The Adept Chronicles - Chapter One - Jerrian.

“To catch a rat, you need an elaborate trap, riddled with incentives. 
To catch a priest, you just need a good argument.”

Old Arossi proverb.

Chapter One.

“This is a good plan, Jerrian” Makar said. “It’ll be fun to watch, too. Especially your part!”

Jerrian glanced sideways at his friend, and shook his head ruefully. Makar was small for his age – he had seen nineteen summers, yet for all of that he still seemed but a child rather than his elder by over a year. His black hair was slicked to his forehead from the incessant heat, but his mouth was set in a manic grin. Dark brown eyes sparkled with anticipation as he gazed out from their concealed rooftop hiding place, onto the baking street below. The walkways of the Aros city markets were jammed with people, even at this early hour. Hawkers and merchants cried their wares, children danced nimbly through the throngs after their parents and peasants and nobles alike were out for a mid-morning stroll. Every now and again Jerrian’s eyes would snag on a blue robed priest of Torra moving in their own bubble of calm, folk of all ranks stepping respectfully aside, before closing in once more.

“Ikean’s tits, it’s hot though, isn’t it?” Makar burst out. “Awful day to be wearing leather. I’d trade two dozen whores and a bottle of plum cider for a bit of rain about now.” He absently scrubbed at his forehead, as sweat trickled down his nut brown skin.

Jerrian chuckled to himself quietly, once again surprised at Makar’s lack of a filter. He said whatever came into his head, without thought for consequence or opinion. By rights, he should have been one of the worst initiates in the Temple. He whored, he drank, he swore constantly and he disappeared from the Temple grounds for days on end, always returning with an unbelievable tale to tell. Yet somehow he remained high in the good graces of the Priesthood. Jerrian applied himself to his studies with a single minded ferocity, yet he could never match his friends’ achievements. What came easily to Makar, Jerrian had to fight tooth and nail for. He was hoping to earn a surname this year before his eighteenth birthmonth, yet he was worried that he would fail the trials and be forced to wait until the following autumn. Makar – who was already known throughout the Temple district and surrounding villages as Lightfingers – had passed his own trials with ease just over a year ago.

Shaking his head to dispel his thoughts, Jerrian gazed down on the bustling market place and considered the plan ahead. It had taken seven days of surveillance, observation and one inspired idea –which he was still not sure would work - to reach this point. Their target was a well-guarded merchant stall situated in a medium sized oval plaza directly below. The walkways and crisscrossing streets, avenues and alleys made a vast tangled web connecting each plaza to another. There was the Great Eastern food market, where caravans from Makran, Cian and as far away as Proctor brought their horrifically spicy wares for sale. At The North Eastern Military Market – which was by far the most heavily guarded – you could buy good Salen steel and Kordovian armour - if you had the funds. Such luxuries were not cheap and tended to be reserved for the nobility and their household soldiers. However, it was the smallest, most unassuming market that interested Jerrian the most.

Situated in the very centre of the complex, the Market of Trillam held a perverse fascination for Jerrian. Trillam was the only City in the world that was able to directly trade with its wondrous neighbour to the West, Rakatan. When he had been a boy, he had harboured dreams of one day joining the legendary Adepts of Rakatan. He would have been a Healer, of course, marked out by his lightning blue eyes and free to travel Dekar helping the common folk and performing wonders. Yet, the Years of Awakening had come and gone. Jerrian’s eyes had remained the same light grey they had always been, and no unnatural occurrences had ever marked him as different. That same year, his parents had given him up to the care of the local Sanctuary of Torra – being the youngest son - and he had eventually found his way to the main Temple in Cleval. Jerrian’s disappointment had been great, but he strongly believed in making the best of a situation. A Priest of Torra was considered a respectable pursuit for a young man and there was plenty of chance to see the world.

Ordinarily, Jerrian considered himself to be fairly law-abiding – at least in comparison to Makar. However, an overheard conversation between two of his tutors the previous week had snagged his curiosity enough to force him to break the rules. It was not every day an opportunity to get your hands on two bottles of Dream Serum came along.

“You remember what it is we’re looking for, Makar?” Jerrian said. “Once the guards are distracted, the whole thing is in your hands. I won’t be able to help you.”

