Chapter 1: Smalltown Boy

Rhys Atherton stood on the weathered deck of the slow-moving passenger barge as it made its steady way downriver. He watched as the rugged scenery of steep mountains, dense forests, and pristine lakes he knew from his childhood slowly gave way to the sprawling, fertile lowland plain where the vast majority of the Seibjerg population lived. Orderly farms with grazing livestock and abundant arable crops appeared, surrounding quaint, rural villages.

He still thought of himself as a carefree boy, but the wider world now viewed him as a capable adult, albeit a young one. He was noticeably above average in height for his age, possessing a lean, athletic body, the natural product of an active childhood spent swimming, playing vigorous ball sports, sailing, rowing and running. He had thick, tousled brown hair with a casual side fringe, cut short at the back just above his shirt collar and swept neatly to the side at the front above his grey eyes. He preferred practical clothes in muted, natural colours, such as earthy browns, mossy greens, and slate greys. He wore sturdy brown boots, durable brown trousers, and a drab green shirt under a heavy grey sweater.

He had been to the country’s largest - and only true - city several times before. The bustling Seibjerg capital and main port sat where the broad Storflot River became too shallow for the larger, sea-going cargo and passenger ships. So, in addition to being the administrative seat of the Seibjerg government, it was also a busy transhipment port where cargo and passengers transferred into smaller river barges to travel further inland, and vice versa.

Rhys had grown up an orphan in the quiet, rural village of Solvstrom, raised by his devoted adoptive mother, Aoline. They lived in a comfortable, unassuming house within a close-knit community, sustained by an apparently modest but reliable income. He’d experienced an ordinary life so far, attending the local village school, achieving mediocre results in most of his studies, and maintaining amicable relationships with his peers and elders. It was a perfectly unremarkable childhood. His singular talent, however, was languages. He was obviously fluent in his native Seibjern, in Standard - the common business and diplomatic language of the Anaroc Alliance - and Reijik, the language of Reiland, the country where he was now heading. He also possessed a practical, working knowledge of several other regional languages.

The only puzzling anomaly in his otherwise placid life was that Aoline had no visible source of income, yet they never faced pressing financial worries. This quiet mystery only occurred to him as he grew older. Aoline flatly refused to discuss it, offering only the vague explanation of a pension from a previous, undisclosed career - an improbable claim given she was only twenty-five years his senior.

His childhood friends had gradually dropped out of school after turning sixteen to work in the dusty timber mill, become hardened loggers, or simply drifted away to find manual labour elsewhere. Consequently, only a dwindling handful of students remained in his year group by the end.

Shortly before his eighteenth birthday, a thick, official-looking envelope had arrived for him. He had opened it and was utterly astounded to discover an all-fees-paid scholarship to the University of Chatamor - the most elite and prestigious institution in the neighbouring country of Reiland, and indeed, across the entire Anaroc Alliance. The cryptic letter stated his course would be “General Studies,” but when Rhys consulted the university prospectus in his village school’s library, there was no mention of such a course.

Enclosed with the letter was a one-way ticket to Chatamor City. The journey required him to change boats in Roligvan, so the package also included details for prearranged overnight lodging. Strangely, it included specific instructions to call at a separate address in Roligvan upon arrival. Finally, the letter provided the address of lodgings in Chatamor City, where he assumed he would stay until the academic term commenced. At that point, he supposed he would move into the university’s own accommodation.

The late afternoon turned to a dusky evening as they approached the city of Roligvan. The landscape shifted once again, transitioning from fertile farming plains to light industrial zones and finally to residential areas. Before long, the barge manoeuvred towards its designated berth at the busy river passenger terminal. Rhys saw the larger, sea-going ships berthed at the deep-water docks further down the river. He’d be on one of those imposing vessels tomorrow!

The barge eventually docked, and Rhys went below deck to collect his luggage. He had a battered canvas rucksack and a substantial wooden trunk. He hefted his rucksack onto his shoulder - trusting the reliable crew to arrange delivery of his heavy trunk to his lodgings before nightfall - and walked down the steep wooden gangway back onto solid ground.

He’d visited this bustling port in the past, but this was his first time arriving entirely alone. A sharp pang of isolation struck him as he pictured his devoted mum standing on the damp jetty at Solvstrom, waving frantically as the barge pulled away. He could tell she’d been desperately trying not to cry, unable to mask her raw emotion. He had felt far less upset then, merely shouting cheerful goodbyes and promising to visit and write regularly. But now, swallowed by the imposing scale of the largest city he knew, he felt entirely adrift.

