Resurrected Honor

Act I : Arrivals

History

In the 300th year of the new history of the world a man was born of a family descended from, and in direct inheritance to, the Echelon controlling the continent of Alendi—being the largest of fifteen and encompassing eight different nations. This man, being of high-learning and practicing the views of peace and brotherhood, proclaimed himself to be Heiren, inheritor of a line of power not seen since before or after the High-Houses of Alendi.

In accordance with his claimed right of inheritance, he decreed new laws to be incorporated by church and state, splitting the continent in twain. Classified as a radical and punished as a defiler of the church and attempted usurper of the throne, the man prophesied a movement within the church that would free the members of The True House from the chains of law and power. Upon his death, the church and state hunted those who took to heart his teachings, putting to death those whom followed the True House. Fleeing further persecution of the church and High-Houses of Alendi, they took to ship.

Roving the seas were the many vessels of Igla Cle Mounseita, a sea-mercenary enamored with the freedom of the sea and the power of leadership. Upon the capture of those fleeing the rage and fury of Alendi, a heart of compassion settled upon him and he drew them into himself, acquiring what little they had and dispersing among them what he could.

However, The True House, seeing all, set upon the ships a storm and laid them to waste upon an island. Lord Igla, moved by the beauty of his surroundings and a press upon his heart, led the people to establish communities and set upon the island three districts: Clemoun, after himself; Laicton, after a respected survivor holding both the skills of soldier and first-mate; and Trisbin, a brusque and spirit-filled cannon-master from a captured military vessel.

Believing their survival to be both curse and blessing of The One That Sees All, Igla listened well to the followers of The Holy Man of Alendi, bestowing upon him the leadership of The Path to keep them always in the gleam of the protection of The True House. Given, therefore, a second chance at life, many changed their ways, becoming as honest as was possible for their race.

Life continued, blessed and growing as The Breath of The One That Sees All whispered across the land.

excerpt from the telling of the great flight from Alendi
from ‘The History of An Island Nation’
Scroll 1

I

Epitaph

Captain Jarvais stood alone on the deck of the Wave Hawke. One hand shielded his gray-blue eyes from the sun’s glare as he stared out across the water toward the bustling harbor of Clemoun. Frowning, he gave his purple topcoat a sharp tug as a gust of wind whipped through his dark wavy hair. It gave him a wild look, just as the thin mustache and small patch of beard under his bottom lip made all see him as a buccaneer rather than a merchant captain.

“Cap, they’re raising a warning!”

He glanced toward the lean figure of his first mate before focusing again on the distant harbor. Approaching this shore had forever loomed in his future, and the crisp note of the waves beating the shore brought back images of a life he had tried to forget.

“Cap?”

“Nefa’s bones, Fyn, I’ve at least one good ear, believe it or not.”

“Aye, Cap.” He handed Jarvais the well-worn spyglass as he squinted off into the distance. “I don’t like it.”

Jarvais focused the glass on the stone signal tower a half-mile off the port bow. As reported, a warning flag whipped in the wind and a vessel about half the Wave Hawk’s size approached under full sail. Sounding a grunt, he passed back the spyglass. “They’ve sent Inspectors. Better check the ship for secrets and Nefa’s Nanny knows what else.”

With a salute, Fyn strode away.

Jarvais shifted an annoyed gaze to the nearing ship. “Laios’ sweet fire…. Lasser!” A young sailor stepped forward from his work at the rigging. Just seventeen, the lad had been with him since his release from a work farm as barely a boy. Jarvais had purchased him out of his contract.

“Aye, Cap?”

“There’s a travel bag just inside the door of my cabin. I’ll need it and the strongbox.” Lasser nodded and turned away. “Bring the beauties, son.”

After a thoughtful glance, Lasser disappeared below. He and Fyn returned very few minutes later carrying the requested items, including a dual scabbard of engraved hard leather and gold.

So distracted with the plotting of actions and statements, Jarvais didn’t notice their return until Fyn made comment.

“You wanted these?”

After a momentary grip of the railing, he turned to retrieve first the scabbard and belt. He settled these on his hips with a deliberate action as he scowled at the small strongbox. Fyn and Lasser exchanged sidelong glances as Jarvais pulled free a small key on a strip of leather around his neck and unlocked the box. When he reached inside, he retrieved a ring and a piece of cloth, both of which he tucked in the inner pockets of his purple topcoat.

“Everything smooth, Fyn?” he asked as he accepted the travel bag.