Makar barked a laugh and rubbed his hands together with glee. “You worry too much, Jer. I’ve always said so” He remarked lightly. “Two red crystal vials, both sealed with white wax stoppers. You just leave it to me. They would see your lumbering frame coming a mile off”

He smiled over at his friend to take the sting from his words, yet they were true enough. Despite being over a year younger, Jerrian was almost six feet tall and a full foot taller than Makar - and well-built to boot. His blonde hair and fair complexion made him stand out in a Southern city like Aros, where almost all the locals were black haired and dark.

Jerrian took a few deep, calming breaths and glanced up at the position of the sun. It was nearing midday, almost time. He rose from his crouch and began to critically check his attire. He wore a turquoise silk waistcoat, over a yellow and white striped vest – also silk. His red trousers and soft leather sandals completed the garish outfit. His unruly blonde hair had been slicked back with scented oils and fastened at the nape of his neck with a fine ivory broach. He was the very image of a self-important young man from the insatiable pleasure houses of Aros. He felt horribly conspicuous. He just hoped it was a convincing enough disguise to fool four guards and a merchant. Makar had stolen most of the outfit, yet the broach was Jerrian’s own – a parting gift from his elder sister, Kaya. He wondered idly what she would think of him if she could see him now.

Probably make some jest I wouldn’t understand, before laughing at me and running off he thought sourly.

“You look fine, Jer, believe me. I’ve spent plenty of fun filled hours in those houses to know what the boys look like – although my tastes are completely different, you understand” He finished with a laugh, flowing to his feet and dusting off the red soil on his trousers. He was clad entirely in drab tan coloured, tight fitting leather, perfectly designed to fade into the dull brown brick walls of the city. Makar was quick, and this plan relied heavily on his speed and Jerrian’s barely passable acting skills.

Taking a last deep breath, Jerrian looked across at his friend.

“Okay then, let’s go. Meet you at the top of the abandoned tower in the Faith District in just over an hour”

It was going to be an interesting afternoon, indeed.

Thirty minutes later Jerrian found himself walking confidently along the cramped walkway towards the Trillam Market. A slight bubble of space surrounded him as he walked, with people on all sides drawing out of his way with faintly disapproving expressions on their faces. He had expected it, yet it was harder than he thought to control his temper. Prejudice. It was everywhere, regardless of which village, city or province you came from. During his stints surveying the routines of the merchant and his guards, Jerrian had seen such reactions first hand. Two women – clearly whores, yet also clearly only interested in each other – had been driven away by the merchant and his hired thugs. Yet only after both had rebuffed advances from the oily man behind the stall.

It was this behaviour that had given him his idea. An idea that could potentially backfire and see him seriously hurt. Aros was a wonderful city, culturally diverse where people far and wide gathered. Yet for all of that, it still held some alarming blind spots. The thought that he was actively encouraging people to be openly angry with him made him more than a little nervous, yet the risk was worth it, he hoped. Dream Serum… Jerrian kept the prize firmly at the front of his mind and ignored the contemptuous glances from passers-by.

Fifty paces away, the walkway spilled out into the oval complex. Stalls lined the perimeter, filled to bursting with fine wines, fruits, medicines and other delicacies that could only be obtained from Trillam. The smells assaulted his nostrils, and his stomach rumbled uncomfortably, reminding him that he had only had a half bowl of porridge that morning. Yet it was the centre that interested Jerrian, no matter how tempted to stop for some food he might be. He could see the brightly coloured stall, awash in red and blue velvets directly ahead.

Summoning his courage, Jerrian broke free of the crowded walkway and stepped out into the plaza. He was about twenty paces away, when suddenly he was roughly jostled off balance by a passing peasant. The man had a face like an anvil, a completely bald head and was twice again as wide as Jerrian. Reflexively, he turned around to apologise to the man - even though it was not his fault – and received a face full of spit for his trouble.

“Have tha’ yer dirty lil’ swallower, yer” The man growled threateningly, leaning menacingly towards him. His breath held the rancid taint of days old garlic, and the slight slur to his speech told him that he had had more than his fair share of ale that morning.

