Brotherhood of the Gemstone Chapter V: The City of Green-Thistles

Kenna's adventures

Sgain was a magnificent city. The grandeur of the city walls dwarfed all other cities throughout the north of the isle of Bretwealda. Not only did they dwarf most others in size (and in stench) however it was the eldest of holy-sites in the whole of the lordly-isle. Centuries before Auldchester had arisen to the far south in Brittia, or Cryffard in Cymru, Sgain had loomed as the principal site dedicated to the gods.

Forty-meters high and ten meters thick, the great lion-walls of Sgain were the stuff of legends, built in the age of the Pechs long before the Caleds had overtaken the region. The high-walls had towers every five meters and arose two meters higher than the average walls were. They were made from fine marble, though they had long been painted over with dark-green paint that had never departed. They had carved into them the knots of Dara, given to men it was said in days of yore long since passed, by the good goddesses Saga, the recorder of all history and Scotia. It was said that the first stone that had served as a foundation for the walls of the city, had been laid down by the thistle-goddess herself. The knot decorated every stone, every tower and even the gates, with the knots upon closer inspection revealed to be emeralds that had been engraved into the stone and walls, so that they shone in the light of the twin-suns.

The city did not begin within those walls but from without, with the thatch, wooden and stone houses dotting the landscape that led up to the hill upon which the great city dominated. There were other shrines and small mansion-houses here and there, some made of stones, some of wood, all were more opulent and amazing than the small two-floor house that her master had had built, a number of decades ago.

Nobody knew when the city had truly been founded; for one thing it was highly unlikely that it predated the conquest of the south of the lordly-isle by the Principate of Roma. Yet for centuries it had stood there, dominating the whole of the realm. The houses of the peasants were small things, yet the great number of them amazed Kenna who had never been there before.

Accustomed as she was to the small village of Glasvhail, which housed no more than a few hundred souls to see thousands of people living so closely together, was a shock.

She had known somewhere deep within her soul that there had to be thousands upon thousands of people, alive behind the great lion-walls of Sgain. However, to bear witness to so many alive and thriving outside of them was a shock.

Most tended to sheep, pigs and cows, traded in wool, meat and in goat or cow-milk, or cheese. All attempted to push their goods, their enthusiasm forth, as they revealed themselves to be every bit as pushy as Kenna herself could prove herself to be.

Dressed in a brown dress with a loose grey sash about her waist, a traveling cloak about her person with the hood raised, in case of the threat of rain. Something that was an ever-looming menace for all the residents of the far-north of the lordly-isle, and something that Kenna in this instant did dread greatly.

“How often do you journey up the path, to the interior of the city?” Kenna asked of her guide, and though she was loathe to admit it; her only protection from the darker elements of those who may reside near or within the high-walls of the thistle-city.

Having been silent for days (it was a week-and a half long journey), her sudden question surprised Corin. His dark-blonde haired head having been bowed in thought since some time ago, he lifted it in order to study her with his grey-gaze. “Not very often.”

His accent as always was hardly one that she much liked, one that Olith had delighted in. As she did all things that Corin had done and accomplished in his life, which to Kenna’s mind was not very much. She did however have to concede that if there was one thing he had not done on this trip, it was to abuse her or deny her food and wine when she was hungry or thirsty.

Walking next to the carriage, where Corin had guided all along the thistle-road as he had explained it was called on their third day of travel. Pointing it out, when he noticed her amazement at the sight of it, he had explained that it was the pious Causantín II the Great, who had had it established throughout the north. According to Wiglaf who had recounted this knowledge to him twenty-years prior, this road had been expanded upon by Causantín’s son Sìomon the ‘Thistle-King’ as he was known by many. After his death though, the thistle-road which connected a great deal of the center of the realm and east of it, had fallen into such disarray and had never been rebuilt that few remembered its name or history.

While she had certainly appreciated the tale and knowledge demonstrated by her traveling companion, Kenna had had little desire to hear him tell her more. So great was the disdain she held him in that she had after a time told him to be silent and to let her think.

