Chương 2: Chapter 1 – The Preacher’s Son

"Times are hard, brothers and sisters. We all know it. We all see it. We hear stories of Hollows roaming the countryside and making the roads unsafe, of villages burned by rogue Planetouched who use their powers for ill. No doubt we all feel the pain of rising costs and shortages, in the struggles to feed our families," Harrow Ashcroft's sermon was met with a room full of nodding heads. The content was much the same as it had been for months now, though the words changed from day to day.

Passage's father wasn't one to repeat the same tired script. People noticed, he always said. They don't look to a preacher to see a performer spouting lines, but for a leader sharing wisdom. It didn't matter so much if the words weren't perfect, it was enough that someone was saying them. It was a testament to Harrow's skill as a preacher, or perhaps a sign of how common the scene had become, that the man didn't miss a beat when he spotted Passage and his friends sneaking in quietly at the back of the temple.

The five of them had scuffed clothes, bloody lips and fresh grazes down their arms. Passage's knuckles ached and his mouth still tasted like blood. They hadn't been looking for trouble. Not really. But trouble was easy to find in the Gutters of Greymere. Passage ushered the rest of the crew in and closed the door as quietly as he could, shooting his father an apologetic look. Harrow just kept on with his sermon, his voice filling the hall, deep and resonant though he scarcely seemed to raise it.

"It is often said that hard times make for hard men. That when we are called upon to endure, Durnheim lingers closer so that we might draw our strength from the Plane of stone." Harrow stood at the far end of the hall, pacing between the altars to Durnheim, Wodfyr, and Gnoros. A tall man with broad shoulders and hair that went grey after the death of his wife ten years earlier. Passage had been looking up at his father standing before those altars for as long as he could remember. None of them were overly ornate.

Each has been constructed to foster closeness with one of the Planes by drawing in Fera, the stuff of magic wielded by Stained souls. Stone adorned the altar of Durnheim. Lit candles for the flames of Wodfyr. Poetry, schematics and puzzles for Gnoros, the Plane of cognition. Their purpose was not to worship the Planes, nor the Aldaryn who sat upon their Thrones as living gods.

Rather, the altars were meant to thin the veil and bring the Planes closer, so that mortal souls might draw some comfort from them even if they could not sense the Fera themselves. Those three in particular were chosen for the ideals that they represented as the three chief Planes of the Empire. The pillars of the House of Industry. Behind the altar hung a single tapestry, the most ornate decoration in the space. It depicted three rings stacked vertically, each overlapping slightly at the edges.

Within each were four stylised symbols. One for each of their tiers of their power, and one for their realm. Planetouched, Planewalker, and Planeshaper. Along the edges, the eight Planar icons were displayed, paired in their opposites. The altar aside, the hall itself was sparsely decorated. The floor was bedecked with old, worn-out rugs that didn't match, but helped manage the chill. Small fires burned smokeless in braziers at the corners of the room, each containing an Implement marked by Wodfyr.

Wooden beams held up the ceiling, lower and less impressive than the vaulted works of art in the temple on Glasshill, while simple wooden pews offered seating for the small gathering who had made it there for morning service.

"But we should be wary of turning to Durnheim alone for strength. A heart of stone endures but does not feel. So, turn too towards Wodfyr and remember that kindness and warmth are the reasons we endure, if not the method. Turn to Gnoros and remember that it is in wisdom that we may find peace and the path to better days."

"Stelan," murmured the crowd.

"Stelan," Passage mumbled and rubbed his bruised knuckles. He wished the Planes would hang a little closer in his own times of trouble. When things went wrong, kindness and cleverness both seemed to be in short supply. He glanced to his left and noticed Bracken staring at one of the braziers hungrily. It didn't matter how many times he explained to his friend that Implements rarely carried enough power to mark a soul, Bracken remained enamoured with the things.

Passage drove an elbow into Bracken's ribs, the much smaller boy startling out of his daydreams to offer up his own belated and much too loud "Stelan!" A few heads turned at that and even Harrow crooked an eyebrow. Bracken ducked his chin in embarrassment, bony shoulders hunching around his ears while his pale skin glowed pink. Harrow didn't bother trying to suppress his smile.

He just shook his head slightly and finished the sermon, reminding all gathered not to fear the encroachments of Braethur or Thulmor, the Planes of beasts and shadows. The low Planes were distant things, far removed from the lands of the Empire so long as all good citizens continued to uphold order and look out for their fellow man. As the sermon concluded, Harrow approached the stone bell that hung above the altar to Durnheim – a granite plinth adorned with small samples of minerals and metals artfully placed.

Passage closed his eyes and waited eagerly as his father rang the Implement bell. Sure enough, the sound rang out, deep and heavy as the earth, it echoed through the temple in a single slow chime that rumbled through Passage's bones. Strength rose steadily through him, beginning where his feet met the ground and rolling through his body. He became as stone, calm and enduring, the aches and pains of the morning's tussle brushed aside like so much dirt.

