879 – 931 ASF

Why, as humans, do we place so much attention and importance on the negative?

Can you recall each and every time someone has told you “I love you”? Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I would wager you recall the “I hate you”s much more clearly—and that they will stay with you far longer.

History, too, has this bias. Nobody writes a thousand-pager on the years with decent-but-not-excellent crop yield, the continual improvements of bridge building over time, or the reign of a peaceful and generous king. (Although, as we learned in the last volume, even “Righteous” kings are not immune to scandal!). No—instead, we remember the bloody wars, the blackest of betrayals, the widespread tragedies. History is supposedly all about bringing light to the past, yet it seems to be obsessed with its darkness.

I am guilty of this myself, for this Volume covers one of the darkest periods in all of Rivonan history: the tragedy of the Somber King.

Let me paint you the picture. Rogar Craythe was born in 901 ASF as a second son to Roland the Righteous (technically a third son, if you count the firstborn son that Roland gave to the river. It might have been tradition, but I imagine it didn’t help the mental state of surviving children.) When Rogar was five, his older brother and mother were slain by foreign assassins, and his father spiraled into vengeance. A twenty-year-long, all-consuming war of vengeance that robbed Rogar of his childhood and cast him into his dead brother’s shadow.

And to what end? His father perished in battle, leaving his kingdom, splintered and weakened and surrounded by enemies, to Rogar. By this point, over two decades had passed since the assassination. Two decades of stewing in neglect, guilt, and fear. In many ways, Rogar was the Somber King even before he put on the crown.

This, however, is not Rogar’s story. It is instead the story of his personal guard, Kerraguard-Captain Harland, who played a bigger role in history than the king himself.

Why Harland, you might ask? I asked myself a similar question as I arrived into the town of Angler’s Arch. Dominating its central fish market was a ten-foot stone statue of a man—armed, armored, and kneeling, his sword at his side, his steely gaze distant—as if swearing fealty to the riverlands itself. As I soon discovered from the plaque, this was Kerraguard-Captain Harland, who was born 879 ASF as a fisher’s son in Angler’s Arch. How had Harland earned such a pedestal, one that rivaled those of kings and queens?

There was no way to know—the rest of the plaque was unreadable. Someone had defaced the rest of the engraving with a black, tar-like substance.

Intrigued as I was, I did not have time to solve this mystery. After my botched attempt at riverbird life, I needed to find another way to feed, clothe, and shelter myself. Arlisse had brought me to the outskirts of Angler’s Arch, but no further—the town wasn’t known for its kindness to riverbirds. Spending the night beneath one of its bridges seemed an equally unkind experience, so I set about finding work about the town.

I couldn’t fish worth a damn—my mother would be ashamed!—but I could read, write, and perform a few clerical magic tricks that dazzle people too busy for paperwork. I sought an audience with the local lord, but was refused on account of my nobodiness (you would’ve thought the name Karpe might have carried some weight in a fishing town. Alas.) I offered to count figures in a merchant’s house—they had plenty of numbers, but none to spare for me. I found luck at last in the guard barracks, where I happened to catch the Guard Captain at his desk, drowning in a mound of papers.

His name was Dallyn. Tall, rugged, dark of hair, beard and expression; a big bear of a man trapped by the iron teeth of bureaucracy. Needless to say, my bid to alleviate his administrative woes seemed to be music to his ears. I even flashed my University seal as a show of credentials (although I conveniently left out I had been expelled). Impressed, Dallyn proposed a trial period of a week to organize his mountain of records and letters. In compensation, I’d receive a place to sleep in the barracks, meals in the mess, and a small amount of coin.

And I could get started. Today. With the record room. When I peered inside, my skin crawled. Shelves upon shelves of coated in dust, packed full of books wedged in at every orientation. Scrolls and letters had been stuffed wherever they could fit. Spiderwebs in the corners. Splotches of dried ink spilled ages ago. Candlewax caked onto the desk.

It was a place of bookkeeping insanity.

None of it was particularly private or valuable, Dallyn said, which is why three Guard Captains before him had ignored it. I could organize the chaos however I saw fit, and to call if I had any questions. But, Dallyn added, he really preferred if I did not. My progress and quality would be assessed by how well he could see the floor.

And I had thought Lorekeeper Chrasse was disorganized! Still, it was nothing I hadn’t seen at the University. Employing a technique learned from an old friend, I began by sorting things into categories—books, letters, and scrolls, for example—and then those further into subcategory topics, such as financial records and complaints from townsfolk (two hefty topics!). Dallyn was right—most of things were dreary and nap-inducing, but here and there I unearthed delectable tidbits of knowledge. Sappy love letters (how had they ended up here?). An obituary for amateur corvil hunters. Wanted posters of a serial arsonist who exclusively targeted windmills.

Gossip aside, I discovered a loose sheaf of paper that looked like it belonged to something more respectable. A history book or collection of research, perhaps. Tempted, I scanned it over, only to find it spoke of Kerraguard-Captain Harland and his vigil over Rogar, the Somber King. Perhaps I could fill out some of the knowledge I’d missed on that defaced plaque. Not all, though. The page seemed to have fallen out of the middle of a book, with none of its like nearby. I would have to be satisfied with this piece for now.

I wasn’t.

The page described the time around Rogar’s ascension and inheritance of a kingdom on the brink of ruin in 930 ASF. If you think that appointment is difficult, consider the duty of Kerraguard-Captain Harland. He was sworn to protect the king from all harm, from assassins in the night to opportunists within the court—a difficult enough task in peaceful times. Still, Harland rose to the challenge. He personally vetted the entire castle staff, instituted shifting patrol schedules, and ensured four loyal eyes watched the king at all times.

For all his valiant efforts, he could not thwart all danger. While crossing a bridge one day, Rogar slipped and toppled over its edge, plummeting into the river below. Right in front of Harland, too. The Kerraguard-Captain leapt into the water after him—an act that almost drowned them both, on account of his heavy armor—but the rescue was successful. News and rumors soon spread throughout the court. Had this been an assassination? Had someone pushed the king? Had someone slicked the surface of the bridge?

Harland was not so sure. None of this speculation aligned with what he’d seen with his own eyes. The king had fallen entirely of his own accord…but had it really been an accident? If not, then his duty had just become tenfold more difficult. Kerraguard training had not prepared him to protect the king from himself.

I could empathize—at least on a (much) smaller scale. My task, soon, became much more prickly, and not because of the nest of cockroaches I found behind a bookshelf. When Dallyn came back to check on me, he approved of what I’d accomplished thus far, and asked me how I’d ended up in Angler’s Arch. I mistakenly answered with the truth: that I’d tried to live with a riverbird. At this remark, all friendliness in Dallyn’s face drained away. Jayne, he demanded—was I friend of Jayne? I blinked. Who? I explained I’d been with Arlisse, one town over.

This did not reclaim the trust I had lost, though. Jayne was the unofficial riverbird of Angler’s Arch. Unofficial because the town had never “adopted” her. In fact, they hated her. For months she had been sneaking into town, stealing from stalls, releasing livestock from their pens, and causing mischief nobody found amusing, least of all Dallyn. Jayne’s latest work was the vandalism of Harland’s statue.

Dallyn wanted nothing more to do with me, but upheld his word. I could work the week, as we previously agreed. But only as long as I kept my head down, my nose out of trouble, and any thoughts about riverbirds to myself.

I promised. I needed the job, after all. And I tried. I really did. But, as you can probably surmise from the existence of this volume, I failed.