Chapter 2

Fyron woke to the glint of sunlight off roofing tile, a sliver of warmth on his face and the dull ache that he assumed came from sleeping on the cold, hard ground. He stretched, a sigh of relief escaping his lips as his back snapped back into proper alignment. He clumsily gained his feet and ventured forth, groaning as he saw the chaos outside his shelter.

Pieces of roofing lay strewn in the streets; the gutters overflowed with muddy, debris laden water; but worst of all was the center square of the temple district where he’d found refuge the night before. The massive tree that had occupied the center of the temple district since long before he’d even been born was no longer verdant and full of life, now it was a burnt out husk, wisps of smoke still trailing skyward. 

He couldn’t even claim to be surprised at the amount of destruction. He could still feel the white hot echo of his wrath from the previous night. He wondered briefly about the welfare of his family, but he was soon distracted by more pressing concerns, namely his own safety.

In the wind and rain of the night before, he hadn’t escaped very far from his childhood home, only making it out of the patrician district before being forced to find shelter. The shelter he had found consisted of a narrow, partially covered alley behind the Weaver’s temple. The fragrant sludge that had been washed into nearly every nook and cranny by the storm had been mercifully absent there though Fyron still felt as if every inch of his body was crawling with some tiny unhygienic organism. 

He wandered further out into the street, nervously tugging his hair forward to cover his ears and his unsightly mark. He found himself drawn to the tree, the tree of fate as the priests called it. Memories assaulted him, of watching his brother tie a string to the tre for his coming of age ceremony, of his own coming of age ceremony. The frailty of the strings never ceased to amaze him; it was symbolic, the priests said, for life is as fragile as a thread, adorned with the knots of milestones like birthdays and weddings. The tree of fate was once covered in threads of all colors, each unique to a family or clan but now all that remained were a few scorched strands still knotted to the heavily damaged tree. 

“That was an awfully heavy sigh, child.”

Fyron startled at the deep baritone coming from disconcertingly close behind him, whirling to face the man, “Father Mattias? I… I was just thinking about the tree, sir. It seems a shame for such a landmark to so easily come to ruin.”

The elderly priest smiled wryly, “What makes you think it is ruined, young Fyron? Does not every life come to an end only to begin anew in another way? This tree may not survive, but another will take its place and this tree will still find use, as is the Weaver’s way.”

The Weaver’s way? Fyron could not help an undignified snort, though he quickly covered it by clearing his throat and bowing his head to the priest, “As you say Father. I should probably help with the clean up, I suppose. ‘A noble’s every act reflects upon his family’ after all.” 

The priest’s smile grew sad, “Your father taught you well, I suppose. A pity the lessons did not stay with your brother half as well.” 

Fyron gawked at the priest’s plain speech. Priests were not meant to interfere in their flock’s lives unless inaction risked bodily harm to one of their flock. The fact that he even knew of Dafyd’s misdeeds and posotion as heir…

“Father asked for your blessing I suppose?”

Father Mattias nodded solemnly, “And instead of a blessing, I offered advice, advice which was ignored in favor of tradition.” 

“Well, what’s done is done. The papers are filed, the official announcement planned. I… I am going to find my own way, I think.”

A steely gray eyebrow arched in question, “You mean to leave then?”

A decisive nod was all the answer Fyron could muster.

A warm hand gripped Fyron’s shoulder comfortingly, “We each must find our own place in the pattern. If you believe this to be your path, I will pray for your safety and prosperity. Have you told your family or…?”

Unwilling to voice his own weakness, Fyron simply shook his head, his eyes studiously affixed to the worn cobbles of the street below. 

“I shall inform them of your well being but not of your whereabouts, then. If this is to be a permanent parting, I would suggest at least a letter of farewell. They are not the warmest family but they do care. Now then, if you truly intend to help, not just avoid your family, get to work, boy.”

Fyron smiled and nodded, “Yes, sir.” 