“Aye, Cap, but the Inspectors be alongside demanding we drop anchor. They’re wanting to board.”

“There will be no boarding.”

“That’s plain, Cap, from where I’m standing. But you having your beauties there got my head itching. Our hold’s empty; we don’t have no passengers; no trade-writ either.” Fyn motioned to the coastline. “Let’s scatter before trouble comes aboard.”

Captain Jarvais focused on the task of adjusting his scabbard and swords. “You’re a good man, Fyn. Never seen a better sailor. But now it’s time to move up and on—for both of us.” He raised his gaze to meet the shocked expressions of the two men. “I’m getting off here. Fyn, you’re Cap.”

Fyn hissed disapproval through his front teeth. “Cap—”

“Trust me, Fyn.” He motioned out to sea with his head. “Now scatter.”

Fyn pressed his lips together for a long moment before raising two fingers to his forehead in salute. “Aye, Cap.” He turned on his heel and strode toward the stern, barking orders for the vessel’s return to sea as he went.

Jarvais faced Lasser, giving him but a brief grip on the shoulder. “Lasser, trust Fyn’s word and order the same as you’ve trusted mine.”

Lasser slightly smiled. “Aye, Cap.”

After giving the lad’s shoulder another grip, Jarvais turned and made his way toward the port side to waylay the Inspectors’ boarding. The last thing Fyn needed in his current mood was a collection of troublemakers harassing every man and beast on the vessel, even if it would have made a nice spectacle to see the Inspectors somehow getting lobbed over the side.

Three Inspectors stood on the starboard side of the smaller vessel. Clothed in the loose-fitting uniform of the Guild, they conversed intently amongst themselves using nothing save a collection of hand and finger movements. In Jarvais’ experience with that particular intensity of hand signs, it definitely wasn’t good for Fyn or the vessel and would need to be… distracted immediately. “No need to board, gents,” he called down.

As Jarvais had hoped, the comment ceased the Inspectors’ discussion and lifted their gazes to meet his. Two of the three men were tall with close-cropped dark hair. The third, standing behind the other two, had short-cut blond hair and green eyes. Their attitudes were as different as their appearances, Jarvais quickly noted, for the younger was more intense than arrogant. The others wore their near-condescending attitudes like a shroud, their usual unemotional-yet-calculating persona bringing back many of Jarvais’ less pleasant memories of the island.

The tall Inspector on the left held Jarvais’ gaze, his dark charcoal eyes revealing nothing. “We must examine your hold for contraband, illegal passengers, and disease-ridden animals. Stand aside.”

“As soon as I’m off, they’re scattering back to the open sea,” Jarvais informed, gesturing immediately to the Inspectors’ vessel. “Can I plead a ride ashore?”

“Are you not the captain?” the same Inspector inquired.

“Of this?” He had always viewed the vessel as more than that; it had always been more of a home than something to be captain of. “Not likely.”

The younger, blond Inspector examined Jarvais and the vessel in silence, his countenance hinting at an age of eighteen.

“Then do not concern yourself with this matter.” The Inspector once more directed Jarvais to move. “Stand aside.”

“Gents, there’s nothing here that’d threaten—”

The oldest of the three Inspectors finally stepped forward, his gaze as unrevealing as his attitude.

“If you are indeed uninvolved with this vessel, do not risk detention by interfering. They have no cause for alarm, unless their cargo is of a suspicious nature?”

Jarvais shrugged and stepped aside. “Whatever fans your fur, but better be quick. They’ll be stranded if they don’t catch the tide here in a bit or three.”

The youngest stepped forward then to begin a hand-sign discussion with the others while occasionally motioning to the vessel and Jarvais both. Finally, the lead man sent a brief signed order to the Inspector on the left and turned to move away. Not waiting for an invitation, Jarvais made his way easily over the railing.

However, once he had a firm foot and handhold on the ladder hanging over the side, he hesitated. Take a last look, Cap, he allowed himself, and he immediately raised a guarded expression. The rhythm of the men working together showed the bond that had formed through common struggles on the high sea—He pressed his lips together. Now leave it here. It’s done.

After giving a somewhat brusque nod, Jarvais descended to the small vessel waiting below.

‹ § ›

Jarvais released a slow breath. The Inspectors, suspicious by nature, had secured him below deck in a room not much bigger than a storage crate. He grimaced and stood to his feet, careful not to bash his head on the low beams. He didn’t expect a different style of greeting elsewhere, and definitely not when thinking back to his exit from the infernal island. He shook his head free of the clinging memories. As he had promised himself so many years ago, he had never seen his home again, never spoken his family name, and never thought of the life willingly left behind.

