Vong swings the door open wide and shuttles us through. Immediately, I regret coming. Half the people, workers and patrons alike, greet Vong by name or knowing wave. He is buoyant and goes around greeting some of the customers while Rakatha and I mill about uncomfortably.
Or at least we would have if Rakatha did not make a beeline for the bar.
The barkeep and Vong, across the room from one another, have a quick conversation consisting entirely of pointing at tables. Vong waves us over to a round table against the wall. I sit with my back to the wall so I can keep aware of my surroundings. Rakatha carries over three flagons that he appears to have ordered for only himself.
“Just a minute while I check in with my mother, okay?” Vong doesn’t actually wait for an answer—I note that is not the first time he’s done that—and heads through a swinging door to the back that reveals a large and brightly-lit kitchen beyond.
Rakatha chugs one of the flagons and brings it down heavily on the thickly-lacquered wood. The interior is welcoming and comfortable—cute paintings on ornamented scrolls and family heirlooms that I’ve seen the like of before but can’t quite place. Definitely not Elysian.
I go backward through my life’s journeys trying to identify it. Not Khanhein. Not Solmienya. Not Dromatica. Not Free Realms League. Maybe Moran Vanguard? No, but possibly around there. Definitely nothing from the Shattered Coast, including Andranu and Varasht. What is around Moran Vanguard that is giving me pause? Hmm…
A man across the restaurant is boring into me with an intense look. It’s not too unusual for me to be stared at—I’m quite obviously foreign and exceptionally sized. Plus I look dangerous, both naturally and on purpose. So I do what I normally do in these situations and lock eyes with him. It is no one I know—I have an excellent memory for faces and names. He’s in his late forties, perhaps. A man of some affluence, bearing the guild sigil of the Rancher’s Guild, with sandy hair cut short around a balding crown on a round, little face with a permanent frown ornamented by a tightly-trimmed beard. I can only guess at what his beef might be. Staring him down quite obviously upsets him and I see his muscles tense as though he were about to stand and confront me.
His friend turns to look at what the fuss is about and I watch his reaction in my peripheral vision, not looking away from the first guy. His friend scrunches his nose and turns back dismissively, saying something to his buddy that does little to calm him down. After a few more seconds the words appear to sink in and the angry man throws his gaze from me as though it were a spoiled apple. He is very obviously avoiding eye-contact now and even turns in his chair to avoid seeing me.
I stare a little while longer in order to make him feel his submission to me more keenly. His haughty attitude and his wealth and station don’t mean anything when it is a battle between just the two of us. I am the superior man and he should remember that for next time we meet.
When Vong sets a bottle of wine down in the center of the table, I finally turn my attention. He plinks down three glasses carried with his fingertips on the inside of the glass—unclean—and pours straightaway before I can wipe mine off. He pushes one to me and the other to Rakatha who takes a swig immediately.
“So what do you think?” Vong gestures with his glass to the building around us.
Does he realize how arrogant he is being? Showing off his wealth in front of people he thinks are his lessers from the rough side of town? Though I live simply, it is by choice. I have tasted the opulence of many a culture in my time abroad. Not to mention that I was raised into a family of dignity and influence; my father was second to the Satrap of Shirokh, whose station was directly under the King of Varasht! This is just a nicer than average restaurant in the good part of small city, or possibly large town—in a still-rural part of a nation of farmers. I am not impressed.
I don’t answer.
Rakatha finishes his wine and grabs his second flagon. “Nice place. Smells great. Good ale!” he raises the flagon like he’d just toasted and proceeds to turn it bottom’s up.
I’m sure that Rakatha has a great fortitude and excellent metabolism but his drinking comes off as excessive. I wonder if it is due to upbringing, showing off, or there being something he’s eager to forget. Either way, I note that he can be easily bought with money and booze and easily manipulated with plausible-sounding logic. This man is a great mercenary. The problem with mercenaries is that their loyalty is not a part of the sale. I will have to dig deeper to find a means to tap his loyalty, if such a thing even exists. The idea of relying on a man so weak-willed does not sit well with me so I will need more assurances before considering him a minion of mine.
Vong is plenty happy with Rakatha’s response and refills his glass of wine while finding more ways to show off, “Just wait until you try the Crown Chicken, my family’s specialty. I asked my father to start a batch when I was looking for my mother. She says you guys can stay in the extra room in between outings if you want. Instead of having to get an inn.”
What’s this emotion I am feeling? Anger? No. Insult? No. It’s deeper than that. Revulsion. Yes, revulsion is what I feel at that kind and generous offer. No doubt he made those doe eyes to his doting-yet-stern mother who isn’t keen on all this Adventurer’s Corps nonsense in the first place. Who begrudgingly agreed because then she can at least keep track of his comings and goings and make sure he’s well-fed.
Such closeness and love they must share as a family. I’ll bet they sit down for family meals every night and talk about their day. I’ll bet they have a wall where all the little finger-paintings and dried flowers that highlight the childhoods of the Vong family brood are displayed. I’ll bet they each have a savings trust at the bank. And probably gripe about wearing each other’s hand-me-downs. And have to sit in the corner until they apologize when they fight. And get to choose what they’ll do when they grow up, with stars in their eyes and heads in the clouds.
I close my eyes. I think about all the happy families and young lovers I would watch at the fountain square on occasion. Seeing their happiness was like a tonic that sharpened the mind rather than dull it. I could watch those people and judge them. Dismantle their little piece of heaven and dismiss it as illusion. Those people do not see the world for all its dark corners. To them, life is a bright and vibrant celebration, and they can’t wait for the next sunrise and all the wonder and joy it will bring.
Yet one day, there will not be a tomorrow. One day, Ner Ngal will reap the world and there will be nothing. To even call it the Void is to give it existence. All things will simply cease to be and that will be that.
Ner Ngal will reveal the Truth. I will deliver illusion to Oblivion.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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