Calmly – though inside he was seething – Jerrian removed a white cloth from the breast pocket of his waistcoat, and carefully wiped his face. All the time, his grey eyes never left the other man’s pockmarked face. He noted how he slumped slightly to one side, and how his piggy little eyes squinted at him unsteadily. He was well past tipsy and far further into the reaches of drunkenness than he’d thought. One of the first things you were taught at the Temple of Torra, was how to deal with angry and unreasonable people. Faith and the trappings of religion were not for everyone, and although Cleval may be the home of both the Temples of Torra and Ikean, outside the country matters were often very different.

Jerrian casually finished wiping his face, before deliberately folding up the cloth and placing it back inside his breast pocket. Hitching a pleasant smile onto his face with difficultly, he took one step backwards – moving himself out of arms reach – before slowly raising both hands in a placating gesture.

“My apologies, Goodman, if I have given any offence. I assure you it was not my intention” He said soothingly, instinctively slipping into his Temple idiom. It was a form of speech the priesthood specifically used when faced with often hostile and aggressive civilians. It had better work on this bloody ale filled swine, he thought.

The man frowned suspiciously at him, and looked him up and down disdainfully. Jerrian watched as his face began to redden furiously, and realised too late he had made a mistake. He groaned inwardly as the man’s hands curled into fists, and he took two aggressive steps forward, thrusting his chin into his face.

“Think yer better tha’ me, do yer? Eh? Eh?” He growled. “Think yer can get away with’ talkin’ to me like one of Torra’s own? Yer, who fucks men and then dares to wander this holy city, bold as yer like? Nah, not if I ‘ave anythin’ to say abou’ it!”

The man’s stench was overpowering. Jerrian found himself reflexively gagging. He caught a faint whiff of excrement and hurriedly smoothed the expression of disgust from his face. He could think of no way out of this situation without it ending in violence. It also severely ruined his plans for the Dream Serum now that he was caught up in a confrontation. Frantically, he cast around the plaza for a friendly face. Every eye he caught, a smug, satisfied expression gazed back at him. The Market had come to a standstill, merchants and buyers alike had all turned to watch the exchange, their eyes alight with curiosity. Jerrian took another hasty step back and caught his heel on a loose rock in the dirt. He went sprawling backwards, arms wind milling, and landed with a thump as the plaza erupted in laughter around him.

Red in the face with embarrassment, Jerrian scrambled to his feet. Vainly he tried to beat the dust from his clothes as the odious man in front of him gasped and choked in malicious glee. The aggressive tension had evaporated and Jerrian managed a weak smile, silently relieved that he appeared to have avoided getting into a fight. He gave the fellow a rather shaky bow, before turning and unsteadily striding off in the direction of the opposite walkway. He would have to rethink his plan and maybe revisit it tomorrow.

He had only taken a dozen steps before something soft and heavy hit him in the back of the head with a splat. He lurched forwards, just managing to catch his balance, as the laughter erupted around him once more, louder than before. Reaching behind to feel the back of his head, he felt the sticky remnants of some kind of fruit clinging to his hair. Cursing to himself, he turned round to see the man who had jostled him off balance standing casually near a fruit stall, nonchalantly tossing another dwarf melon from hand to hand. The owner of the stall did not seem to mind in the slightest that her wares were being used for target practice. Instead, her eyes darted back and forth between Jerrian and the man, as if she were watching a show.

“Didn’ say yer could leave, filth.” He hollered. “Nobody insults tha Holy city and gets t’ walk free” One the last word, he launched the melon in his hand. Jerrian twisted to the side as the green and white globe soared past him to land with a splat a few paces away. Shaking his head, he turned away once more. Don’t encourage him, he thought. Don’t lose your temper!

The atmosphere around the plaza had regained its aggressive edge, and Jerrian could feel the tension mounting as he hurriedly picked up his pace. He passed the market stall where the merchant from Trillam and his guards watched passively. The merchant sneered as Jerrian walked past, before turning his head to spit in the dust. As he neared the opposite walkway, the jeering voice called out to him once more, this time making him slam to a halt.

“This your pretty lil’ trinket, girly?” The oaf called, his tone oozing false concern.