This, of course, made him wonder why he returned.

A knock broke the silence and the door opened to reveal the youngest of the three Inspectors. “You have been comfortable?” Neither his unaffected tone nor his gray-green eyes sounded interested.

“Got a splinter, took it out, made a sword.” He shrugged. As expected, the Inspector’s placid expression didn’t change. I didn’t miss this twitch and prod to tempers, he admitted to himself. Although, he noticed the Inspectors’ extreme outward calm didn’t trouble him as much as in years past.

The young man stepped aside. “This way.”

Jarvais followed the young Inspector on deck, and the view overwhelmed his senses. Images and sounds from a different life bombarded him—

“A memory is struck,” the young Inspector observed.

Jarvais clenched his jaw, sending the Inspector a glance before heading down the gangplank. A guard of eight waited on the pier. The House crest on their uniform made Jarvais pause.

“You really think you’ll need the lord’s special guard as escort?” he asked as he faced the Inspector. “They tell me I’m trouble, but this is just flattery.”

The Inspector’s eyebrow very slightly shifted before he made his way to the guard Commander and discussed the situation. Jarvais grumbled and absently fiddled with the items tucked in his pocket.

When the Inspector returned, he motioned behind to the guard. “These men shall escort you to the Lawgiver. He alone shall determine whether you are free to travel unsupervised across our district. Once in his presence, I would recommend a telling of complete truths. You may lose all liberty should you speak otherwise.” He bowed, though his focus continued its scrutiny of Jarvais’ countenance. “I am Lesser-Inspector Ostiyn Drisé should you have need. Good day.”

Jarvais watched him go, trying to reason why a man would keep a family name like Drisé. Quite simply, it meant “son of nothing.” Giving a shake of his head, Jarvais gestured toward the Commander. “As you go.”

As the group made their way toward the inner city of Clemoun, Jarvais noticed that the dock-district looked much as it had fourteen years before. The buildings still in needed of another coat of paint, the signs declaring the mode of their business in a sad shape of disrepair. Occasionally Jarvais saw freshly painted shutters, or a newly built sign on the face of a remodeled building, but those hints of wealth were rare.

The cobble road became tiled marble as they left the dock-district, the walkways changing to mosaics and brickwork, and the buildings having fresh paint and clear glass windows. People of wealth and societal rank bustled about while lackeys and footmen laden with packages trailed behind. Jarvais’ lip curled. Is this what I’ve come back to? To a life where coins numb life’s blessing?

There was a sudden cry and a boy sprawled into the dust at the guard commander's feet. “Watch where you step, boy!”

“Blood and bones,” Jarvais grumbled, stepping past the Commander to help the boy. When Jarvais knelt and reached a hand toward the boy, he flinched away. "Aw now, squirt,” Jarvais soothed, “let’s not be doing that. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The young boy cringed, focusing on Jarvais with a dark and frightened gaze as he lifted his hand to reveal the gash just above his elbow.

Jarvais tied a kerchief carefully around the wound. “What’s your name?”

“Riley,” the boy choked out.

“Well, Riley, take care you wash that when you get home.” He helped the boy stand while deftly tucking several silver and copper coins into his other hand. No use complicating the boy’s life with gold, he mused to himself. Then he tousled Riley’s thick black hair. “Off with you now. Go chase some chickens.”

The boy held Jarvais’ gaze for the briefest moment before fleeing into an alley.

“This way,” the Commander ordered while giving Jarvais’ back a shove.

Fighting the urge to return push for shove, he turned toward the main square of the castle. Lined with golden pots of exotic plants from the Clemoun gardens, they all stunk of wealth and greed. A stench that hadn’t been forgotten nor missed. Now I’m to bend over to it again? He clenched his jaw and followed the Commander into Clemoun Castle.

Jarvais kept his focus on his black leather boots as the group navigated arched corridors decorated with countless tapestries and lit with countless golden candelabrums. They finally came to a stop in an expansive hall where groups of tramps and rogues awaited judgment.

An aide of some importance pulled the Commander aside for a brief discussion before disappearing behind two carved doors into a great room that Jarvais recognized as the Justice Chamber. Within the chamber the Lawgiver heard the citizens’ pleas before acting according to what the law and situation demanded.

