Chapter Three: Towering Paternal Love

Currently, there are over two hundred thousand officially registered bards across the continent. These bards belong to two distinct Bard Guilds, each governed by one of the continent’s two great human nations. The primary purpose of founding these guilds is to provide a platform for bards to exchange ideas, serve as central hubs for information gathering, and facilitate effective management.

If these two hundred thousand bards were to simultaneously denounce a particular king, that monarch would be branded with infamy for all eternity, his name forever reviled. To prevent such calamities and safeguard the dignity of the nobility, both great human kingdoms have enacted strict laws. Every bard is held accountable for his words, and published works are reviewed by dedicated editors who meticulously scrutinize every line, ensuring nothing inappropriate slips through.

Should any manuscript be found to contain veiled criticism of the authorities, promote darkness, or spread other subversive ideas, the editor is required to return it immediately for revision or destruction. If an editor fails in his duty or insists on publishing such material, punishment is meted out according to the severity of the infraction—ranging from public apology to execution by fire. Both the editor and the bard are equally culpable and subject to the same penalties.

Of course, this only applies within the borders of the two great human nations. In the neighboring small states, or among the beastfolk or elves, you can insult a human king with impunity—no one will care. That is, as long as word of your invective never reaches the great kingdoms, and you yourself never return there.

In reality, as long as the speech does not cross certain lines, a little light mockery is tolerated. The two great kingdoms are not without forbearance. Some years ago, it is said, someone publicly denounced the Emperor of Lionne as “a truly ugly, stupid pig.” Reportedly, the Emperor did not take offense, but instead used magic to turn the offender’s face into that of a pig. The resilient fellow survived and, rather than being shunned, won the respect of many who considered him a true hero.

Were such an incident to occur in the other great kingdom, the Kingdom of Loubole, the usual response would be a formal trial. In most cases, unless the king or a high official is directly slandered, punishment is limited to fines and public apologies. Only those who stubbornly refuse to apologize are truly courting death.

It is, in fact, the Church of Light that is most severe in this regard. Even murderers and arsonists may find forgiveness in the broad-hearted priests if they sincerely repent, but let slip a careless phrase such as, “Necromancers aren’t so bad,” and the stake awaits.

In recent years, though, even the Church of Light has relaxed somewhat—perhaps due to the ascension of a new Pope, perhaps because the advancement of medicine means fewer people rely solely on the Church for healing, or perhaps because the explosion of culture has led to an unmanageable flood of blasphemous works. For whatever reason, things have eased.

All in all, life in this era is relatively unburdened. As long as one knows what to say and when to say it, there is little to fear.

The most recent burning at the stake by the Church of Light dates back fifteen years. At that time, a book titled “The Seeing and the Blind” was wildly popular among the nobility. Its witty, humorous language told the tale of Light and Darkness in a unique style. At many noble balls, passages from the novel were exchanged, and some young ladies laughed so hard they quite forgot their composure.

Alas, the Church soon banned the book, citing its portrayal of the Pope as a lazy old man who spent his days claiming to commune with God while actually dozing. The Pope, the book suggested, must be a lecher—why else would every Saintess throughout history be a beautiful, pure maiden, never a pockmarked or buck-toothed girl? By contrast, the dark wizards, cast as villains, were all dashing and elegant.

Though the book ended with the usual triumph of Light over Darkness, the dark wizards never revealed any ugliness; they died handsomely. Even the Church seemed to reform, with the Pope giving up his sloth and, in a twist, appointing a buck-toothed, pockmarked girl as Saintess.

Nevertheless, the Church was unmoved, declaring it a double blasphemy against both Pope and Saintess. A few nobles pleaded for clemency, but the book had spread too widely, and both Pope and Saintess had read it themselves, ordering the author’s arrest. No one was willing to offend the Pope for the sake of an unknown writer.

In the end, everyone capitulated, surrendering all copies of “The Seeing and the Blind” to be burned by the Church. The author, Bert Inquesine, and his editor, Baron Staddart, were both executed by fire. Bert Inquesine was the father of Kevin Inquesine.

Fifteen years ago, on a scorching day, a crowd gathered at the site of execution. At the center stood the iron scaffolding, to which the two condemned men were tightly bound. The Church’s High Inquisitor presided, the proceedings much like a trial for heresy. Ten-year-old Kevin knelt weeping at the periphery, joined by Baron Staddart’s son and many family members.

“Bert Inquesine!” the Inquisitor called coldly from the platform. “You wicked slanderous cur, defaming our Church of Light, spreading darkness, inciting the ignorant and good-hearted. Your crimes cannot be forgiven, not even by God! Only Hell awaits you! Have you any last words?”

Baron Staddart was first to protest: “Your Excellency! I am innocent! I am but an editor—why must I burn?”

“Your negligence allowed this vile novel to poison the land,” the Inquisitor retorted, tossing “The Seeing and the Blind” at the foot of the scaffold. “How can you claim innocence? Your nation’s laws are clear—bards and editors share the same fate. That is not our Church’s decree.”