Jerrian turned slowly on the spot, his temper rising. The fool stood ten paces away, holding aloft his sister’s broach. It must have been dislodged from his hair when the first globe of fruit had hit him. The white ivory glinted in the sun and Jerrian felt a hot flush pass through his body as the man gloated over his prize. Without realising what he was doing, he began to slowly advance towards him. His hands curled up into fists and the crowd grew suddenly silent as they felt the mood subtly change.

The old fool did not notice a thing, as he continued to examine the broach in his hands, his back to Jerrian. White ivory was rare and expensive, a man like him would never hope to own such a piece in his lifetime. Jerrian could understand the fascination, but that did not stop him. His temper had boiled over, and rage blinded him. Reaching the fellow, he grabbed him by the shoulder, jerking him round. The man turned with a grunt of surprise, the corners of his mouth beginning to turn up in a scowl before Jerrian’s left fist crashed straight into his face with the force of a hammer hitting a nail. He felt rotted teeth break beneath his fist, as the man reeled backwards with a cry, landing with a crash in the dirt. Striding forwards, Jerrian placed a boot on his chest as he tried to rise, and slammed him back onto the ground, pinning him in place. A swift kick to the midriff made him curl up with a groan, the broach dropping from his hand as he protected his stomach. Jerrian’s hand darted out to retrieve the broach, before turning away once more. He had tried to be civil and it had not worked. He had tried to walk away, and had been forced to react.

It seemed he was made to find trouble.

Without a backwards glance, he marched past the suddenly silent and dispersing crowd, straight past the merchant guards and their stall, who were all holding their spears in readiness, and out into the market circuit. People hurriedly moved out of his way after a quick look at his face, and he disappeared into the crowds. A glance at the sun told him his hour was long up, and he would have no chance of coming back another day now. He could try a dozen different disguises, but he would always be recognised after today’s exploits. Dream Serum was a rare and precious thing – something he had longed to own for years. Yet the ivory broach of his favourite sister was irreplaceable.

Foolish bloody oaf he thought angrily. He was not sure if he meant the pitiful wretch groaning in agony far behind him, or himself.

Gazing out restlessly from the top of the broken tower in the Faith District, Makar started to worry about Jerrian. The window of time for their plan was long over, yet he had still not returned. He felt a little guilty at leaving him to the mercy of that wallowing ale bag, but what else was he to have done? Jerrian was more than capable of taking care of himself, and Makar was little use in a fist fight. The plan had been for Jerrian to insult the merchant and his guardsmen by pretending to be a recruiter from the pleasure houses intent on hiring them. The merchant and his men would have been distracted and angry, their vigilance relaxed. In all likelihood, they would have chased Jerrian out of the plaza – which was what they were banking on. That was when Makar would slip into the canopy behind the stall and take the two bottles of Dream Serum. Jer was needlessly worried about being hurt during their sham – Makar had never known anyone to run as fast as he could. Add in the heavy armour and unwieldy weaponry of the guardsmen, and Jerrian would be as good as out of their sight at the first hint of a threat. He just hoped his temper had not gotten the better of him again…

Snorting to himself, Makar choked back a laugh. Jer and his troublesome temper. Makar had seen time and again Jerrian fail to control his anger in various different situations. He was too serious, he needed to learn to enjoy life. Instead, he worked himself up by letting the world and its problems affect him. Makar preferred to breeze through life, never caring and never worrying about what people thought of him, or where life would take him. Jer couldn’t do that. He needed reasons for the things he did and he was always trying to question and understand concepts that made Makar’s head hurt. Still, being around him was never dull. Trouble seemed to find Jerrian more often than Makar found a soft breast.

Looking out across the square towards the streets heading back into the city, Makar suddenly spotted a tall blonde haired figure striding purposefully down the empty road on the far side of the square. The flamboyant clothing and familiar tread made Makar laugh out loud with relief. Finally.

A low whistle made Jerrian lift his head and look up to the top of the abandoned tower ahead. A small silhouette outlined against the white stone walls gave him a quick wave before disappearing back inside the belfry. Still muttering to himself, he swept the deserted square with a critical eye before breaking into a jog to reach the shadowed archway ahead. Passing through the rusted doorway – taking care to ensure he closed it carefully behind him – he crossed a small entrance hall and walked hurriedly up the pitted marble steps to the summit. Situated in the middle of the landing was a large silver bell that had often been used to signal the morning devotions. To the right of this, a door led out onto the balcony overlooking the square. Despite the heat outside, Jerrian could make out a fire at the opposite end of the room where Makar casually reclined against the stone walls. Light poured in from two chipped stained glass windows, depicting the Lord and Lady; Torra and Ikean. Loosening his waistcoat, he stomped round the bell and threw himself down beside his friend. His temper had evaporated from earlier, and in its place was left a feeling of bitter disappointment.

