Forgotten Embers

Chapter 19: The Letter

Avera followed Blackridge back through the hidden door and into the narrow corridor, retracing the halls they had come down. The cramped corridor seemed to devour the light which disappeared suddenly and without warning, and all turned to darkness when the door shut behind them. She kept close behind him, the maurium crystals lighting their path. They walked in silence as they went, and they continued on through the dark halls of the now familiar castle.

Lord Blackridge was still giving off a quiet air of intensity which Avera found somewhat intimidating, and she found herself thinking how glad she was to have his favor. Avera felt her mind begin to wander, still swirling with the events of the day. Questions and conversations warred with simple observations and distant memories of home.

"Lord Blackridge," she said at last, "is my father really conspiring against the state?"

"Avera," he said with a sigh, "your father is a good man, faithful to the King. He is a champion of justice. That is why he came here, and that is all he's ever done here." He spoke softly and with empathy.

"But what of these accusations of treason?" she asked him, her eyes feeling the burden of tears.

"Avera," he said, "not everything is as it seems here. Your father is a good and decent man with a good and decent heart. He had to flee for his life, because I couldn't get to him in time, and don't believe anyone who says otherwise."

"You... tried to help him?" she asked, her heart trembling.

"We were friends," he told her. "I was the one who asked him to come and work for us. I felt responsible for his well being."

'You were... he never told me who.'

She remembered the day the letter came. Her father was on their porch repairing a wooden rocking chair when a special courier came, a military man from Pyre dressed in full regalia.

"Tyberion Ibori?" the man asked.

"Yes?" her father replied, and the man extended the letter to him. "What's this?"

"A letter for you, sir," the man informed him. "Communications from Pyre."

"A letter? Who is it from?" her father asked out loud, but the man remained silent as he stood and waited. Her father opened the envelope and read the lines of the letter. "...Ridiculous."

"Not at all, sir," the man said. "He was quite serious."

"Daddy, what is it? Who's it from?" she had asked him, tugging at his shirt, her face turned upwards towards him.

"An appeal to my patriotism... from an old friend, but I thought he'd made up his mind to have forgotten me," he told her, patting her curly haired head.

'I wonder what went on between them, why they didn't speak for all those years. I don't want to be rude, but I do wonder...'

"What the Inquisitor said," she began with hesitance, "is it true? ...about the blood."

His eyes shifted back to her, then looked away again. Twice he did this before closing his eyes, but still there was no answer from him.

"I heard the story of a man named Blackridge once," she told him, speaking softly as she aired her thoughts. "I understand he killed a lot of people."

"That's old history, unfit for a new world," he coldly informed her. "Besides that, the man is dead."

They continued on down the hall in silence, Avera fighting to escape her settling gloom over the uncertainty of her situation, which was troubling her quiet mind when Blackridge suddenly stopped as if to say something of some importance.

"Avera, would you deliver a letter for me?" he asked her, discreetly shifting his eyes in her direction.

"A... letter?" she answered back, looking up at him with questioning eyes.

"Yes." He spoke to her softly as they walked. "It needs to be delivered to a man in the northern sector. For me to go see him would be... difficult at the moment," he quietly explained, his words shrouded in secrecy, "and a good courier is hard to come by these days."

"Yes, I understand."

"You will take it, then?"

"I will," she said, nodding more than was necessary. "Yes."

"Thank you," he told her, maintaining a soft manner of speaking. "It is a matter of some importance. The letter is for Lazarus. You should find him in the Congregation of the Kingsmen near the Northern Gate." He handed her a sealed envelope addressed in simple ink marked Lazarus. "Speak to the congregational leader. He may claim that there is no one there by that name, but you must insist. He knows me well and will ensure that the information is passed on."

"Of course," she said, taking the letter from him and placing it securely in the inner pocket of her skysuit.

"Thank you," he told her, smiling.

"You're very welcome."

They made their way through the dark halls and past the main chambers until they came to the main hall once again, and from there Blackridge graciously escorted her down the path of scorched earth which led to the main gates of the fortified palace.

"If you follow that way," he said, pointing down the broad and winding path, "it should get you back to the main thoroughfare in good time."

"Thank you, Lord Blackridge," she told him, taking a short bow. "I do appreciate your help."

"And yours," he said, smiling. She turned to go, starting to walk away. "And Avera!"  he added, calling after her to stop her as went. "All is well." A soft, reassuring smile appeared on the sage's face as he spoke, and it somehow calmed her heart.

She smiled as a warm light penetrated within the depths of her wounded being. 'All is well.' Somehow, despite everything, she believed it.

***

She walked through the crowded streets of Pyre, the sun shining brightly. Merchants and peddlers were selling various goods from their carts in the broad roads of the city. Shops and houses lined the sides of the streets and people hurried here or there while others stopped to purchase items from this vendor or that.

She carefully kept on her way, trying to avoid the crowds while also hoping to get lost in them. The world had been awfully lonely since her father had gone off to work at High Palace, and so much more now that he was missing entirely. She was thankful for the adventure which had come in place of her heart. It was a welcome change to her thoughts as she fought the wanting of her emotions to sink back into the dark state of despair which had become so familiar to them. At least she could refocus her mind on her mission - the letter.

She rounded a corner to pass the Northern Gate and found the building just as Lord Blackridge had described it. Etched into the stone above the building's entryway were the words North Pyre Kingsmen Congregation.

"This would be it then," she muttered. The street was empty by comparison to the main thoroughfare of the city, and she looked around her as she went to enter the building, somewhat inexplicably concerned.

She had never been to a Kingsmen congregation herself, though her father had attended on occasion. There seemed to be a gravity about the place, and she paused, nervously taking a breath.

'Just go in and deliver the letter.'