“And why is that? Is it that the monks have no need of hammers, horseshoes and the like, or is it that your crafting of swords is an outrage they will not stomach?” She challenged mockingly of him.

Corin eyed her coldly, “You have a wicked tongue Kenna.”

“This is hardly something you did not already know.”

“Still, it is said in my country that a ‘wicked tongue comes from a wicked heart’, and I have done you a kindness by bringing you here. A little gratitude I think is in order,” He reprimanded her.

Her cheeks grew hot with humiliation that he should scold her so. The nerve of the blacksmith she thought to herself, disgusted by how he could treat her as though she were no better than a petulant child! Infuriated, she favoured now to remain quiet and to ignore him.

He however was not done, though his eyes rarely wavered from the path that stretched out before them, “Stay close to the cart less you shall be carried away by the crowd.”

Annoyed, and feeling condescended the seamstress nonetheless did as bidden, just as the crowd of people who were bustling about all around her came as a tidal wave might, quite close to carrying her away. By no means the most statuesque woman alive Kenna was nevertheless a woman who prided herself upon being quite fit for her age and yet the number of woman, men and children who appeared to be everywhere continued to swarm endlessly. Until she felt she had no other choice than to climb back aboard the cart.

The worst part of this, she complained shrilly from somewhere deep within her soul, was how she had yet to come within a hundred meters of the gates.

“There are so very many people,” She said in awe.

“Aye, almost ten thousand here in Sgain alone, or mayhap more,” Corin said to her surprise for she had not known he could quite hear her above the din, of the crowd. “We shall first see to your entrance into the city proper, and then I shall depart for the festival.”

Despite herself, Kenna felt a flash of gratitude to him, for choosing to aid her in her self-appointed mission before he saw to his business. Her lips pressed together, as she overlooked the great swarm of people, and tried to keep her ears from buzzing with the din, as all the great variety of mercantile-folk sought to press their goods under the nose of all passers-by.

They were not alone in favouring a cart, with Kenna all of a sudden all too aware of the troubles involved in traveling in such a manner herein Sgain. For there were so many people that they could barely do more than inch forward, rather than trot with Romulus the pony snuffing and grumbling in her horse-like manner. Sensing his growing frustration and anxiety, Corin leant over to pat him on the back.

“There, there old boy,” He murmured softly along with a few quick words in his native Gallian, “Il n’y’a rien de t’inquiéter de.”

Though she did not understand his words, the notion behind them was still apparent to her, in how he handled the nervous beast of burden. Inch for inch they traveled, until they at last reached the summit of the hill upon which the monastery had been founded, nigh on six centuries ago.

As they rode forth though, some of the locals had called out to Corin, that is to say those who recognised him from previous festivals.

“Corin! How are you?”

“Corin are you here to sell your wares again?”

“Who is that with you? A new wife?”

This last question was asked by an older Tigrun lady, plump and dressed in a beige dress with a bonnet upon her head she had large brown eyes that would remind anyone of a warm-hearted kitten. Tigruns if you must know are a sort of cat-folk who had long since trod across the whole of the world of Midgard. They came in all varieties just as humans do, from those with dark-fur, to orange, red, yellow, some even had stripped or spotted fur, still others had leonine manes. This woman though, had the white underbelly, with spotted dark-yellow fur, feline-shaped pupils’ sharp incisors and hands that were slightly longer and plumper than Kenna’s own.

If one were to observe carefully, some might notice the hint of a tail to the rear of the skirt of her dress, one that moved every few seconds as a cat’s might naturally.

Her suggestion though made Kenna’s face come close to turning green with disgust, at the mere thought of being wed to her surrogate sister’s widow. The man whom she despised almost more, than any other man currently alive, there was however a warmth to the old feline so that she could hardly bring herself, to respond quite as harshly as she might have, with say Cormag.

“Absolutely not!” Corin objected at once, a look of utter disdain on his face, she imagined was mirror on her own. “This is Kenna, the widow of my old friend Murchadh, and who wished to enter into Sgain to go pray at the monastery.”

