The Manor - Chapter 1

Geroth strode down the cobbled street that served as the main thorough fair between the trade district and the central market square.  He walked with a purpose, however he was in no hurry to complete his task.  It was just past midday and the street was thick with people.

The sun reflected off of the cobblestones, only being blocked by the occasional cloud, which provided a short respide from the unseasonal heat.  Geroth paused and ran a calloused hand through his dark hair as a group of monks filed down the busy avenue.  Their slow cumbersome walk and dark robes reminded him of the flightless birds that inhabited the lands to the far north bringing a slight grin to his worn and weathered face.

He continued on, bypassing the central market square as it would be impassable at this time of day and he would be delayed.  He made his way past the many shops and stalls that lined the outer part of the market district , taking care to avoid the many shop owners who beckoned people to enter their stores and the street vendors who harassed shoppers as they passed.

On he walked, nearing his journey's end. Before he could reach the docks, he would need to pass through the area of the city that surrounded the port known as "Beggar's Alley.”  The area was the main concentration of taverns, gambling dens and houses of ill-repute serving as the entertainment district for the hundreds of sailors that came into port on a daily basis.

The main inhabitants and the namesake of this part of town were the many beggars, con men and street urchins that resided in its dark corridors and alleyways.

Geroth stopped before one of the many taverns that lined the street, and debated whether to spend a few coins on drink.  It had taken him longer than expected to reach this part of the city and he decided it best not to tarry any longer.

He watched as a throng of young urchins accosted a fat merchant.  Several of the young beggars distracted the fool while another boy cut the merchant's purse strings.  The man feigned poverty, which would not be a lie once he learned of the theft and moved on as if in a hurry.

Children were as dangerous by day as the many thieves that preyed on the drunken sailors were by night.  Geroth was a man of many seasons and witnessed the tactic enough times that he made sure to hold onto his purse.  He reached in for a copper and flicked it away sending the crowd of youngsters scurrying to fight over the coin.

As he rounded a corner with the docks in sight, he noticed a figure out of the corner of his eye.  The man was old and covered in rags, appearing to be nothing more than a common beggar.  As he turned to regard the man, the old beggar motioned for him to approach.

He hesitated, but there was something about the man that intrigued him, possibly a faint recognition.  As he walked toward the mysterious stranger, the man beckoned for him to follow him to the alleyway behind where they stood.  This made Geroth apprehensive as many a citizen was lured to a dark alley only to lose their coins and sometimes their lives.

"I mean you no harm."  The old man’s voice crackled with the sound of dry leaves.  "Spare a few coins for someone less fortunate?"

"I have no time for beggars today, old man,"  Geroth replied.

"Ah, yes, noble sir. Time is as precious as coin.  For a little of your time, perhaps it could be worth a purse full of your coins."                     

"You speak in circles,"  Geroth stated in a matter-of-fact tone.  "Get to your point or be gone."

"An offer, perhaps?”

Geroth attempted to hold his anger in check.  "What can someone like you offer me other than filth and fleas?"

"Redemption!"  The old man smiled.  "I offer you a chance to reclaim your life!"

"What do you know of my life?"  Geroth said, dumbfounded

"I know the look of defeat and resignation of a man once great, now low."

Geroth was stunned!  Did this man know him or did he truly look the way the man described?

Without warning, the man's arm shot out and grabbed Geroth's wrist in a vice-like grip.  Despite Geroth's strength, the old beggar held fast.  The sound of a group of loud sailors passing by drew his attention.  He felt the old man's hand release his wrist and turned back to look, but the man was gone.

Staring down at his hand, Geroth opened it and to his amazement, it held a crumpled piece of parchment.  He opened the piece of paper and it contained an address, a time and the word "redemption."  Geroth shook his head in wonderment only to realize that his coin purse was missing.

Maybe it was time for a drink after all.

***

Sitting in the one chair in his meager apartment above the smithy, Geroth pondered the day's events while sipping from a glass of whiskey.