“Well…that went well, didn’t it?” Remarked Makar with a laugh.

Disgustedly, Jerrian reached across and thumped his friend on the shoulder, before leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. “I was expecting difficult, Makar. I was prepared for difficult and almost anything those guards could have thrown at me, but a random passer in the street? There’s no planning for that” He sighed.

“What happened?” Makar asked quietly.

Jerrian opened one eye and looked across at his friend. “Didn’t you see that part, then? He wouldn’t leave off. I knew it was risky wearing this outfit, but seriously, I wasn’t expecting that. I think I could have still made something of the situation, but then he got hold of Kaya’s broach and I…snapped – hey, give it a rest will you!” He said as Makar burst out laughing.”  I had to get out of there, quick. Well, maybe there will be another chance before we have to go back to the Temple.” He finished doubtfully.

Struggling to control himself, Makar fended off another blow to the shoulder as Jerrian growled at him to be quiet. Making a soothing gesture, he stumbled to his feet and walked over to a dim corner of the room, retrieving a neatly tied bundle from a bench against the wall. Walking back to Jerrian he threw him the package before taking a seat once more.

“Your regular clothes are in there” He said, still chuckling. “It’s probably best you change in here before we go back out into the city. Also, there’s a bucket of fresh water that I drew from one of the wells in that corner, along with some soap. I’d make good use of it, if I were you. You stink. Did he try and hug you or something? And what’s in your hair, fruit?”

Grumbling, Jerrian dragged himself to his feet and started to peel off the fruit and dust stained clothing, piling it on the floor beside him. Rummaging through his old bundle of clothes, he pulled on a set of soft leather breeches before making his way over to the bucket and soap. The water was ice cold and he gasped and spluttered as he washed his head, neck and torso before walking back and using the yellow and white vest to dry off. Shrugging into a loose grey shirt, he sat back down next to Makar with a sigh.

“So, that Dream Serum” said Makar. “You never did tell me why you wanted it. What is it?”

Jerrian turned to stare incredulously at his friend “You’ve never heard of it before? You need to come out of the brothels once in a while, Mak, maybe you’d learn something”

“Well maybe you need to go into the brothels once in a while Jer. I bet you would learn something too!” Makar laughed, with a wink. “Seriously though, you know I don’t go in for all this unnatural stuff. That’s your fantasy, not mine.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now, does it” Jerrian sighed. “I think that was my one chance to get my hands on a bottle…that Deren cursed peasant!” He swore suddenly. “Why couldn’t he have just left me alone? He ruined the plan, and I lost my temper. Again.”

He fell silent and closed his eyes once more. Makar stretched languorously and cast his friend a sly look before casually announcing “Well, if you aren’t going to tell me why we went to all that trouble, I suppose I should take these two bottles back to that slimy merchant with our apologies.” With a grin he reached into the small black bag next to him and removed two red vials, filled to the brim with a colourless, swirling liquid. Two white wax plugs secured the contents as Makar held them up to the light streaming through the nearby window.

Jerrian’s eyes snapped open and he let out a yell of shock as he stared at the two bottles in Makar’s hands.

“Torra’s bollocks, how did you get – b-but I thought t-that I’d ruined everything!” He spluttered.

Makar frowned, leaning over to carefully place the two bottles in Jerrian’s trembling hands.

“Ruined everything? Jer, I don’t think it could actually have gone better. Every single eye was on you and that bloated sack of wine. Every. Single. Eye! Honestly, it was the easiest thing to sneak behind that stall and find these. I thought about it and I’m convinced if we had managed to pull off the original idea and caused some kind of scuffle, I would have been seen for sure. We were gambling on all the guards chasing you, but there was no guarantee that they would. This worked out better – though you losing your temper again was a nice bonus. You’re so serious, Jer” He said, with a shake of his head.

