The Bloody Rebellion of Farris Grimholt

The Alchemist

'That is correct. When I was but a young boy.'

'My wife loves to hear about the sun-lands,' said Farris Grimholt. 'You can leave us now!' he shouted to the magister who had been standing silently in a small alcove at the far end of the hall. 'Yes, I can see you. Even with my bad eye! You can't trust these zealots,' he said in a whisper to Iqtal. 'Here,' he said, conspiratorially raising the lid off one of the silver jars. It was full of dried prunes. Iqtal's eyes widened.

'Try one,' said Grimholt. 'Brought in fresh from Tzarik.'

Iqtal thanked him, taking one of the sweet fruits. A taste of home.

'What do you think of these magisters?' said Grimholt.

'I am not sure, sire,' said Iqtal. This was very dangerous ground and he was wise enough not to step out onto it.

'Do you not find them the most puritanical bores?'

'I am not sure I...'

'Do not be afraid to speak the truth,' Grimholt said, suddenly serious. 'If we were all afraid to speak the truth, where would we end up? We would end up like them, preaching fairy-tales and fantasy.'

'In my country we have such priests also. Though we are not fond of them. I was brought up in a small village in Abzal...'

'Abzal?' said Lady Grimholt. 'That is just south of the Naqari Mountains, by the Gunmir River.'

'That is correct,' said Iqtal. 'Though it is a little known village. Even in that country.'

'I travelled that country in my youth,' said Namira. 'Before the troubles.'

'My father was an architect,' said Iqtal, 'and helped build many of the houses in our village. He designed waterwheels that ground corn, and helped irrigate arid fields. He was a great man. Soon his talents were recognized by various princes and he was asked to draw plans for their grand palaces. My mother, my brothers and sister, all travelled with him wherever he went. He was very well-known and we became very wealthy. Then came the troubles. The High-Priest of the Golden Temple believed that many of these princes had grown too powerful; that their glory should not overshadow that of the Great Mage. These palaces my father had built were grander, more elaborate, more beautiful, than any of the temples erected to honour the Mage's memory.'

'And so the priests destroyed them?' said Farris Grimholt.

'No,' said Namira. 'They stirred the people into an uprising. A bloody rebellion so terrible that not one family escaped the violence. One by one the royal palaces were assaulted, the royal families torn from their rich beds, infants put to the sword. Of course without their authority the cities and towns fell to looting, rioting, it was chaos. This is what happens when the priests and magisters grow too strong.'

'At the time of the uprisings my father was employed by Prince Ashir. His whole family was killed to a man and the palace was torn down. The followers of the Great Mage killed many of my friends. They burnt villages, killed and raped, and destroyed my country. I do not love them.'

'But you escaped?'

'Yes, my father managed to get away. We travelled for weeks to reach the port of Tzarik. There were so many people that it was a struggle.'

'And your family?' asked Namira.

'We had no time to go back for them. I do not know truly if they are alive or dead. I never returned. My father and I managed to get aboard a ship and we arrived here, with a little money, and speaking only a little of the Common Tongue. My father worked as a carpenter, knowing a little of construction. He died a few years ago, of a terrible fever.'