As Jarvais entered, the same uninviting impression he remembered from years past bombarded him. At least eighty yards deep, the granite floors were bare of rug or carpeting save a twenty-foot square portion of black and silver tapestry that spanned outward from beneath the throne-like chair at the far end of the chamber.

When Jarvais focused on the Lawgiver sitting on the throne, he frowned. Sixty-three, Lawgiver Clemoun still looked more like the head of some smuggling network rather than Head of the Clemoun House. White teeth still flashed condescending smiles, and his voice still rang with the power of his position.

“You say the accusations are untrue,” the Lawgiver was saying, “yet you provide no defense to the contrary.”

Jarvais focused on the woman kneeling at the base of the Lawgiver’s platform. Her dark hair was matted, her face brown with the filth of a hard life. However, beyond the grime and squalor there shone a brightness of spirit, and her alto voice held strength of purpose that shocked him. The Lawgiver’s deftly wielded aura of power didn’t seem to affect her. Not many could say the same, and the fact that this woman of such graceful carriage held the Lawgiver’s gaze piqued Jarvais’ curiosity.

“What defense is there to offer to an accusation of evading tribute?” she asked. “Dead crops in the field? Animals that are merely skin and bone? Your soldiers saw that we had nothing and yet still expected us to give, and that tribute being the person of my sister. Lawgiver, if it’s a crime to survive, I freely admit my guilt. My sister, however, shouldn’t be punished for my mistakes. She is young and sheltered, naive to the sacrifices I must make as Head of House. I understand my position and don’t ask for leniency. All I want is reform.”

Lawgiver Clemoun’s white teeth flashed in a smile. “Reform, you say? What is in need of reform save the attitude of the citizenship? You resist work and complain when that laziness brings about punishment.”

“My people are not lazy,” the woman insisted, her body straightening as she lifted her head in defiance.

Jarvais withheld a chuckle. She certainly is a spit and spunk.

“They do the best they can with what they have,” she continued, “even when that is taken away again. Don’t you see that the demands you put upon us don’t take all the aspects of our life into account? Igla is starving, bad crops and plagues our only harvest, and yet you continue to demand the yearly tribute! Your rich living has blinded your eyes to our pain—”

A guard slapped her hard across the mouth, and Jarvais nearly launch forward to grab the guard by the scruff of the neck. When the woman straightened, she fixed the guard with a hard glare.

“You forget your place.” The Lawgiver’s warning rang surprisingly jovial.

“As you have forgotten yours.”

The guard made a move to strike again, but the woman deflected the blow with her shackled hands and struck him instead. Clemoun chuckled as he waved the guard aside, but not before her defense struck a chord in Jarvais’ memory of a friend and confidantY

The young warrior sheathed his blades and tightened the belt of the dual-scabbard at his hips.

“It’s true then.”

He looked up sharply, immediately scowling at the dark-haired girl leaning against the door frame of his bedchamber. She stood shorter than he by a good six inches, a little on the gangly side, and her blue eyes always shone bright with an irritating intensity. He couldn’t ever hold that gaze long.

He turned. “Go away.”

“The servants said you were leaving, but I didn’t believe them.” She stepped farther into the room, her movements graceful and controlled, belying the awkward appearance of her body. “Why? What’s so hard that you’re running away?”

“Leave me alone, girl. Go play dolls.”

She remained quiet, watching him pack for a brief moment of tense silence. Then she lunged to attack, the short sword sheathed on her back now drawn and ready. His own blades were in his hands to block the strike without hesitation of his action or her response.

“I don’t play with dolls,” she said, tone hurt as she lowered her weapon. “I never did. You know that better than anyone.” She sheathed her sword, watching as he did the same. “I’ve known you since I can remember. I thought we were friends. Were you really leaving without saying good-bye? With all we’ve been through?”

The warrior turned away to take a firm hold of his bag. “Staying longer is a mistake, Vail. I know that now.”

Vail sat on the bed. “Your father won’t be happy when he finds out you’ve gone.”

“It doesn’t matter. My life is my own, and now I must live it.”

“What about your studies?” Vail continued to watch him as he strapped the bag onto his back, her eyes glimmering. “Father wanted to make you his newest Apprentice. What... what about your dreams?”

“My dreams mean nothing if I haven’t the opportunity to discover them for myself. I must go where I have the freedom to live them. That freedom cannot be found here. Not any longer.” He furiously shoved a book into his pack. “Perhaps it never could.”

“I’m going to miss you.”

The young man looked over at twelve-year-old Vail, only daughter of his teacher Master Neile Straka, and scowled. “I cannot stay for you. I must find who I am.”

