Prologue: The Ring
In the darkness beneath the earth, under the flickering orange light of a small lantern, a young man toiled.
He swung his pickaxe at the stone wall in front of him over and over, ignoring the sprays of dust and rock chips that erupted with every strike. This far down, the air was hot. Sweat poured from his forehead, his back, and even the palms of his hands; several times, the pickaxe almost slipped right out of his grasp as he reared back for the next swing. After several more strikes, the young man lowered his pick, resting it against the stony floor by his feet, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He then picked up the lantern, and held it close to the wall on his left.
The brown band he had been following had begun to taper- now slightly smaller than the span of his hand- as it meandered across the stone, and out of sight behind the wall ahead. The young man permitted himself a small smile. The vein of iron was even longer than even his most optimistic predictions.
The young man moved to set his lantern down and continue digging. But as he did, a faint clanging sound echoed from somewhere deep within the tunnel behind him. The young man looked over his shoulder, into the dark tunnel. "It's that late already?" he asked, mostly to himself, as he grabbed his pickaxe. Normally, he'd clear away the debris, but that could wait until tomorrow. And in any case, he needed to pass on the news to Foreman. So, tools in hand, the young man took one last look at the iron vein, before he turned and started walking down the tunnel.
The young man wound his way through the narrow tunnels alone. There were others who worked the mine, of course, but he rarely worked alongside them. When he chanced upon them, they would often complain- about the layout of the tunnels, about the heat, about the darkness, about the strange knocking sounds they sometimes heard, about any number of things. But the young man never complained. The mine was practically his home by now, more so than the house he shared with Foreman- the stone, the darkness, the heat, were all comforting, in their own ways.
Eventually, the young man heard a clamor of people, and felt a rush of cold air on his skin. Working in the deepest tunnels, the young man was often the last to reach the mine entrance, and today proved to be no different. A group of men, about thirty in all, were already gathered in a half circle just outside the entrance. From somewhere behind the crowd, the young man could hear the deep voice of another man speaking: "...a few weeks, the merchant ships will be arriving from the mainland. And I'm glad to say that through your hard work, we've managed to mine double our expected quota."
A whoop went up amongst the other miners, as the young man came to a stop at the very back of the crowd. He crossed his arms, ignoring the praise, simply waiting for the speech to end. He had always found such speeches to be strange. After all, Foreman had told him that mining was his job- that he should not ask to be praised for doing what was expected of him. But the young man's ruminations were interrupted when someone tapped his shoulder.
"Hey, Quinn!" a hushed voice said. Quinn looked over, to see a lanky brown-haired man with round eyes looking back at him. He recognized the man- Eugene, a younger miner who'd come from abroad- from a place called "Dale." Eugene smiled broadly. "Hear the good news? I'm thinking I'm gonna swing by Freed's to celebrate. You should come with me."
"Sorry. Can't. Have to check in with Foreman," Quinn replied flatly.
"We can go when you're done. I'll wait up for you."
Quinn's second response was just as flat as the first: "I'm not old enough to drink."
Eugene's smile began to falter. "C'mon, one drink isn't gonna kill you. Besides, we don't get a lot of chances to celebrate. We should take advantage of it."
Quinn finally looked away. "We're just doing our jobs. There's nothing worth celebrating about that."
Eugene frowned, though Quinn didn't see it. "Well, if you're gonna be like that…" Eugene departed, and the remaining miners began to disperse as well. Quinn pushed his way through the crowd to the front, until he found who he was looking for.
There were a great many number of things that made Foreman stand out: his height, his muscular build, the deep rumble of his voice. But for Quinn, what made Foreman stand out was his beard. Even as his hairline had grown thinner over the years, Foreman's beard remained full, colored a fiery, vibrant red that never seemed to fade. Quinn came to a stop in front of Foreman- even for his age, Quinn was small, not even reaching the giant man's chest. "Foreman," Quinn stated.
"Quinn," Foreman replied. "Well?"
Quinn wasted no time in giving his assessment: "The vein's finally starting to taper off. I'd say we have about thirty, maybe forty peds before we reach the end."
Foreman nodded approvingly, stroking his beard. "This is shaping up to be the longest vein you've found yet, Quinn. I'll see if I can round up some spare hands to help you get that tunnel dug out faster."
The young man nodded. "Thank you, sir. I'll be heading home now."
Quinn turned, but Foreman added, "Be sure to wash up, won't you?"
"Of course, sir," Quinn nodded, before continuing down the darkened path away from the mine entrance, and into town.