Sitting there in stunned disbelief, Jerrian could do little more than grunt in acknowledgement of Makar’s last comment. He stared in awe at the two small bottles, barely three inches in height, feeling a warm glow of excitement rush through his body. It was hard to believe he held in his hands the potion of Rakatan. A slow, satisfied grin spread across his face as he looked up at Makar, who was studying him with a faintly amused expression.

“This is amazing, Mak. You really are the best. Do you want the second bottle?” Jerrian offered.

Makar did not even hesitate before shaking his head, and Jerrian understood. Trickster, liar and a thief he might be, but Jerrian had never shown any interest in anything remotely out of the ordinary. He loved his life in the Temple and to him, the only way he would leave the country of Cleval was if he were forced to.

“They’re not for me, Jer” Makar said, leaning across and gently tracing the swirling contours of a bottle. “Although, I would still like to know why we went to so much trouble for them. They were locked up tight, in a very expensive looking strongbox, so they must be rare. Are you going to sell them?”

“Sell them?” Jerrian laughed incredulously. “No, I’m definitely not selling them! I’m going to use them – well, one of them anyway. The tales all say that if an ordinary person drinks Dream Serum, then they will become an Adept – without being born one. I’m going to have to ask some very subtle questions when we get back to the Temple. I’m sure one of the Arch-Priests will have knowledge I can use.”

Carefully, Jerrian handed the vials back to Makar to wrap and place back in the bag beside him. Makar, however, sat there staring at them with a faint look of distaste. Abruptly, he stood and walked over to the door leading out on to the balcony. Slightly confused, Jerrian watched as his friend turned to him, a look of resolve on his usually relaxed features.

“I should throw these off the tower, Jer.” He said quietly.

“What? No! Why would you do that?” Cried Jerrian.

“Why!? Haven’t you just listened to yourself?” He shouted angrily, his face turning red. “Adepts are born not made! I know enough about their ways to know it wouldn’t be by drinking some strange looking liquid in a fancy bottle! I’d be doing you a favour. What if those so called tales you heard were wrong? I’ve never heard anything like that before. What if this stuff poisoned you, or-or-or even killed you? Or your cock shrivelled up and fell off? Did you ever think of that? For someone usually so serious, you really do let your good sense fly out of the window when it comes to those cursed Adepts. You have to let those childish dreams go, Jer. You’re not a kid anymore.”

Jerrian stood there stunned as Makar’s tirade washed over him. The older boy had one hand on the brass ring that secured the door to a bolt on the wall, but he had not yet made a move to open it.

I can still stop him he thought, frantically. I can still get those bottles back.

I didn’t know he cared so much another part of him thought, with surprise.

He took a tentative step forwards, and Makar tensed, ready to fling open the door and rush out onto the balcony. He would do it, too, Jerrian knew. Makar never made empty promises to his friends.

It took a lot of nerve for Jerrian to stop, and walk back towards the fire and sit down. He looked over at his friend and saw he hadn’t yet made a move to go outside. Tiredly, he leaned his head back against the wall with a sigh.

“I won’t try and stop you, Mak” He said sadly. “I know you mean well, but this a lifelong dream of mine. How about a compromise? I promise I won’t use the bottles until I’m absolutely sure I know what they do.” He raised his voice as Makar opened his mouth to object. “- Also, you can keep hold of the bottles, until I know for sure. As long as you promise me you won’t break them. Give me a month to find out. Just one month. Please?”

Jerrian held his breath as he watched his friend slowly close his mouth, swallowing whatever he had been about to say. He gazed thoughtfully at Jerrian, his head cocked slightly to one side.

“One month?” He asked, his dark eyes never leaving Jerrian’s.

“One month” Jerrian replied seriously, nodding. “On Kaya’s life, I swear it.”

“Bah! You don’t have to do that.” Makar said disgustedly, finally taking his hand from the latch and walking back to Jerrian’s side. “You said one month and I trust you. One month it is. I just hope you know what you’re doing.” He finished warningly.

Jerrian stared into the embers of the slowly dying fire, feeling a tiredness he hadn’t known existed settle into his muscles.

I hope I do too, Mak. He thought with a shiver.