He spent too much time at the tavern trying to go over the details of his encounter with the old man and Bertram was not happy.  It took him longer than expected to pick up the supply of iron from the docks and the day's orders were delayed.

Geroth did not feel like explaining the unusual events of the day to his employer.  Bertram smelled the alcohol on his breath and person and without any explanation, assumed that Geroth decided to loaf instead of completing his business on time.

He allowed Bertram, a pig of a man with less-than-average intelligence to ridicule him.  It took all of Geroth's will not to throttle the man for his outburst.  In the end, he resigned himself to the fact that he was now a blacksmith indentured to another.

Holding the scrap of paper in his hand, he debated whether or not to just toss it in the fire and forget about it.  Memories of the past flooded through his mind.  "Redemption" the old man said.  It was a concept that seemed almost alien to him now.  He stood and walked toward the fireplace meaning to be rid of it.  He paused for a moment, contemplating and then placed the paper in his pocket.

Looking toward the door, he was still unsure of what to do.  Was it fear which held him back or a desire to avoid further disappointment?  Geroth stood there for a long moment in deep thought.  He grabbed his long sword, belted it to his waist, wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and headed for the door.

Maybe now was the time to reclaim his life.


***

Geroth waited outside of the house whose address was noted on the slip of paper.  The house was in the old part of the city, parts of the original settlement before Havenost became the trading capital of the region.  People here were either poor laborers or elderly and the houses were very simple, one story dwellings; each one being unremarkable from the others.  Given the late hour, the street was dark as the inhabitants would be resting for the next day's work.

Geroth paused for a moment deciding on his next course of action.  He raised his hand to knock on the door but before he could, a voice inside bade him to enter.  Opening the door, he stepped inside.

The small, square room was tidy but lacking in furnishing.  What little there was appeared to be old; rugs were clean but worn in spots.  It was dark except for the glow from a small fireplace on the opposite side of the room.

"Welcome to my home, Geroth,"  came a voice from the other end of the room.  The older man’s voice held strength and conviction underneath.                    

Sitting in a wooden chair near the fire was an older man of sixty or so years.  Most of his features were obscured by shadow.

"Have we ever met?"  Geroth's replied, somewhat intrigued.

"We have not but I know of you well.  Please, come and sit next to me by the fire."

Geroth was hesitant as he moved across the room toward the offered chair.  As he came closer, he was able to get a better look at this mysterious stranger.

The man's hair was grey and thin and he wore a modest tunic of light brown with matching trousers.  Firelight revealed a face worn and lined from years working in the sun.  Milky white pupils exposed eyes that were blind, but to Geroth it seemed that this man could see him just as clear as a soaring hawk sees a mouse in a field on a bright, sunny day.

"Who are you?"  Geroth inquired as he took his seat across from the man.  The heath’s comforting warmth allowed him to relax a little.

"My name is Artorus Fordran.”

"I know this name."  A faint look of recognition crossed Geroth’s face.

"Then you know of my tale?"  inquired Fordran.

"Only pieces.  I know that you built a vast trading empire to the South-,"  began Geroth.

"And then,"  interrupted Fordran, "it all collapsed
                                                                               
"Yes.  I heard tales of your downfall," Geroth replied.  "Were you betrayed?"

"No.  Not in the traditional sense of the word.  If there was a betrayal, it was my own,"  Fordran responded, his eyes seeming cloudier than before.

Many years ago, I was a simple merchant struggling to earn a living ferrying goods along the coast.  I was young then and I was not afraid to take risks, delivering cargo to places others dared not travel.

The years passed. My single boat became a small fleet and I was a respected member of the merchant class, beginning to gain influence in the cities and towns where I did business.