The village of Lamorak, at the heart of the rocky island of Grimhold, was the only world Quinn had ever known. Every day, from before the sun rose until after the sun set, he worked the mines, digging up iron ore. It was hard work to be sure, and there were a few who disapproved of someone so young working in such a place, but after many years, Quinn had grown accustomed to it.
On the few occasions where he worked with the other miners, Quinn heard them speak of their plans for the future. Those that didn't send their wages to family members abroad spoke of attending prestigious colleges in distant countries, sailing the ocean as a merchant, buying weapons and armor and fighting as mercenaries, or simply wandering the world as they pleased. But Quinn never shared such lofty dreams with the others. A few expressed concerns that he had seemingly no aspirations beyond the mine. A few even questioned whether he had any thoughts in his head at all.
Of course he wanted to do more than spend the rest of his life with a pickaxe in his hands. But his dreams were so far removed from the reality of his situation. And the others… they could never understand. It wasn't long after the sweating sickness had come, after Foreman had taken him in, that the debt had first been mentioned. And, the mine was always in need of new hands. Quinn never joined the others in celebrating meeting quotas, because he had no money to pay for anything- all of the wages he would have earned working the mine were taken by Foreman, as payments for his debt. It had been eight years since he began working, and it seemed that he would be working for many more.
Quinn arrived at a large house near the heart of Lamorak- Foreman's house. Normally, he would have gone inside, dropped onto his bed, and immediately fallen asleep. But not tonight. First, he would have to draw water from the pump behind the house and scrub himself and his clothes clean, before being allowed to fall into a quiet, dreamless sleep.
In the darkness beneath the earth, under the flickering orange light of a small lantern, a young man toiled.
Quinn's pace was slower than usual, as after every few swings, he would set his pickaxe down and scratch himself. He'd washed his clothes, as Foreman requested, but now they scratched uncomfortably at his skin as he worked. Quinn saw little point in washing, no matter how many times Foreman insisted on it. His clothes had been perfectly comfortable as they were, and in any case, what was the point if they were just going to be dirtied again?
After scratching himself for what must have been the hundredth time, Quinn bent down to retrieve his pick. But from the corner of his eye, he saw a twinkling, something very out of place in this mine. He grabbed his lantern and waved it about, trying to find the source of that strange glint of light.
He soon found the glint again, at roughly knee height. An unfamiliar giddiness arose in Quinn as he scrambled to find two tools he rarely used- a hammer and chisel. Finding jewels was rare, but not entirely unheard of. And rather than having to turn them over to Foreman, miners who stumbled across gems were allows to keep them, and do with them as they saw fit. More than a few workers had made a tidy profit by selling their finds to visiting merchants… or, so it was said. Quinn heard stories from the others, but until now, nothing like that had ever happened to him.
Quinn hammered against the wall, carefully removing the stone surrounding the gleam. From what little he could see, the jewel he'd found was fairly sizable. His heart rising, he picked up his lantern again, but there were no other glints or gleams in the stone. His shoulders slumped slightly in disappointment, but that was alright. The one gem was enough of a prize by itself. So, with care, he tapped the rock he'd removed with his hammer, trying to split it open without damaging the jewel. And after a few taps, the rock cracked in two. But Quinn didn't find a gemstone inside.
Inside the rock was… a ring .
Narrowing his eyes, Quinn picked up the object and turned it over in his hands numerous times. It wasn't just some strange trick of the light, or an unusual rock formation- he was, without a doubt, holding an expertly-crafted ring in his hands. He couldn't tell exactly what it was made of in the light, but it was most certainly some kind of metal, set with a dark circular stone. It was large, too- it would hang loosely around the finger of even a man of Foreman's size. But what stood out to Quinn the most was that the ring was… cold, in spite the heat of the air, and the stone it was embedded inside.
For several moments, Quinn examined the ring in silence, before a strange… urge came to him, and he held the ring between his index finger and thumb of his left hand. He brought up his right hand, and prepared to slide the ring onto his finger…
But, Quinn shook his head, stopping himself, and quietly slipped the ring into his pocket. "What am I doing?" he muttered to himself. Though he knew nothing of jewelry, he could tell that this ring was incredibly beautiful… but, Quinn had no need for beautiful things in his life. And in any case, he needed to get back to work. So, Quinn took up his pickaxe, and began digging once more.
Before long, the bell signalling the end of the day echoed down the mine tunnels. He joined the others at the entrance, hearing but not listening to Foreman's usual end of the workday speech. He should have been happy with his find- after all, anything so valuable would wipe away a tremendous portion of his debt. But throughout the day, the ring sat strangely in his pocket- for such a little thing, Quinn felt that it carried far too much weight.
But it wasn't until the other workers began to disperse, that he realized what that weight was.