Hours of sweeping debris from the streets, scrubbing muck from doors and windows, collecting and discarding all the errant branches from the tree of fate, and ducking questions from well meaning but absurdly nosy helpers had taken its toll and Fyron was exhausted. Well, his body was exhausted, achy and sluggish, but his heart was light and as carefree as he could remember it being in a decade or more. Perhaps it was true that hard work was good for the soul, or perhaps it was simply good to be free from his family and their expectations.

 He stowed the last of the tools away and threw a careless wave and a fond smile in the direction of Father Mattias as he headed for the gate to the next district. Thyr was a large city, second only in size and population to the imperial capital of Yadeth and crossing even one district of the city could take the better part of a day. He would rather be safely tucked into an alleyway or out of the way inn in the market district before dark. 

While thieves were active all day, the most aggressive of thieves prowled at night and were more likely to kill their mark and loot the body than to quietly relieve them of their riches and be on their way. Past the market district would be the slums, then the city gate, so barring any misfortune, only two more days until he could leave the city behind. After that though… He had never left the city before, and if he were honest, even the slums would be a new experience for him. While his brother seemed comfortable frequenting the brothels on the inner edge of the slums, the outer slums were nothing more than a shantytown, crude shelters made of cast off debris, held together by gravity and little else. There was the home of the desperate, the orphans, the fugitives, the diseased. Fyron knew that a desperate man, one with nothing to lose was the most dangerous kind, and he had to traverse a veritable village of them if he were to escape the city without drawing the notice of the watch or his family.

He took a deep breath and entered the relative safety of the market district, angling for a small inn on a side street that came recommended by Father Mattias. He slipped a discreet hand beneath the, now untucked, tail of his shirt and fingered the small pouch of coin hidden in his waistband. It wasn’t much by noble standards but he was certain he could make it last a month, maybe more. 

The Raven’s Perch was lively for the hour, and Fyron had to wend his way through the press of bodies to reach the bar. A burly man with greasy brown hair bustled over to him,”What can I get ya?”

Fyron considered the delicious smells wafting from the kitchen for a moment but decided against food, preferring to stretch his money as far as he could. The apple and dried beef Father Mattias had given him at midday wouldn’t last long but for now, he remained sated. 

“A bed for the night, sir?”

“Will the little lordling be wantin’ a bath, a meal and a private room?”

Fyron shook his head adamantly, “No, just a quiet place to rest my head.”

The man smirked, “I can do that. Don’t know how quiet it’ll be in ‘ere tonight but there’s a room above the kitchen I can rent ya for just three copper.”

Fyron blinked in shock at the low price and fished out a silver, sliding it to the man, “I appreciate the kindness, sir. If I could trouble you for some travel rations in the morning, you can keep the change.”

The man nodded and waved Fyron through the busy kitchen, toward a wooden ladder in the far corner, “Couldn’t say it out there, but you are welcome here, mage.” He took in Fyron’s wide eyes and trembling hands, “You don’t need to fear me, boy. Matty said he was sending me a little lost bird. You can rest easy here, I’ll make sure you sleep as sound as a newborn babe and send you on your way tomorrow with enough rations to get you out of the city.” He studied Fyron a moment, his eyes straying to where Fyron’s hair covered the mark. “We’ll get you a cloak too, something to cover your head better. And if you're gonna be in the wilds for any length of time, I’d recommend cutting that hair before you start itching.”

Fyron just stared at the man in shock, “I… “

“Don’t say nothing. Just get you some sleep. The rest of the journey ain’t gonna be nearly so easy. The mage underground only extends so far.”

Shellshocked into speechlessness, Fyron climbed the ladder, stripped off his filthy clothes and curled up on the thin, lumpy mattress, beneath a holey blanket and sighed in blissful relief as exhaustion dragged him into unconsciousness. 

“The mage underground…”

Perhaps he wasn’t quite as screwed as he thought.