Charyic

Anykrocath, the place the goddess of song gathered her blessèd chosen. Or rather the place all with the gift of prophetic song were gathered. Forcibly. Most embraced this fate as a gift, a chance to live in the lap of what could almost pass for luxury. Singing for Kings and Queens, singing at festivals and on Holy days. Any time those with power and coin wished a glimpse of the future, the chosen would be summoned, and they were always well rewarded if the songs were lovely enough.

Between those times the chosen walked the goddess’ temple and her gardens. Birds in cages sang exquisitely while they lounged and listened. That they were songbirds in a larger cage only occurred to a few of them. And they were careful not to say so aloud.

Charyic, however, had no intention of staying. The clever thief had been robbing a caravan, which happened to count priests of Anyk among their number. As she had been pulling a hefty purse from the satchel next to a sleeping priest, the old b*****d had woken up and struck her with his incense filled scepter. She had burst into song and not been able to stop for three days. Her throat had been sore and her lips were bleeding by the time she had fallen blessedly silent. Ever since that wretched day, when she opened her mouth to speak all that came out was song.

It was obvious from the priests on guard that she wasn’t the first to have attempted escape, and the place was most certainly a fortress designed to keep people from getting out, as much as from getting in. But Charyic never saw a puzzle and a reward and walked away. She would rob this place blind and escape to spend her money. She gritted her teeth. Even if she had to keep her mouth shut for the rest of her life.

Her plotting and planning was, however, continually interrupted. The priests badgered her into opening her mouth to speak. It was a tremendous gift, a true privilege, to be so touched by the goddess that words could no longer be spoken. But her songs were not lovely. They were filled with bloodshed and fear, songs of battle and fire. And each time she was forced to open her mouth, each time they forced sound from her, the songs became angrier. She needed to be taken before the Keam. He would know if she were truly gifted or if she were merely mocking them as some of the priests thought. There were those who had pretended to have the gift before.

Charyic had been there for almost a month before she was taken to an antechamber to wait for her audience with the Keam. She sat silently and sulkily as the priests whispered amongst themselves. Apparently, there was a Prince of the dark north demanding an audience as well. The priests were finally summoned before the Keam, and when she stood to accompany them, they smirked and told her to sit and wait. She sat.

But Charyic didn’t wait. As soon as the priests had stepped through the audience chamber doors, she moved silently to the door to the corridor and opened it carefully. No guard. He was further down by the corner, and there was no guard at all in the other direction, that she could see. She grinned and slipped out moving soundlessly down the corridor away from the guard.

She found stairs, narrow servant’s stairs, and slipped down them, but only to the floor below, there was someone coming up and she had to get off of them quickly. She moved swiftly and quietly down the hall and cursed herself silently. The direction she’d chosen ended in a large stained glass window. Hearing voices beginning to be raised in the direction she had come from, she ducked into a door to her left. Charyic stood by the closed door, listening for a moment, and then stepped away from it moving toward the windows.

She was in a suite, something fit for royalty if it didn’t belong to the Keam, she thought. No light valuables were laid out for her to snatch and she didn’t have time or inclination to start searching. She just wanted to get away at this point, and this might be her best chance. Her only chance, an anxious voice piped up in the back of her mind.

Moving through the rooms and looking out of the windows, Charyic saw it. The way the delicate looking outer supports came away from the side near the corner. That was her way down. She could-the sound of the door opening made her spin in surprise. Men had entered the suite speaking a harsh language she could not understand, one of the northern languages if she had to guess. They were still in the other room and hadn’t noticed her yet, maybe she could find a way out without them seeing her.

Charyic moved to the farthest room as noiselessly as a mouse, a bedroom, with a black staff leaning against the wall by the window. The perfect window for her escape. A little luck, finally. She grinned and grabbed the staff after she pulled the window open, something was better than nothing and it might be useful on the way down.

She was out of the window in an instant, using the staff to help her keep her balance, touching it to the stonework to steady herself. Out to the place the supports arched and crossed below her feet, she needed to focus, to start her descent along the outside. Furious voices echoed over the supports at her. Charyic looked up and saw a hooded man shouting orders, readying his crossbow, and his men flinging open the windows of the suite with more of the same.

She opened her mouth to try and placate them, but all that came out was song. Song of battle and a shadowed prince, song of dragon’s fire and the scourge of Luzoron. The hooded man lifted his hand from his crossbow and pulled back his hood. His face was broad and flat and his eyes the fiery black opal of the feared Kings of Luzoron, the monsters of men who had long been thought wiped out. Charyic slipped.