“Afternoon friend.” I address our prisoner. His tattered lips remain shut. He professes his hate for me with his eyes. I understand. He refused to speak when I offered him safe passage home. He refused to speak as Aduren burnt the hair from his head. I excel at hurting men, but I do not believe that I can break this one. His pride is without ego, his prejudice is impersonally categorical. His is a strange flavor of human vanity, and within its explanation may lie the explanation of his presence. It may also explain the actions of the warrior maiden responsible for the first sacking of Kitford.
“My father was a good man.” I tell no one in particular. “In the presence of good and evil, he always chose the right thing.” I cannot tell if my one man audience can sense my sarcasm. “He was quick to love those ordained by grace.” I sling my lute’s leather strap over one shoulder. “He was quick to slay all those evil things lurking about in the world.” The prisoner’s eyes tell no tales. His composure is remarkable. I pluck a minor interval in the instrument’s lowest register. Will music persuade him to speak? No. It will cause him to think, though, and that will be enough. I will be listening.
His heart was strong
The perfect man,
He loved his family,
As all men can,
His fought the war,
Waged by mankind,
For fear of death,
And his feeble mind
That was my Pa,
My good old Pa.
That was my Pa,
My good old Pa.
I have practiced thousands of hours to build songs as I am building this one now. I construct its form with my lute, and it’s objective with the timbre of my voice. I fuel it with the primordial DNA remnant in my hateful body. Invisibly, it comes alive. It penetrates the mind of the detained sheep thief - trussed wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle. It spreads then to the hissing campfire where it infiltrates the minds of Aduren and Malthen, trading stories and gazing at the moon. Lastly, it finds poor, traumatized Kha. After grappling the thief, he retired to the shadows where the aftermath of a great adrenaline surge repeatedly empties his stomach and bowels.
He fell in love,
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But his wife she lied,
She was a monster,
So she must die.
The son she bore,
He loved no more,
For if he did,
Then gods would roar.
That was my Pa,
My good old Pa.
That was my Pa,
My good old Pa.
The captive’s mind has an orderliness that only complete faith can provide. I want to know his name. My fingers ask the strings. The strings ask the song. The song asks his mind. Errad. I smile down at Errad. A splinter of emotion assails his composure.
His son he left,
To find swift death,
Was blessed with luck,
And passed the test.
He grew up fast,
And sought his past,
He found his home,
And Pa at last.
I ask the song about Errad’s Pa. It does its duty. Errad’s Pa could do no wrong in the eyes of his son. Before his honorable passing, he earned the greatest merits a Gamma could dream of. Among his most commendable attributes were loyalty, obedience, fortitude, and faith. What is a Gamma? What did it have to do with Kitford’s alehouse? To earn another answer, I must feed the song.
Pa loved this boy,
Who sought him out,
Who sang for joy,
And was devout.
Right up until,
His farce ran out,
He slit Pa’s throat,
And Pa bled out
He was my Pa,
My good old Pa.
He was my Pa,
My good old Pa.
What is a ‘Gamma’? A ‘Gamma’ is a member of The Society’s militaristic social class. A Gamma represents order, war, peace, and trust.
Excitement overwhelms my precise emotional state, and I lose grip of the song’s emotional reins. It reverberates happily into the night, relishing its freedom. This man is a subject of some ‘Society’ with a social class called Gamma! Such a thing does not exist in the known world! I am speaking to the first real foreigner I have ever met. How many have spoken to his kind before me? Am I one of the first? Surely not. The woman who organized Herkskel’s kidnapping was perhaps a Gamma as well. She bore the same sigils on her palms, and observed the world with the same colorless irises. How did she come to command men of this continent? Why did she risk so much in the acquisition and defense of a small town mayor? Completely by chance, I have stumbled upon the bleeding edge of a mystery of worldwide significance. I cannot help but chuckle up at the stars.