As the deep chime faded, Passage sighed, feeling that weighty strength settle into his bones. It would fade in moments, but he savoured that solid sense of peace while it lasted. The blessing did as he had hoped it would, dulling the hurts and vanishing bruises. It was not a perfect healing, Implements from the Planes of light or water would've been better for that, but it was enough.

Glancing to his friends, he saw the same serene gratitude on their faces, the relief at knowing they wouldn't all have to limp home with wounds rapidly swelling. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"Go in peace everyone," Harrow bid the congregation. People began shuffling out of the pews and headed towards the exit. Passage made to do the same – Bracken, Ressa, Torvin, and Sable already fumbling with the side door to make their escape before Harrow could ask any questions. The man wasn't judgemental, but his disappointment had a way of weighing you down. The five of them often disappointed him.

"Everyone except my son, and Bracken." A handful of heads turned at that and those who knew Passage spotted him quickly, chuckling or shaking their heads at the sight of him. He was easy to spot. At seventeen he was head and shoulders taller than most men and looked more like a blacksmith's son than a preacher's. His skin forever tanned despite Greymere being aptly named, forever grey and shrouded in mist. People often said he must have been marked by Durnheim in the womb.

They were wrong, of course, Passage's soul carried no Stains. It was his mother's Tyrathi blood that gave him his colouring, or so his father said.

"What did I do?" Bracken asked, wounded. The other three shot them both smiles without a hint of apology and made good on their escape. Traitors one and all.

"I'm not sure, but I've no doubt it was your idea," Harrow said as he approached. That was fair. It had definitely been Bracken's idea. Most of the mistakes that Passage had been party to in his life had been Bracken's idea. But then, so had the best days of his life. If Passage was touched by Durnheim, then Bracken was favoured by Aerwyn, the Plane of sky and air. The boy seemed forever blown along by the winds of chance. They'd been running a scam. A harmless one, in the scheme of things.

Bracken and Sable had been practicing sleight of hand recently. It had begun as a game, the pair of them trying to score points on one another by picking the other's pocket or tricking them in rigged games of chance. They were honestly both getting quite good. It had been Bracken's idea to turn it into something more than a game. Nothing terrible, nothing so dangerous as outright theft, though none of them were entirely innocent of that score. The rules were fairly simple in the Gutters.

Rob, steal, lie and exploit all you want as long as the mark was from Glasshill. You just never crossed another soul from the Gutters. They had it hard enough as it was. The five of them had set up a stall on the roadside near one of the markets on Glasshill. Small, innocuous, and out of the way of anyone important.

Bracken and Sable had taken turns playing a game with passersby, betting a stack of coins at five-to-one odds on the person finding a ball hidden under a cup and shuffled around, only the ball was never really there. Dead simple, tried and true. A classic, Bracken had called it. Bracken had also been the smiling idiot who tried the scam on the one bored pair of guards who had wandered their way at the end of their shift.

The stink of booze on their breath should've been enough warning not to try it, but the confident fool had done it anyway and earned all five of them a thrashing. A thrashing that, despite his better judgement, Passage had made sure was not one-sided. He'd be avoiding the hill for a while. Passage found himself inspecting the pattern of the rug at his feet as Harrow approached, praying that Glass would turn his gaze elsewhere and let him keep his secrets.

"Do I even want to know?" Harrow asked, arms crossed. The last of the congregation filed from the hall, the doors swinging shut behind them and the pair shuffled towards the front of the temple to meet him.

"If we say no, but that we're also very contrite and have learned our lessons, will you let us go?" Bracken flashed a grin. There was still blood on his lip and a clump of mud in his mess of wheat-coloured hair.

"It was nothing, dad. Just a bit of fun that got out of hand. It's all sorted now, though. Nothing to worry about." Passage tried to look reassuring, meaning the words as he said them. A minor tussle with some drunk guards and a harmless roadside scam was practically saintly behaviour by Gutters standards.

"Nothing worries a father more than his son telling him not to. It never bodes well," Harrow spoke the words with grave solemnity, but there was a twinkle of laughter in his eye.

"But then, no son has ever taken a lesson from his father's words when given the chance to make the mistake for himself and learn firsthand. Such is the way of the world." Bracken looked like a cat with its tail caught beneath a boot, desperate to be anywhere but in the middle of a father-son chat. Harrow noticed and clapped him on the shoulder, no less fatherly for their lack of shared blood.

"Very well, no questions." Passage breathed a sigh of relief even as he waited for the other boot to drop. Harrow held up a finger.

"On one condition. I need the pair of you to go by the bakers on Fisher's Bend." He reached into his robe and produced a pouch clinking heavily with coin.

"You're to buy everything Jasper has to sell for the day and then help him bring it all here. Give some away to any beggars you see on the way back and let them know there will be soup and bread at the temple tonight for anyone hungry or on hard times." The side door flung abruptly open, two thugs sneering in the entrance. Bracken and Passage startled, turning to face the intruders. Harrow's brow furrowed and his lips tugged down at the edges. There was no fear on his face, just grim resolve.

"Beggin' your pardon, Harrow, but I couldn't help overhearin' that last bit, and it sounded an awful lot like you was telling these young boys to do somethin' very very stupid indeed."