“I know that. I always knew you would leave. I only thought I would have more timeY.” Sighing, Vail absently rubbed her palms onto her legs, her intense blue eyes watching the action. “You will come back?”

The young warrior clenched his jaw and turned away. “Never! I despise this place. It’s naught but a prison.”

Vail nodded slowly.

He faced her again. “I always cause trouble for you with your father, Vail. You should be relieved to finally be rid of me.”

Vail met his gaze before slowly standing to her feet. “I—” Then she was embracing him and placing a firm kiss on his lips, hurrying away after voicing a tearful “I love you.”

The scene faded, but its potency lingered as Jarvais’ mind struggled to focus on the next words of his one-time friend.

“You are the protector of the people,” she reminded, “but you cause them more pain by this grasp for power and wealth. What we want is small next to what you already have, yet you begrudge us even that. Our children become slaves of your pleasure, and our old taken only The Mighty knows where. You bleed us and want more? How will you survive when we can no longer support you?”

Heavy silence descended as every eye focused on the Clemoun Lawgiver. He made a sharp motion with his hand and the guard cuffed Vail hard across the back of the head. She crumpled. “You dare reprimand me as if I were a child, woman? You shall receive a just enough punishment for your impudence!” He gestured to the guard. “Take her away.”

Guards surged around her and lifted her roughly to her feet.

When Vail lifted her gaze, she seemed oddly content, her expression vivid and intense as blood trickled from her temple. “War is coming for you, O mighty Lawgiver,” she decreed, her tone ringing through the chamber. “Before this season ends you and your Echelon followers will be judged and punished. You’ve been warned time and again, yet still you hold yourself above the law. Now you will see the placement of a new law. Jachaim has spoken.”

Then Vail had gone, her voice replaced by the muttering and whispering of the Echelon gathered within the chamber.

Jarvais stared after her. Vail Straka had always been a trustworthy friend, an eager adventurer, and a near equal on the sparring field. Now she had taken up the duty of advocate, speaking with passion against an unknown injustice that had his curiosity by the throat.

“What is his crime?”

Lawgiver Clemoun’s bored tone as he looked over paper and parchments drew Jarvais’ focus. He had dismissed Vail Straka’s spirit-filled warning easier than a sting bug was shooed away. He’s as big a fool as I remember.

“Lesser-Inspector Drisé sent him to you,” the aide reported, “but with no message.” He turned to Jarvais. “Why have they brought you? Are you accused of a crime?”

Jarvais smirked, remembering a time when there wouldn’t have been a need to ask. “No, sir. No crime. The Inspector suggested I come to ask if it’s all right to hoof it around your part of this place.”

“The Lawgiver’s sections are all.”

Jarvais raised an eyebrow. “What’s come of Trisbin?”

Clemoun lifted his head at that, his clean-shaven face taut with suspicion as he regarded the man before him. “What do you know of Lord Trisbin?”

“I know this nation is divided between three Houses using three rivers as borders.” Jarvais nearly grimaced as he gave his small patch of beard an absent-minded pull.

The Lawgiver made his way from the throne to stalk around Jarvais. “You know much for a stranger.”

“Well, I’m not that much of a stranger.” Was it a curse or blessing that his personal change was so complete that Lawgiver Clemoun didn’t recognize him?

Clemoun’s eyes narrowed. “Name?”

“I’m called Jarvais,” he informed easily, holding the Lawgiver’s gaze, “and I’ve just come from the vessel Wave Hawk. However, if it’s history you’re wanting, I was born of a well-to-do family around here. First born of a man like you.” Jarvais retrieved a signet ring of the palest of yellow metals from the inside pocket of his jacket.

Clemoun glared down at the ring before turning to the Echelon still lingering in the chamber. “Leave me—Immediately!”

The Echelon scurried from the room to the accompaniment of whispered questions of the stranger’s identity. When the chamber emptied, Clemoun once more faced Jarvais. “Trinkets can be stolen.”

Jarvais produced a finely embroidered coat-of-arms still attached to a tattered bit of sleeve. “What about this?”

Clemoun stared at it, a yellowish-green tint appearing around his taut lips. “Easily reproduced.”

Jarvais tucked the articles back into their respective hidden pockets before deliberately rolling up the sleeve of his left arm to reveal a birthmark that gave the impression of being two crossed swords. “This too, I guess?”

The Lawgiver’s entire complexion paled.

“Surprise, Father. I’m home.”