The ring… belonged to someone. And they were probably looking for it. Meaning, it wasn't his to sell. Quinn let out a long, disappointed sigh. He should have known better than to think things would be so convenient for him. So after reporting to Foreman (leaving out his discovery), he headed into the town. But, he wasn't heading home. If he was to find the ring's owner, he'd need to show it to as many people as he could. And Freed's tavern seemed like the best place to begin his search.
And, he quickly realized, if the ring was indeed lost, its owner may reward him for returning it. The reward would certainly be a pittance compared to the value of the ring itself, but any amount, however small, would bring him that much closer to freedom.
Quinn entered the tavern, a smallish building not much bigger than Foreman's house on the edge of town closest to the mine, and was surprised to find it largely empty. Behind the bar, chatting idly with a wiry blonde man, was the owner, Freed- a stocky man with a strange accent nobody could ever place. The blonde man, Lionel, took an occasional swig from his mug as he talked. Two men, squat, dark-haired, and nearly identical in appearance, sat on opposite sides of a table near the door, a board game between them: Boyd and Kyle, the twins. A fifth man sat at the far end of the bar, away from Lionel and Freed- the leather cuirass and green undershirt indicated he was one of Grimhold's militiamen, though Quinn didn't know his name.
All eyes turned to Quinn as he entered. "Quinn," the brother on the left said. "This is unexpected."
The young man approached the brothers' table and said out loud, "I wanted to ask you all something." He then pulled the ring from his pocket, and set it on the table. In the light, he could see that the band was silver, and the stone set in it was black. "Does this ring belong to any of you?"
The others, with the exception of Freed and the militiaman, gathered around. Without hesitation, one of the brothers picked up the ring to inspect it. "Where'd you find this?" he asked.
Quinn paused. He... hadn't considered that someone may ask that question. Scrambling to find a plausible reply, he stammered, "I, uh… I found it on the ground. In a tunnel, while I was leaving the mine. I reckoned someone must've dropped it."
The stout man handed the ring to his brother, who inspected it in turn. "Never seen something like this before," the other twin said. He flicked the ring with its finger- in response, it let out a faint ringing sound. "Seems like it's pretty high quality, too. Definitely not something you'd find around this place."
"Well, if no one comes to claim it, I'd be happy to take it off your hands, Quinn," Lionel said, taking the ring out of the second twin's hand. "I've been meaning to get an engagement ring for Phoebe." Then, he slipped the ring on one of his fingers. "It's pretty big though, even for me. I wonder if anyone around- Guh! "
The gem embedded in the ring suddenly lit up with a bright blue light. Thin, black lines, like veins, began rapidly creeping underneath Lionel's skin from under the ring, spreading across his hand and up his arm. Lionel clutched at his hand, crying out in agony.
Everyone at the table took a step back. One of the twins asked, "Lionel! What's wrong?"
The blonde man doubled over, crying out again as the veins spread up under his sleeve and emerged from under his collar, spreading over his neck and face. His free hand tightened around the ring, and he pulled, but nothing happened. " Ghhh! I- I can't get this thing off! "
The other men looked to one another, unsure what to do. But all Quinn could do was stare, completely frozen. The weight on his mind from the moment he found the ring… he understood what it was now. It wasn't the knowledge that the ring belonged to someone else.
Rather, it was every instinct in his body, telling him that he'd found was dangerous, and that he should get rid of it immediately. It was a feeling he was unfamiliar with, because of how careful he was: the feeling of one's life being in danger.
Lionel gave the ring one last tug. And he nearly threw himself off his feet when the ring slipped off his finger without any difficulty. Without a moment's hesitation, he threw the ring away, shouting " Damn thing! " There was a faint ting when the ring struck the tavern's wall, and another ting when it fell to the floor, where it sat motionless. Lionel hunched over, gasping deeply, holding his hand. His hand trembled violently, still covered with those strange black veins, and there was a black mark at the base of his ring finger. After several long breaths, he asked, in a strained voice, " What the hell was that? "
For several long seconds, no one made any movements. Then, one of the brothers began to approach the ring. He walked slowly, crouching, as though expecting the ring to move at any moment. When he was close enough, he began to reach toward it. "Was that-"
"Don't touch it!" an unfamiliar voice shouted. The group looked to its source-it was the militiaman, standing by the bar. "Nobody touch it," he said, it a quieter, but firm voice. He crossed the room, to where the ring had fallen. Slowly, he picked up the ring in his gloved hand, and looked at it for a moment, before dropping it into a pouch hanging on his belt.
The militiaman looked to the twins. "You two," he said, "take that man to the priest." He pointed to Lionel. Then he looked to Quinn with a cold gaze. "And as for you, young man… I'll need you to come with me."