“Oh I see, my apologies Corin, my mistake,” The old lady murmured with a small giggle before she held up a small hunk of bronze, “May I interest you though, in my husband’s bronze? I am sure it could prove useful for when you return home to your forge.”

“Not to-day Lidaith,” He refused politely.

“Will you be in attendance for the festival?” She asked of him genially.

“I shall think on it.”

At this answer Kenna frowned to herself. She did not much like that he was genuinely pondering it, as she felt in that moment the pull to return to Glasvhail. It was not that she felt the need to return immediately, but the sense that once she had delivered the habits of the monks, and maybe attempted to impress the Queen with a dress or three that she had a duty to return home at once. The goal would be to her mind, to wait a number of days to be requested to return to Sgain or to Dunorcnog, where she hoped to become a member of the Queen’s court.

Of course, this was chief in her thoughts right alongside how she might best explain her layabout son, Cormag to the royal-court. Kenna knew little of royal courts, outside of tales her master Lochlainn or her father had told her in her youth, yet she had faith in her own ability to manoeuvre her way into a position of usefulness. Her trade was a common one certainly, however she had a better understanding of needlework than most, and knew how to be discrete, far more so than most other women who practiced her profession.

It was when they arrived before the gates which glittered greenly, to her awe and Corin’s weariness that he rounded upon her, “Kenna if I may give counsel.”

“I would prefer not,” She muttered honestly, “When do the gates open?”

It was high-noon therefore they ought to have already been opened, she thought grudgingly, as she studied them imperiously after her moment of awe had left her.

“Likely the monks are in the middle of noon-temple and shall soon open them once they have finished, in order to celebrate, the gods outside of their gates as they always do.” Corin said wisely, familiar with all the inner-workings of the city, so much so that as he spoke the gates began to slowly swing inwards. Such was the din and the boom, along with the noise of iron raking against iron that Kenna guessed at once, after a brief second of bewilderment that a chain was connected to the top of the gates.

“Who built all of this?” She asked amazed, coming from a village without walls, to see such a wonder was a little daunting.

“I am not so certain, though the walls are hardly as impressive as those on the Continent,” He boasted a hint of pride in his voice.

Kenna rolled her eyes, wherefore she hopped down from the cart onto the muddy ground of the thistle-road. The monks were all dressed as Wulfnoth had been, with the same bald patch at the summit of their heads, with some bearded and others not. Though, where Wulfnoth was all human, many of the monks present thereon Sgain were composed of Tigruns, the rat-like Ratvians, the dog and wolf-like Wolframs, gentle Minotaurs and wild Centaurs.

Once the gates open, the monks coming out to mill amongst the crowds, who had gathered all around the caravan of Corin, she rounded upon him, as prayers went up all around their cart. The sound of the bells the monks carried punctuated the voices of the monks who engaged in the loud hymns of the golden goddess. “We must find the abbot to speak with him.”

A sigh followed, a resigned one as he admitted, “I know not which one he is, if I am quite honest Kenna. I have not entered past the walls, in nigh on twenty years and have spent but a little time at the festivals after Olith passed.”

“How am I supposed to find him, if such is truly the case?” She panicked a little.

At this question Corin let slight another sigh, before he rounded upon a nearby Minotaur who stood to the right of them, in trousers, a large tunic and with well-polished horns a short brown beard and long hair the same colour. The ox-man had arrived a few minutes after they had, and had no great cart, only a simple pendant made of wood of the goddess Meret with her lyre, and was in the midst of doing the symbol of the flower. He leapt a few feet, as his children who were all gathered behind him alongside him and his wife who was similar in build if evidently female in her slighter appearance, and in that she wore a pink woollen dress that made every inch of Kenna want to scream in horror at the poor quality of the needlework. In all, they appeared to be a friendly group, with the seamstress not unfamiliar with Minotaurs, she had met them in the past and had found them to be typically a genial if passive people.

“Do you know where the abbot can be found?” Corin asked of the small family.