Through guile and charm, I was able to woo the only daughter of a merchant whose business operations I desired.  Having no son and nearing retirement, he was more than willing to allow his new son-in-law to take over his business ventures.  With the acquisition of this business, I began to expand my operation until I was the largest and most powerful merchant on the coast."
"As my business expanded so did my pride, my ego and my desire.  My wife only bore me a daughter so my eye began to wonder to other women.  There was nothing that I would not have and I craved all that I could set my gaze upon.

My years of hard work and honest dealings were gone replaced by debauchery and deceit.  My rivals were either bought off or discredited to the point of ruin.  I boasted that I was the most powerful man in the kingdom, even more powerful than the king, nay more powerful then the gods themselves."

"What happened then?"  Geroth asked, enthralled by the man's tale.

"I awoke one morning and my sight was gone,"  Artorus said mournfully.  "I do not know if it was the god's cursing me for my arrogance and pride or just some cruel trick of fate.  What I know is that soon after my life began to fall apart.

As you can imagine, I had many enemies who were eager for the chance at revenge.  It did not take much for my empire to collapse around me.  My so-called friends and business partners abandoned me taking with them much of my business interests.  My loyal wife, who I neglected and was unfaithful to, deserted me taking with her our only daughter and what riches that were left.  I no longer had the ability or the desire to sustain my interests and with no son to take over, all that I once had was lost."

Geroth sat for a moment, absorbing all that Artorus said.  He could empathize with the man as Geroth understood about loss although his downfall was not a result of ego or pride.

"Your tale is a sad one,"  said Geroth with no judgment in his voice.  "What does this have to do with me?"

After a few moments of silence, Artorus began to speak again, the sound of shame and regret in his voice. 

“My tale does not end there.  For some time, I lived a solitary pauper's life of bitterness and self loathing.  I cursed the gods for what happened to me as I was unable to accept any responsibility for my own ruination and yearned for answers.

Time passed and I still had no answers.  Anger overwhelmed me and ruled my life.  It was when I was at my lowest point that I found that which finally saved me, my daughter.

I sought out my family hoping for salvation.  In the years since my wife left me, she lost none of her beauty and gained much of my wickedness.  She married a wealthy landowner and was living an aristocrat's life.  The innocent girl I married was gone.  She hated me for what I did to her, justifiably and would have thrown me in shackles to lay forgotten in some dungeon until the end of my life.


Had my daughter not intervened, I am sure that would have been my fate and rightfully so.  Without question or hesitation, she took me away, forsaking her life of comfort and has cared for me ever since.  It took the unwavering love of my only daughter to help me understand that I was to blame for all that happened to me.

She has stayed by my side and shown me the true meaning of sacrifice and love.  Only through her, have I been able to take responsibility and let go of my bitterness to try to make my life anew."

"Did you bring me here to tell tales of your redemption?"  Geroth said.  He enjoyed the man's story, but began to lose his patience.  "Or is there some other purpose for this meeting?  I do not wish to be lectured!"

"It is not my intention to lecture.  I shall come to it now that you have heard my entire tale.  You see these pictures on the walls?" Fordran's arm made a sweeping motion around the room.

For whatever reason, Geroth did not notice them until now, but there were several detailed paintings mounted on the walls.  This seemed out of place to him given the humble nature of the abode.

"These are not ordinary paintings," said Fordran.  "My sight is no more yet I see things, visions of things, some great and others that are terrible.  My visions began a short time after I accepted my fate and sought atonement for my pride.  Perhaps it was the gods' way of allowing me some redemption.  I do not know."

"My daughter," he continued, "is a talented painter.  For years I have recited my visions to her and she has put them all down unerringly on canvas.  As to how you fit into this, I will have my daughter show you."

"Clarissa,"  he called.  "Please show our guest your latest work."

A voice full of innocence answered.  "Coming Father."

By the voice, Geroth expected a girl just ending her teen years, but what entered was a woman in her early thirties who held a rolled up canvas.  Hers was a natural beauty, high cheek bones and round, full lips, but she was dressed plainly, in an understated way.  Cascading down her back was hair the color of roasted chestnuts.  As she entered, the room appeared to brighten.