“No!” Baron Staddart howled in final defiance.

Bert, in contrast, smiled serenely, as if being bound to the stake were the most comfortable of affairs. He turned his gaze to his son. “Kevin, don’t grieve. Observe this world closely—it’s all material! This is the last lesson I can teach you.”

“Father! Father!” Kevin clawed at the earth, desperately trying to reach the scaffold, but a burly Templar seized him by the collar and hurled him to the ground.

Kevin’s elven mother gathered him into her arms, weeping uncontrollably. “Enough, enough, don’t go any closer.”

“I’ll save you, Father!” cried the young Staddart, brandishing a sword as he dashed forward—only to be easily caught and tossed aside.

The Inquisitor raised his hand. “Proceed!” At his command, scores of torches were flung onto the wood beneath the condemned. In moments, flames roared high, crackling in the summer heat. Even the crowd, thirty meters away, felt the searing air; the agony at the center can only be imagined.

“No!” Kevin shrieked, collapsing at the feet of the assembled nobles. “Honored gentlemen and ladies, you have all enjoyed my father’s works—I beg you, save him! Please, save him!” His heartrending cries moved many, but none acted. Some turned away, sighing quietly; the noble families, though present in force, were powerless. Only sobs and the plaintive pleas of two children filled the square.

“Kevin!” Bert’s voice rang out, calm even through the flames. “Remember, do not grieve! Do not hate! Do not seek revenge! We are bards—we bring laughter to all. A true comic persists until his final breath! Only then is it true comedy. Do you understand?”

“Father!” Kevin struggled madly to crawl forward, but the Templar dragged him back again.

“Ahhh!” Baron Staddart’s shrieks pierced the fire. “It burns! I’m burning! Ahhh! Damn it!”

“Kevin! No tears!” Bert bellowed. “All men must die—there is nothing to fear! A true performer, even if his father dies in the morning, must tell jokes to all by afternoon! Bear your name with pride! You are Kevin Inquesine!”

“I’m burning! I’m dying!” Staddart screamed, then turned to Bert, “Aren’t you burning? How is it you don’t feel it?”

Bert paid him no heed, turning his blurred gaze to his wife. “To have married an elven wife was the honor of my life. Alas, I was neither a good husband nor a good father. I offer my deepest apologies.”

Kevin’s mother was already inconsolable. Baron Staddart, in desperation, wailed, “Inquisitor! Something’s wrong! He isn’t burning—maybe he’s a monster! Perhaps we should put out the fire and check… cough, cough…”

The flames raged higher. Soon, neither man could breathe or speak; the agony was unimaginable. Their hair and beards blazed, faces unrecognizable, the air heavy with a stench that made many grimace or retch.

“Dearest,” Bert’s voice, barely audible, called out, “help… me…”

The elven mother raised trembling hands, drawing her bow. The Inquisitor caught the motion and signaled the Templar, who barreled over and began beating the two children. The mother seized her chance, tears streaming, and loosed two arrows. With a pair of sharp twangs, all was silent in the flames.

The Inquisitor glared at the Templar but said nothing. The result was the same—the dead are beyond reproach.

The sun blazed overhead; despite the absence of rain, as is customary in tales of sorrow, the mood was heavy. Bert, in his final moments, tried to be funny, though none present could laugh.

For the next five years, Kevin and his mother lived in the Elven Kingdom. There, Kevin pored over the more than two hundred volumes of his father’s collected works.

At fifteen, Kevin bid farewell to his mother and set out to travel the continent alone. He was of both human and elven blood, fluent in Loubole and Elvish, and during his travels taught himself the language of Lionne and the Dwarves. He could even read the script of the beastfolk, though their pronunciation eluded him.

By good fortune, the young Baron Staddart inherited his father’s title and continued as an editor. The two boys, childhood friends despite their shared tragedy, bore each other no ill will. Kevin signed a contract with the young baron, stipulating that all his works must be approved by his editor before publication, and that payments would be issued regularly for submitted manuscripts.

Of course, some wealthy bards self-publish, funding their own books and keeping all profits. However, this requires considerable capital and lacks the recognition of the Bard Guild, which might even suppress such efforts.

For ten years, Kevin journeyed from the Elven lands, passing through more than twenty great cities and five countries. He possessed no martial skills and was a mere apprentice in magic, able only to cast a magic missile and a shield—rudimentary spells, the former jokingly called by wizards “the farmer’s punch” for its feeble power. Even a grand archmage could hardly increase its potency, though unleashing hundreds at once might overwhelm by sheer volume. For apprentices, it’s sometimes less effective than a brick.

To travel unprotected is dangerous, but these are peaceful times. Relying on his wits and knowledge, Kevin survived many risks unscathed. Over the decade, he wrote a book titled “Chronicles of Assassins,” though it sold poorly and his circumstances grew ever more straitened.

At times, he was forced to tell bawdy jokes in taverns to make ends meet, yet he remained determined to continue his travels, striving to become a bard worthy of his father’s name.