They shook their heads, though the next Minotaur family, which stood just a little past them, pointed now to one monk who had not departed to preach amongst the crowd or to deliver some alms to some of the poorer folk assembled before them. The monk in question was a wizened old Ratvian, with grey almost white fur, who leant heavily on a birch-wood staff and who had small wispy white hair that was balding. His snout appeared to be continuously sniffing about, as though searching for something that his milky black eyes could not quite perceive. Dressed in a grey habit, with small grey boots, his long-finger left-hand searched about until at last, it landed upon the nearby edge of the opened gates.

“By Marianne, it is old Kerr,” Said the blacksmith of Glasvhail, gaping a little at the stout old mouse who stood near the summit of the hill.

Without any further exchanges with those around them, he attempted to negotiate their advance up the hill. This was complicated by how several of the monks called for them to stop, a resentful and even suspicious gleam in their eyes.

A select few though were more favourable whence they recognised Corin, which took a moment or twain to do so. When they did, they were profoundly surprised and greeted him as though he were an old friend. One, who appeared to be several years Kenna’s senior, hurried over to him to ask if how Olith was.

“She has passed, her friend Kenna here has agreed to accompany me on my journey here, it is her wish to speak to the abbot.” He explained with forced cheer, though there was a certain unease that belied his warmth.

Her attention captured by the uncertainty that had rooted itself, beneath his voice, Kenna eyed him quietly from within the wagon, which was filled almost to its brim with weapons and cloth, with a large coverlet thrown over all of the merchandise they had brought with them. While she might otherwise have been curious enough to attempt to solve the mystery, behind his peculiar reaction towards the sandy-haired human monk, with dark eyes and a thick beard down to his chin, she pushed it aside.

It was neither her concern, nor her task in life to sort out the manifold mysteries that surrounded Corin. Her first duty was towards her son, and his daughter, and improving their lot in life. Nothing less than that, and nothing more or so she told herself.

The monks after a few minutes permitted them to advance, if a little reluctantly so, with some others also permitted to advance just behind them. The monks preferring to have people head up past the lion-walls of Sgain, if to avoid overwhelming they claimed the interior of the courtyard.

The courtyard was hardly anything akin to Kenna’s most grand imaginings, or her most majestic day-dreams or regular dreams. To the contrary, it was in some ways far, far grander than anything her imagination could have conjured forth.

The houses were all mansions that had between two and three floors, all made of simple stones, with four large houses that were almost palatial in nature. Larger than the other mansions they were made of finer stone than the other dozen mansions, and were considerably larger. Twenty-meters high, and circular in nature as classic crannogs or older Pechish keeps could be at times, these mansions had but one entrance and possessed several floors to them. Two of these estates were to the right of the courtyard; one to the rear, with the one to the rear remarkable also for how to the center of its roofing there jutted an iron pole with the High-King’s banner fluttering in the wind. The monarch’s banner was different from those of his predecessors, both those of his forefathers and foremothers, the banner was a deep scarlet with a bright white unicorn with its hooves reared up in defiance as it faced right.

The largest and most kingly building shielded by the great walls though was the stone monastery of the goddess Scotia, the Queen of the gods. The abbey was rectangular in nature, with a courtyard to the rear of it, separated from the other buildings thanks to its four separate side-buildings that served as housing, as a kitchen and as a secondary temple for the great shrine of the goddess. The temple was thirty-three meters high, almost as long and had a pointed roof, which the very tip of was shaped into that of a thistle. The thistle was the holiest and most royal symbol of all those within the realm of Caledonia. With this thistle at the summit of the marble-carved temple gleaming with emeralds far finer and smoother, than those upon the walls that guarded the temple, with the temple and all its secondary buildings utterly devoid of windows.

Performing the symbol of the flower, it was all Kenna could do to keep from falling to her knees, and singing one of the psalms of the golden goddess, or maybe the goddess Meret, the lady of music.

“It is so beautiful,” She murmured moved to the very depths of her soul.”

