How Did Aberlans Become An Ideal Of My Life In Prison?

Of course, there were servants that bore their onuses by kind and purpose. Yet there were other servants to, but without baring name or tag, they imagined themselves free, called themselves so. The truth was that Aberlanians endured the world for one object, and one only: coin. To slave for it, sweat blood for it, to worship and give their health for it, and in my circumstance, to give three years of my life in prison for it. In Aberlan, the cost of the coin was perhaps it’s greatest illusion. Even for the most affluent merchant, Aberlan could become a prison if one took time to inspect the walls.
The fire was only an ember when the people returned to the streets. Wagons and carts clogged the roads again, some heading toward the marketplace,
From the Keep’s wall one could spy all of Aberlan, and even further over it’s colossal walls to see the myriad hills that rolled green in the distance. We had entered the keep from the servants’ quarters, and from there, through the royal kitchens. I had never been in the King’s Banquet Hall before, but tavern fables claimed that it was nearly impossible, upon entering the Banquet Hall, not to look up. When Marin and I entered the hall, we both felt the mystical pull of the ceiling and let our gazes climb upward. High overheard, the ceiling was decorated with elaborate mosaics in which Aberlan’s founding and Church lore intertwined to depict a gallant, yet apocryphal history. The hall itself glistened as if it was made of smoldering embers, and its burnished gold interior reflected the light unevenly from thousands of individual
“Enough of that talk if you know what’s good for you.” The knight with the blond whiskers turned around suddenly and bumped into Marin, who then dropped the red wine over into his dish and onto the table. “Bloody hell!” The knight shouted and slapped Marin across the face. “Fetch me a new cup, boy!” I flared and stepped towards the man, but Marin reached over held my arm. “It’s not worth it,” Marin said evenly in my ear. I was bereft of courtly manners and would have broken the man’s nose if it didn’t mean my job and probably my freedom as well. I spun away from the table sharply, clutching the silver wine jug firmly. Marin was right; I had no interest in returning to a dark cell. Course after course soon ensued in scattering diffusion. Smoked trout spiced with cumin and nutmeg followed cooked quail crusted with crushed almonds. A gilded tray of blackened lamprey drifted past me, and my stomach growled with hunger. With a scowl, I turned to Marin. “Have you ever seen a herd of horses Marin?” “Once, I think.” “Have you ever seen one that was fat, and the rest lean?” Marin paused for a minute, thinking hard.