But still, there was something... something. She grabbed the brass handle of the red wooden door and pulled, then snuck quietly inside, pulling the door shut again quietly behind her.

She stood in a small lobby lined with tables to the left and right which held books and pamphlets of various kinds. A spiral staircase ascended to her right above the white tiled floor, and directly in front of her were two large wooden doors held open with chained latches.

She self-consciously made her way into the entry of the sanctuary, examining the room and its people from her own comfortable distance. Men, women, children, rich and poor, young and old, people of status and people of none were all squished together in the moderately sized amphitheater, every one of them seated on curved wooden benches which she estimated to be quite uncomfortable.

'I've never understood these people. Why subject yourself to this?'

She ducked back behind the doors and out of sight, making an effort to hear what was being said. There was a solitary speaker, a man, reading something she had heard before. His voice was riveting, filled with authority, conviction, and... familiar.

'That voice...'

The room sat spellbound in a silent intensity which grew with every line he read. His words echoed through the chambers of the hall as he shut the book and his voice raised. She closed her eyes to focus in, listening hard to the sound of his voice with its strange familiarity. It reminded her of the pleasantly distinguished hooting of a friendly owl, and she knew that she had heard it sometime before.

'That voice... I know I've heard it. Who is it?'

She waited out the minutes and let out a sigh of relief as they reached an end of their meeting, the man dismissing the congregation with a blessing after a song.

Avera moved herself slowly back into view of the doors. The people were scattered in various places, some milling about as others gathered their things, and yet others hurried to go, walking silently past her. A few people stopped to try and talk with her, but she politely ignored them, uninterested. The longer she waited, the more people began to leave, some carrying on quiet conversations as others walked alone. The room continued to empty out until she found it an appropriate time to enter, going against the outward flow towards the platform.

There were still pockets of people standing here or there chattering pleasantly. There were some discussing kingdom policy and kingship, others heavily engaged in matters of deep spiritual philosophy, and others still addressing similar topics she wasn't sure she would like to be bothered with for the time.

'Best to avoid such things.'

There was a man standing behind the lectern at the front. He was gathering papers together, and she expected that he had been the one speaking, which also made him a prime candidate for her letter taking expedition. He was finely dressed in a suit jacket and trousers with a matching vest and tie. His clothes were lightly worn, which was notable but not especially easy to notice.

'Modest dress. Though, perhaps necessarily. And how unlike a man in Pyre to be wearing regional garb... he's clearly not a traveler.'

He was, in terms of his stature, very much average and quite unremarkable. He had a round face with peach, lightly tanned skin and a short, neatly kept beard. His thick gray hair was carefully combed in a traditional manner, though it was slightly longer than one might expect and became somewhat frazzled around the ears. He looked up at her as she began to approach him, the brightly glimmering orangey-brown eyes of his kindly countenance being covered only by the clarifying lenses of his large, round, darkly rimmed glasses.

"Why, hello," he said cordially, smiling warmly as he watched her approach. "I don't believe we've met."

"No, sir," she said pleasantly with a nervous smile. "We haven't."

"Tell me, how did you come to-" he began to ask politely before she stopped him.

She closed her eyes tightly, shutting him out, and took a deep breath. "I'm not here for the reasons you think I am," she told him, cutting him short.

"Oh?" he asked, sounding somewhere between surprised and skeptical.

"No," she said, beginning to unzip the collar of her skysuit and causing him to avert his gaze with nervous discomfort. "You see, sir, I have a letter for you," she stated matter-of-factly, assuring him of her righteous intent while pulling from her breast pocket the small folded envelope Lord Blackridge had given her.

"Yes, well..." he began, slightly skittish, "we don't get much mail here, and I wasn't expecting a letter." His voice was kind but hesitant.

"But you are the congregational leader, aren't you?" she respectfully challenged him.

"Yes... but-" he was reluctant to explain, and she took it as an opportunity to insist.

"In that case, I was told to give this to you," she told him, shaking the letter for emphasis. "It's for a man named Lazarus."

"Lazarus?" he said, a look of alarm suddenly crossing his face.

'That's interesting.'

"No," he stammered, "I'm sorry..."

"Yes, it's a letter to you, marked Lazarus," she insisted, shoving the letter towards him.

His mood didn't seem to be at all alleviated, and he let out a hard sigh. "Where did you hear that name?" he asked in a soft but serious tone with a look of deep concern.

"Look!" she said forcefully, presenting the envelope and pointing to the dark writing. "It says it right here on the envelope! The letter is for Lazarus."

The man thoughtfully stroked his bearded chin with a look of pensive amusement as he considered her impassioned speech, but he still seemed unconvinced.

"Please," she said emphatically, unsure of what to do to convince him, "the letter is from Lord Blackridge. He's the one who sent me to you." She paused, her eyes watching him and pleading. "He said it was important," she told him, moving her eyes to the letter she still held firmly in her grip.

"Well, Lord Blackridge, my, my!" He chuckled at her forthrightness, seeming to relax a little. "What did you say your name was, young lady?" he asked politely, kindly removing the message from her hand.

"Uh... Avera Ibori, sir," she sheepishly informed him.

His face lit with a warm smile which morphed into a small, congenial grin. "Avera Ibori," he repeated after her. "It is a pleasure to meet you after all this time." He extended his hand to shake hers. "My name is Horace Waverley."

Her eyes widened. 'What! No.'

"You're Mr. Waverley?" she asked, surprised and unbelieving as she took his hand in hers.

"It would certainly appear that way, wouldn't it?" he jokingly replied. "And I do so dearly love these people, but, I'm afraid, we shouldn't talk here. Would you be so kind as to join me in my office?" he asked her, indicating a door on the platform behind him.