“Oui, though the summit of the hill over there, past the other buildings is where the coronation of Mael Bethad took place four years ago.” Corin explained genially, pointing to the rear of the large courtyard past the buildings, to a slightly higher ‘hill’ upon the top of the hill itself. The ‘double-hill’ of Sgain was something that she had heard murmurings of years prior, and yet it was still took her by surprise. This second hill sat above the rest of the buildings (save for the temple’s summit of course), and had a series of stairs that led up to it, carved from the actual hill itself, with the seamstress staring at it. A part of her, a part that sounded remarkably akin to her son, wondered just how exactly it had been carved, and if there were builders or masons who could properly explain the process to her, so enraptured by this sight was she.

“The Stone of Sgain is kept within the temple.” He said.

“Is it true that it is shaped akin to a heart, that which the Romalians carved out from the body of the golem to whom the mountain owes its name?” Kenna asked him, remembering this small bit of legend from one of the tales her father had once told her, in her youth.

“Nay, it is shaped like any other stone, is smooth and engraved with ancient runes and symbols of your people.” Corin explained, having been present as might be evident to you dear reader, during the coronation of the High-King Mael-Bethad. “Quiet now, for we near now the great abbot himself.”

The abbot turned his head at once, as they neared despite the bustle and noise that trailed after the caravan that the two rode upon. The mouse sniffed at the ear in what was almost a blind gesture, before he remarked in a wizened if mischievous voice. “Ah, if it is not Corin, I could recognise your scent quite easily.”

“How can you smell me, in the stench of this city?” Asked the blacksmith genuinely amazed.

“You have a distinctive stench, just as surely as you did twenty-years prior, and four years ago.” Iomhar commented airily, before he turned his head towards the seamstress who snickered a little, “And who is this? She smells of cloth and goats.”

“This is Kenna, Olith’s friend who came to offer up her services to you as a seamstress,” Corin stated bluntly.

Iomhar hesitated before he murmured wearily, waving for them to follow him. “Do come closer to the temple, I am wearied now and would feel this cloth for myself.”

Corin complied with his request at once, with Kenna hardly able to repress her excitement at the prospect of tempting him with the fine linen, wool and some silk that she had assembled over the years for just such an occasion. This was her chance, to make a fortune and to improve her family’s lot in life.

A swift prayer to the goddess Scotia, along with one to the lord of merchants, smiths and weavers, Khnum departed from her lips silently as they drew up before the temple. The stench of the inner-city and the outer one still hung in the air, much to her disgust. Yet she found that her excitement for this opportunity easily washed that away.

Iomhar waited patiently leaning against the wall of the temple with a tiny hand, his beardless mouse-snout trembling a tad. This drew a look of concern from Corin, who studied him closely, hardly paying her any mind as she leapt from the back of the wagon to start pulling off all the rolled up monk-habits she had sown in preparation for this meeting.

Irritated though she felt beneath her impatience to showcase her talents, for his remaining seated there rather than helping her, in any further way, such as speaking out for her talents, she hurried over to Iomhar’s side. Habit in hand, Kenna hardly paid the rest of the world all about them any mind, as a great many people who wished to enter the grand-shrine of Sgain hissed in annoyance at having to step-around the wagon and Romulus the pony. Who huffed and let slip a horse-like groan in response to some of the new-arrivals.

A few monks and other folk, eyed her and the contents of the wagon with mild curiosity, as she all but thrust the first habit below the abbot’s nose. “You see, this is the finest wool of Brittia, brought to Glasvhail from Norlion itself! I also have some from Norençia on the Continent itself, if you prefer richer fabric.”

Part of Kenna cursed her own nervousness then, as she realised just how much she had stumbled over her words the moment they fell from her lips.

Waiting with bated breath, she attempted to keep from speaking out or saying anything further, so as to avoid appearing as foolish as Cormag might have, were he present. With a twinge, she realised then how much she missed her son, only to repress the thought. There would be time enough to think of him, upon her return to Glasvhail, when she doubtlessly was made to deal with his most recent bout of indolence or folly.

“It is quite fine,” Complimented Iomhar earnestly, as he sniffed at it and felt it between his fingers with his eyes hardly looking down at it.

It was with a start that Kenna noticed he was blind. This knowledge was one that escaped her lips before she could keep herself from speaking out so rudely, “You are blind, brother!”

