kingdom had said anyway. Ashbel discovered truth in these rumors as he now witnessed the odd phenomenon firsthand. What the accounts failed to mention was that all four of the kingdom's cardinal rivers followed this trend. He’d walked the city and found that each flowed back to their origin — the Tree of Salvation, Yggdrasil. Even on its lone island at the center of the city the mountainous tree dominated the scenery, casting shadows on the districts below.

It was from within one of these shadow veiled lower districts that Ashbel observed the magnificently white tree in the distance with its seemingly interminable branches, and skyward cityscapes. Misham was a kingdom sustained by its rivers, which were in turn sustained by Yggdrasil and the monarchy. Colossal plates of stone fused and bound to the tree’s mighty wood held the nine skybound districts that housed the kingdom's nobles. He could see a few of the noble keeps even from this distance. They were grand and gaudy constructions even if not for the fact they were built atop the tree. There would be noblemen, and distinguished merchants traversing the districts using the tree’s branches as pathways; All worried about the most inconsequential things. It was an easy thing to imagine the chaos happening above if the news of the Queen’s disappearance had reached even the commoner’s ears down below. He didn’t miss it up there.

Rumors and gossip spiraled about and barreled into his ears as he stood among the common folk along the canal of the Cyprus River. The canal roads were always filled with commoners shuffling about trying to sell wares, and foreigners coming to see the famed mystic waters of Misham. He could tell those especially interested in the royal affairs by the house colors they wore. It was a funny thing how commoners in the capital showed favor and allegiance to the noble houses by dyeing their clothing to match colors associated with a particular house. He must have stood a stark contrast to the vibrant reds of house Timaut, and the regal purples of house Corvus in his solid black cloak.

Though black was associated with house Lucent his attire lacked the bright yellows typically interwoven into the clothing to truly signal allegiance to the house. His outfit was instead a consistent blanket of darkness. The cloak obscured everything from the head down. He wanted no one seeing his exposed arms, or the patterns dyeing them.

Colors passed him as he stood on the edge of the canal. The waterways were usually busy, but not at this time of day when the shadows of the plates above cast a false nighttime on this part of the city. By now most citizens were already uninterested in matters concerning the Queen and the rivers. Tending to children, earning the day’s wage, and laundry were things that could not be stalled long for gossip. The Queen’s predicament was something for the lofty nobles in their high keeps to fret over. He liked this about the commoners. Even if their fate was bound to the nobles they had little time for politics or political scandal.

He envied that actually.

Ashbel’s fingers washed over a small ring inside his trouser pocket. He’d kept it all these years; hidden it away and never worn it since his departure. The trinket reminded him that he no longer had that luxury of ignoring things as the commoners did. The thought made his tattoos itch. Days prior he’d received a summons commanding him to return to Lucinda — as if the rumors weren’t enough to draw him back to the capital city. He moved on from the river and his contemplation.

Despite his years away there was a familiarity with the city that allowed him to traverse it with ease. The canal streets were direct lines to Yggdrasil which meant they were crowded, but organized and straightforward in design. The rest of the capital was a sprawling mess. Small stone houses were hodgepodged with larger more intricately built buildings on compact streets with pathways that often ended in dead end rows of housing. A few of the lower districts were constructed in the Period of Strife as more and more people flocked to the marvel that was the Tree of Salvation and as such most of their layouts were an afterthought. By the time a proper kingdom was established the common folks were too rooted to allow for much change.

Ashbel’s destination was an old haunt. It was late afternoon when he arrived at The Third Circle. The tavern was lively, patrons flooding in and out, as one would expect about this time. The false night of the tree’s shadow had passed this part of the district and actual nighttime was setting in. While the locals flocked in to spend the day’s pay Ashbel snuck around back. He was met with a thick metal door, and after nine particular knocks a pair of eyes through the peephole.

“Of all the nine hells, I’d prefer to die here.” He spoke aloud to the eyes. The words rolled off his tongue with a familiarity not lost to time.

The door opened to a man unfamiliar to Ashbel. He was maybe mid thirties, dark skinned, bulky build. He said nothing, and waved Ashbel inside. It made sense that with how long Ashbel had been gone that there would be at least a few new doormen in the rotation. Wasn’t worth worrying about.

The door shut and there was darkness. Ashbel knew the downward path even in the pitch black. His left hand found the wall and he moved down the stairs with care. Light came as he moved further downward. Lanterns installed into the walls flickered to life as he approached. Each held an unwavering ball of light inside that illuminated just a few feet around itself. He recognized the sigil providing the power inscribed on the metal base of the objects. Sigilmancy was another wonder that allowed the kingdom to prosper alongside its magic laced rivers.

The stairway led to a room beneath the building. It had been used for Queensguard secret meetings for at least a generation. It wasn’t a grand room so much as one of necessity: stone walls, sigil powered lanterns, a table, a few chairs, and a black coated figure. It sat at the head of the lone table, fingers tapping against the aged wood.

It was the first familiar face Ashbel had seen since his return. The man’s hair was still cut short on top, and shaved down nearly completely on the sides in the imperial fashion, much like Ashbel’s own. A few more wrinkles outlined his face, and his unkept beard had gone full gray, but Ashbel would recognize Mellan anywhere. As would many of the citizens considering that he was one of the most respected men in the kingdom. That explained the stealthy attire, and meeting location.

“So you came?” Mellan sounded off first. His voice was still carried the stoutness of a commander.

“Who would be foolish enough to disobey a summons from the famed Lightning Spear Mellan?” Ashbell responded. His own voice sounding young in contrast despite nearing his early thirties.

