decision, whether Father would still be alive if he had entered the church. Again Jaeron found himself troubled trying to reconcile his faith with his family’s lifestyle and profession.
The first time Jaeron entered the Cathedral of Teichmar, he was only eight years old. Henri had not been very concerned with a theological education for his adoptees, but he practiced a few traditions from younger days. Unfortunately, his devotions of respect and mourning for his deceased wife, Liadee, were an outlawed practice of Oundull. With the aggressive sentences being handed down on so-called blasphemers, Henri had found a new way to pray for his departed. He made his annual trip to temple once a year, alone. But when the family’s nanny was no longer available, Henri had brought the children with him. While Avrilla played with her rag doll and Chazd slept curled on Henri’s lap, Jaeron looked around in amazement.
The cool interior, the glowing polish on the wood, the scent of incense, charcoal, and lecouri oil awed Jaeron and at the same time gave him serenity. If the physical attributes of the Cathedral had not firmly entranced him, the words and seemingly heartfelt kindness of Father Bruhan had made it complete.
It was at least a year later before Henri had explained to him why they went to church each year. Jaeron had continued going with Henri, then going on his own with increasing frequency. Jaeron’s belief in the Word of Teichmar had grown over the years, despite the obvious trench between those teachings and his family’s way of life. The teachings of Teichmar espoused justice and had no tolerance of theft or deceit. Yet, he saw that the struggling poor needed the interplay of the city’s thieves to sustain even a meager existence. The telltale evidence of city corruption was bad enough, but the ongoing war with Rosunland meant that necessities were often difficult to come by. Food, clothing, leather goods – depending on the needs of the men on the front - any of these things could be too expensive or in too short supply. The Thieves’ Guilds redistribution of goods seemed to balance those needs.
But tonight his prayers gave him little comfort, and Jaeron feared that justice had come for his father after all. When he left to make his way to the bridge, Jaeron felt as confused as ever.
The Talica Bridge held renown as the architectural achievement of Islar. In fact, the bridge structure was known amongst the kingdoms as one of the pinnacle monuments of the nation of Bormeer. The eight-hundred-foot span was crossed by a three arch bridge, where the central arch was supported by two pairs of three-hundred and fifty foot towers. The towers were shaped in distinct likenesses of a pleasant Bormeeran man and woman, their arms holding up the seal of Bormeer. Constructed of hardwood, concrete, and granite, each figure was dressed with white alabaster behind which was a complex network of plumbing that fed hundreds of oil lamps from a central reservoir at the top of each tower. The lamps were hidden in critical folds or behind thin veneers of the dense, semi-transparent stone illuminating the marvels from within. At night, the glow could be seen for miles around the city.
He paused in the last bit of shadow available, underneath the eaves of a brick two-story. Steps away, the bridge waited, bathed in the glow of the giant statues. Despite the prayers, Jaeron’s thoughts were dark. He could not see the peaceful and determined workers of Islar in the giant faces of stone, but a quartet of Bormeerans suffering in the fires of Malfekke.
Eleven
G erlido Krosch sat hunched over the high table in the corner of the smoky room. The tavern was almost empty. Only a couple of stragglers remained, drinking over their dice game until there were no dozecs remaining in their pockets to bet. They were all Black Fang guild members. Gerlid o’ s arrangement with the pub owner effectively turned over the premises to the guild after normal
The first time Jaeron entered the Cathedral of Teichmar, he was only eight years old. Henri had not been very concerned with a theological education for his adoptees, but he practiced a few traditions from younger days. Unfortunately, his devotions of respect and mourning for his deceased wife, Liadee, were an outlawed practice of Oundull. With the aggressive sentences being handed down on so-called blasphemers, Henri had found a new way to pray for his departed. He made his annual trip to temple once a year, alone. But when the family’s nanny was no longer available, Henri had brought the children with him. While Avrilla played with her rag doll and Chazd slept curled on Henri’s lap, Jaeron looked around in amazement.
The cool interior, the glowing polish on the wood, the scent of incense, charcoal, and lecouri oil awed Jaeron and at the same time gave him serenity. If the physical attributes of the Cathedral had not firmly entranced him, the words and seemingly heartfelt kindness of Father Bruhan had made it complete.
It was at least a year later before Henri had explained to him why they went to church each year. Jaeron had continued going with Henri, then going on his own with increasing frequency. Jaeron’s belief in the Word of Teichmar had grown over the years, despite the obvious trench between those teachings and his family’s way of life. The teachings of Teichmar espoused justice and had no tolerance of theft or deceit. Yet, he saw that the struggling poor needed the interplay of the city’s thieves to sustain even a meager existence. The telltale evidence of city corruption was bad enough, but the ongoing war with Rosunland meant that necessities were often difficult to come by. Food, clothing, leather goods – depending on the needs of the men on the front - any of these things could be too expensive or in too short supply. The Thieves’ Guilds redistribution of goods seemed to balance those needs.
But tonight his prayers gave him little comfort, and Jaeron feared that justice had come for his father after all. When he left to make his way to the bridge, Jaeron felt as confused as ever.
The Talica Bridge held renown as the architectural achievement of Islar. In fact, the bridge structure was known amongst the kingdoms as one of the pinnacle monuments of the nation of Bormeer. The eight-hundred-foot span was crossed by a three arch bridge, where the central arch was supported by two pairs of three-hundred and fifty foot towers. The towers were shaped in distinct likenesses of a pleasant Bormeeran man and woman, their arms holding up the seal of Bormeer. Constructed of hardwood, concrete, and granite, each figure was dressed with white alabaster behind which was a complex network of plumbing that fed hundreds of oil lamps from a central reservoir at the top of each tower. The lamps were hidden in critical folds or behind thin veneers of the dense, semi-transparent stone illuminating the marvels from within. At night, the glow could be seen for miles around the city.
He paused in the last bit of shadow available, underneath the eaves of a brick two-story. Steps away, the bridge waited, bathed in the glow of the giant statues. Despite the prayers, Jaeron’s thoughts were dark. He could not see the peaceful and determined workers of Islar in the giant faces of stone, but a quartet of Bormeerans suffering in the fires of Malfekke.
Eleven
G erlido Krosch sat hunched over the high table in the corner of the smoky room. The tavern was almost empty. Only a couple of stragglers remained, drinking over their dice game until there were no dozecs remaining in their pockets to bet. They were all Black Fang guild members. Gerlid o’ s arrangement with the pub owner effectively turned over the premises to the guild after normal
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