“Oh really? I was not aware of this sudden change, thank you ever so much for enlightening me Kenna,” the Ratvian replied with a barely restrained giggle that hardly seemed to her derisive, though his words were.

“My apologies, I merely meant that I did not immediately realise it.”

“No need for apologies my child,” Iomhar assured her genially, he continued to examine the cloth closely, with an air of intrigued patience. “It is well-done, far better woven than our current habits; doubtlessly the convent at the foot of the mountain would be better capable of appreciating this sort of fine-work, than I could.”

A small sliver of dismay wove its way into her heart, yet Kenna soldiered one and biting her lower-lip she waited for him to examine the next proffered habit.

This one was a silk one, and upon examining it he reared back with a hiss, “This is much too rich! It is silk!”

“Aye.”

“Put that away, I have enough trouble with the greed of certain of my monks, I have no need for you to tempt them so.” He sniffed at her.

Frightened that she had made some sort of irreparable error in judgement, Kenna did as bidden at once, hurriedly throwing it into the wagon only to pull a slightly less finely-woven habit. Another swift prayer and she presented this piece of cloth to the monk.

“Calm yourself Kenna, I mean no harm therefore there is no need for so many prayers,” He informed her with a small smile.

“You heard me?”

“Aye, my eyes may no longer be of any assistance; however my ears still work quite well, thank you.” He said in his quiet voice before he concluded with a sniff, “This new habit is much better, I do think this and the first one you gave to me to examine are more in line, with what I might expect. If you will excuse me, I must send one of the novices to find the sub-abbot, and he will see that you are properly compensated for these remarkable habits.”

“Oh thank you, Brother Iomhar!” Thanked Kenna enthused by his words of approval.

“Not at all, now Corin if I may inquire as to what has become of the lands of Rothien in the past several years, I would very much appreciate anything you may have to add in regards to them.” Brother Iomhar replied to her before he moved his attention much to her disconcertment to her traveling companion.

Corin had for his part remained silent until then, preferring to wait upon the wagon with an expression of indifference, so that he now stiffened with visible nervousness. Biting his lower-lip he did not hesitate much to her disapproval to reject the abbot’s politely worded request. “I am afraid I shan’t stay to discuss such matters with you, not when I have yet to sell my wares.”

Kenna could well have kicked him then.

Iomhar for his own part hardly appeared to be pleased by this refusal, though he hardly appeared surprised or interested in pursuing the topic.

Once she had sold a number of the monastic-garb to the sub-abbot, who was a large man with sneering dark eyes, a large beard and the sort of figure that belied a man who enjoyed all that life had to offer. In all, she was ill-impressed by him, as well as by the lack of sound-judgement that Iomhar had demonstrated in his appointment of the sub-prior to his post. The only thing that he did to win over her approval was when he haggled over the cost of the habits. His business-sense was one trait that Kenna could approve of, as she always did whenever she encountered someone adept in such things.

Most of her cloth sold, and much of it removed by a small clutch of monks who hurried to take it inside away from prying eyes, she was commended for her piety (for the weaving of these cloths) and thanked. Whereupon Iomhar went to depart to preside over a Session of Temple when summoning up her will, she asked of him with a surreptitious glance all around her, as people milled into the temple impatient to listen to the monks.

“High-Brother Iomhar, I must ask- no rather implore a favour of you,” She said halting him, with the monk showing the first signs of weariness towards her.

“What is it?”

“Would you, no rather could you do me the honour of presenting several of my dresses to her Grace the Queen? It has long been a dream of mine since girlhood, for one of my dresses to be worn by a member of royalty and it would please me immensely.” Kenna stammered out almost all in one breath.

“Kenna, I thought you were going to wait until after we had sold some of my wares, before you attempted to cozen the abbot into your little scheme.” Corin called out impatiently, from a short distance behind her.

Kenna did not answer him, for she did not trust her own voice or her temper to keep from flaring, but rather she preferred to fix her attention upon the mouse before her. Praying as she did if only in her spirit that he might acquiesce to her request, holding her breath as she did.