Peacefall: Book Two of The Fourpointe Chronicles

Chapter 10

"An abomination to Mar, is it not?" Low Bishop Jervis of Har-Kin Kensley sputtered before his coughing cut off his line. "Tis . . . something . . . we should pull down."

Dawkin sat atop his destrier, smirking as the bishop continued to hack. In actuality, he liked the runestones. To him, they spoke of a forgotten past, harboring secrets and mysteries he hoped to one day discover through scholarship.

Until then, they served as an annoyance to the more conservative factions of the kingdom, a persistent truth that oft brought a bit of joy to Dawkin.

"Your Grace," called a paviser who stood before the runestone. "Methinks you should see this."

The Low Bishop rolled his eyes though obliged nonetheless, withdrawing his head from the open window of his carriage so the attendant could open it for him. A large gentleman with hooves for feet, he still waited for two attendants to take his hands to escort him down the stepstool and onto the soft ground of the field road.

Dawkin, seeing an opportunity to stretch his legs – again – dismounted. He strode in the shadow of the clergyman, careful to keep his distance as His Grace hawked into his handkerchief. The attendant to his right offered him a fresh cloth while the unfortunate one to his left accepted the spent one. Dawkin, feeling sorry for both, shook his head.

Jervis rounded the runestone to where the paviser waited. He nodded to the base of the obelisk once the Low Bishop came to his side. "I almost missed it, til me waterskin slipped from my hands and fell. Then I saw it."

Dawkin peered between the Low Bishop and the servant to his right to glimpse the point of interest: carved into the stone, beneath the ancient text, were words of a more familiar language.

Tosilian.

A layer of plaster coated the inscription, filling its grooves almost to the point of hiding the engraving altogether. Dawkin had seen other such attempts to cover up the graffiti of Kin Foleppi, markings their spies and invaders had left in the waning decade of the Century War, a desperate effort to terrorize the countryside with signs of their presence. Notwithstanding the fact few Marlish could read the foreign script, the foxes of Afari always left an unmistakable cipher of their ever-constant threat: a broken sword. Not the outline of a fox, complete with tale and head, as most would expect. Such a symbol would have been too prominent for the cunning Foleppi. Instead, they chose a symbol prophesying the peacefall to come.

In days past, the countryfolk always alerted their barons and bishops upon discovering a new inscription. Most gawked and pointed at first before taking measures to protect themselves, such as fashioning new arms or increasing night patrols. Despite considering the markings to contain evil spells, nonetheless, the neighboring townspeople were credited with plastering over the engravings, even as rumors erupted of faeries and enchanters of Marlish lore coming in the night to do so.

"Like I said," Jervis said, his coughing fit paused, "an abomination."

"I . . . have a confession . . ." the paviser started, turning his gaze downward in shame.

"Out with it, boy."

"I, I touched it."

"What?!" The Low Bishop released his handkerchief.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. I don't know what came over me."

"Why, you need to be cleansed. Immediately!" He pointed to the servant at his left. "Fetch me a vial of holy water from my carriage."