“If anyone would I’d certainly imagine it’d be you, Ashbel Lucent. The royal guard’s most decorated deviant, and the most persistent pain in my ass.” Mellan said in turn.

Both men shared a laugh, and an embrace. One arm interlocked at the wrists, and the other folded behind the back. A Queensguard tradition. It was an instant comfort. Ashbel took a seat at the table finally feeling relaxed enough to remove his cloak exposing his arms and the tattoos inscribed upon them. Mellan was at least twenty years his senior, and there were few people he trusted more. The man had a personal hand in crafting Ashbel into the weapon he was today.

“I’m an Inquisitor now, Mellan. I’m no longer your problem.” Ashbel said after taking his seat.

“Not even a Royal Inquisitor at that. Heard you were solving cases in the outer cities, and small farm towns. What a fine waste of power that is! If not for the tragedy with Leibel he’d be king, and you’d have my position.” A sigh and a moment of remembrance interrupted Mellan’s words. “Still we both know you’d be here even without me sending for you. Every sigil on your body crafted by the Queen herself, and now she’s gone missing.”

Ashbel felt Mellan’s eyes scanning him — more so the sigils etched into his flesh; A multitude of symbols and patterns all containing power most people couldn’t comprehend given to him by the one he most cherished in life. He remembered her joking that the tattoos would give his peachy skin some much needed color. Funny how they didn’t itch as much when Mellan stared.

“So it’s true?” Ashbel asked.

Mellan didn’t respond right away. The old man pulled a cigar from a case within his inner coat pocket, and a set of matches from another pocket. He struck the match to no avail, and then another with the same result.

“Times like these I wish I was famed Flame Spear Mellan. I could probably get this thing to light for once.” The old man said.

Ashbel sighed. He inched closer to Mellan and held an index finger to the cigar end. A small flame burst outward extending from his fingertip. Warmth trickled throughout his skin; Its source the sigil spanning his wrist to forearm. Hunter’s Arrow she’d called it when dyeing his skin with the magic. It served him well in the war, and was apparently also useful for lighting cigars.

“Focus.” Ashbel commanded. He was certain his face must have matched the sternness of his words, because Mellan was quick to reply.

“You’ve seen the rivers haven’t you? The waters are returning to the tree. You know what that means.” Mellan responded between puffs of his cigar. It was an old habit of his. “Abundance and opulence for the Noble Districts, desolation for the lands below, war and revolt looming. If the waters are returning then you know it means no one of The Blood sits on the throne. She is gone.”

“Gone, but not dead.” Ashbel traced the crescent shape of Hunter’s Arrow along his arm as he spoke these words. It still pulsed with power from its activation moments ago.

“You sure, lad?” Mellan questioned.

“I’m sure. What of the prince?” This is the question that had truly been burning a hole through his mind. If she was gone then what of the boy?

“Alive. Well protected.” Mellan assured.

Relief. Contentment. Curiosity.

“But not sat on the throne?” Ashbel questioned.

“The council fears the implication it would send to the populace.”

“They’d rather the lands below dry up, and the people suffer?” There was ire in Ashbel’s voice now.

“You’ve not been gone so long that you’ve forgotten how the Noble District is, have you?” Mellan countered.

“No. I understand.” A pause in Ashbel’s thoughts. There was a reason he hated the capital, and it had everything to do with the politics of the Noble Districts. “In any case I’ll find her. Can I count on your support?”

Mellan took a deep drag of his cigar. Ashes fell onto the table though he seemed to not care or perhaps not notice. “Not openly.” The words were cold. “You didn’t exactly leave a pleasant taste in the council’s mouth when you left. Hells you practically spit in it. If not for the Queen’s influence you would have been officially court-martialed.”

“You’re the captain of the guard!” Ashbel protested. That should have meant something. The Queen was missing, and still the nobles worried about such petty things.

“In name only.” Mellan responded. “Times have changed, Ash. They find very little use in an old rusted weapon like me. The council members are already attempting to replace me. Each house propping up their own golden boy; Yours and mine excluded.” At this Ashbel raised an eyebrow. Mellan continued. “Figure we’re the best candidates those two have ever had. Your father is still upset with you for leaving.”

Ashbel knew that already, but still scrunched his brow at the words. “I’m better off as an Inquisitor." He said. "I can serve the kingdom without being bound.”

“We’re all bound to one thing or another, lad.” Mellan countered again.

The old man finished his cigar. Aged calloused fingers pushed the butt into the table to smother the embers. The scorch mark was among friends, all created during past meetings here with teacher and student.

“Before I begin I’ll need to see the prince.” A statement from Ashbel, not a request.

“You know I can’t arrange that with how things are now. Very few people even know that I’ve left the Noble District.” Mellan said.

“Oh, I know. I have my own ways into the palace. I just thought I’d warn you.” Ashbel let the message hang in the air. He rose, again donning his cloak to hide his identity from the world. The two men shared no more words, and Ashbel was back on the huddled streets of the capital.

The truth was Ashbel would have torn the upper realms apart for the sake of the prince. Mellan knew this. He also knew that Ashbel had returned to save the city, not plunge it further into chaos.

There was a simpler way for him to gain entry into the palace. Simpler, but far more unfavorable. Deep in his trouser pocket he felt for the ring again. Small, innocuous, and yet so weighty. He found his fingers tracing over the object, turning it within his pocket, and finally pulling it out into the light of day. He’d thought about tossing it into the river the day he left, and again on his return, but simply couldn’t do it. No matter where he roamed he was still a member of the Lucent noble house. It was time to return home.