It was then that Geroth noticed her eyes.  While her father's eyes were clouded and dull, hers were of a vibrant and brilliant green.  They were eyes that could only see love and goodness and they made Geroth feel as if there was no wrong in the world.

She unrolled the canvas and held it out for Geroth to examine.  He noticed that she avoided his eye contact, a demure quality that made her allure all the greater.

It was a simple painting of a young woman in a white dress, perhaps a wedding dress; her face filled with sadness.  The girl was surrounded by a dark, grey fog and there appeared to be menacing eyes peering at her through the mist.  In the bottom corner of the painting stood a man holding a sword outstretched.  As he moved the canvas closer to the light to get a better look, he realized that the man was he.

"How is this possible?" Geroth gasped.

"The visions are often vague and confusing," Artorus replied trying to speak in a comforting way.  "I cannot explain to you what the painting means or what significance it holds only that you are connected.  Your fate is entwined with this girl somehow.

You must take this painting.  It is the key to your finding what has been lost in your life."

Geroth stared at him with confusion evident on his face.

"While I do not know the events in your life, it is clear to me that we share a kindred spirit and it does not take eyes that see to know that which you seek."

Without a word, Geroth reached into his purse to pull out some coins.  Even though Artorus could not see, he understood the gesture.

"I thank you but that is not necessary,"  Artorus said without any hint of pride in his voice.  "I have taken much in my life with no regard to whom I hurt along the way.  Now is my chance to give back.  I only hope that your fate is kinder than my own and that you are allowed your chance at redemption."

Geroth looked at Clarissa.  Her eyes seemed less vibrant and he detected a note of sadness in her face.  She rolled up the painting, handed it to him and turned to leave the room without a word.

"I hope to see you again, Geroth Del Mandrath,"  Artorus wrispered, a hint of sorrow in his voice.  "I pray the gods shine their goodness on you and keep you safe."

With that, Geroth exited the house into the cool night air, his mind swimming with conflicting emotions.

***

Geroth lay on the simple cot that sat in the corner of his small one room apartment above Bertram's smithy.  His eyes were closed in an attempt to fall asleep, an attempt that was not proving successful.  The day's events wore him down.  It was only a few hours before sun up and he would need every moment of sleep he could get if he was to perform his duties in the shop.  One tongue lashing from Bertram was enough; he was in no mood for another.

He lay there for what seemed like eternity before deciding that he would not get any sleep this night.  Too many thoughts ran through his mind, both of his past as well as the story of Artorus Fordran's fall from grace.  He paced around the room trying to decipher the meaning of the man's words and the painting given to him by Fordran's beautiful daughter, Clarissa.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey and drank.  Enjoying the warm, relaxing feeling of the brown liquid, he decided to pour himself another which he then drained in one shot.  Placing the glass down, he noticed the rolled up canvas sitting next to the bottle.

Staring at the canvas for minutes, he stood, trying to recall Fordran's words from earlier that night.  The word redemption kept popping back into his thoughts.  Redemption.  It was a word he had not thought of in a long time but one he heard often on this day.  In what way was he connected to this girl and this painting, a painting inspired by a vision?

He picked up the canvas and unrolled as he walked over to sit in his chair near the fireplace.  He decided against starting a fire instead electing to light a candle.  Staring at the painting for long moments, he tried to glean some insight into whom the girl might be.  Nothing came to mind.  There was nothing about the painting that would help him discern the location either.

Minutes went by and not a clue was discovered.  On he stared, his eyelids becoming heavy and his vision blurring.  As his eyes fluttered in a futile attempt to remain awake, the images on the canvas began to move.  He thought he must be dreaming as the girls dress began to sway and the fog began to swirl.  The events of the day finally caught up to him.  The painting began to slip from his fingers as his eyes fell shut.

Geroth slept.