Shaking his head to clear the creeping melancholy, he focused on the immediate task. A long line of horse-drawn taxis waited nearby, and his mum had provided a leather purse of coins for his journey. Yet, a sudden, inexplicable instinct urged him to walk instead. Following that quiet intuition and the helpful crew’s straightforward directions, he set out on foot. As he navigated towards the thronging city centre, the growing density of the crowds made him increasingly anxious. He was a provincial village lad, unaccustomed to this urban environment. Lowering his head, he quickened his stride.

After a mercifully uneventful walk, he reached his overnight lodgings just as the fading daylight surrendered to a cold evening chill. Fortunately, the guest house boasted a highly respectable, well-kept exterior. Stepping through the heavy front door into the dimly lit foyer, he found a stern-faced woman stationed behind a polished wood desk. He retrieved the crumpled letter from his jacket pocket, quickly checked the details, and approached her. “Good afternoon. Do you have a room reserved under the name of the Minshull Foundation?”

She looked him up and down, assessing whether he was the sort of person she wanted in her respectable guest house. Satisfied, she found a heavy brass key and gave him curt directions to his room.

Rhys found the room, unlocked the sturdy door, and entered. He was genuinely surprised that the space looked quite comfortable. It featured a large, plush bed, high-quality oak furnishings, and a cheerful fire burning brightly in the grate. There was even a pristine en-suite bathroom. All round, the room was as inviting as the one he’d had at home, if not more so. He flopped onto the soft mattress and took several deep, steadying breaths. Again, he felt acutely alone. He’d always had his mum around, his close friends, or one of their parents. Yet here he was, the best part of a day’s sailing from everyone he knew. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling at all; it was a cold, hollow ache.

Feeling himself drifting off into an exhausted sleep, he remembered he still had to visit the second address given in his cryptic letter. Forcing himself up off the bed, he pulled a lightweight jacket, a woven woollen scarf, thick gloves, and a worn flat cap out of his canvas rucksack. Now ready for the outdoor chill, he set off into the fading light to see what the whole mystery was about.

There were noticeably fewer people milling about now, as both the grey light and the temperature were rapidly falling. His letter provided precise directions from the guest house to the other address. It was only a brisk, ten-minute walk, and when he arrived, he knocked firmly on the heavy, brass-studded wooden door. A small, concealed panel in the door slid open, and a set of sharp, scrutinising eyes peered out at him. The panel snapped shut again, and he could hear someone sliding heavy iron bolts back behind the thick timber.

The door opened to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man standing in the dim hallway. “Come in,” he instructed smoothly. Rhys stepped across the stone threshold and into the comforting warmth of the house. The man swiftly closed and re-bolted the door behind Rhys, then held out a large, welcoming hand. “Welcome, Rhys. I’m glad you got here safely,” he said in a rich, steady, slightly accented voice.

Rhys took his gloves off and shook the man’s firm hand. “I’ve absolutely no idea why I’m here, but thank you for the warm welcome.”

The man broke the handshake and offered a reassuring smile. “I suppose you don’t. But please, follow me, and things will soon become much clearer.” He turned and walked down a short, dimly lit corridor, gesturing towards an open door at the end. Intrigued and slightly apprehensive, Rhys went in.

The room resembled a traditional, private library. The oak-panelled walls were lined with heavy, mahogany bookshelves containing leather-bound books of all sizes and, judging by their battered condition, of vastly differing ages. A roaring fire crackled in the stone fireplace, making the stuffy room uncomfortably warmer than Rhys was used to. An elderly, frail-looking woman sat in one of four plush, high-backed leather armchairs arranged by the blazing fire. She appeared ancient, older than anyone Rhys had ever seen. Joshua’s weather-beaten grandfather back in Solvstrom was supposed to be over sixty, but this silver-haired woman looked substantially older than that! She observed him with keen, calculating interest.

Rhys remembered his manners and offered her his bare hand, which she took with a surprisingly firm grip. “Good evening. I’m Rhys,” he said to her.

“Yes, I know,” she smiled at him with warm, twinkling eyes. “It is good to meet you again. Please...” and indicated the empty seat opposite her.

Rhys desperately wanted to ask what she meant by “again”, but he simply removed his cap, scarf, and coat and sat down in the designated chair. The tall man who had shown him in took his discarded outerwear and hung it all on a brass stand by the door before sitting next to the enigmatic woman.

“It’s an awful, tired cliché, but I expect you’d like to know why you’re here?” asked the woman. Rhys smiled weakly and nodded.

She gestured towards the broad-shouldered man sitting next to her. “Firstly, manners. This is William. We’re members of a clandestine organisation called the Minshull Foundation.” The exact name that had booked Rhys’s comfortable room at the lodgings for him. “We’re working towards a fairer and more just world for everyone.