“I’d appreciate it if you held off on honoring me for the time being.”
“As you wish. Would you join me for dinner?”
“May I wash first? It was a long trip, and I imagine that I’d make better company if I were clean.”
“Dinner isn’t for a little while. Brother Grey will escort you.”
“This way, miss,” a voice said from behind Kala, startling her.
She hadn’t noticed that they were being followed silently by a man in simple grey robes, secured by knotted rope. Turning back to the robed woman, Kala saw that she’d kept walking and was already disappearing into a doorway.
Brother Grey gestured brusquely in a different direction from the one the woman had taken, so Kala turned and let him lead the way.
“Acolytes are preparing a bath for you, but the water will take time to heat. Would you like me to show you the grounds while you’re waiting?” he asked.
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
Brother Grey took her on a circuitous tour. He first showed her the gardens, which were beautiful and meticulously tended. “Cultivating beauty is as calming as surrounding one’s self in it. It also serves to remind one how fragile and fleeting the world is,” he told her. He gestured to the garden wall. “On the other side are the vegetable gardens and the vineyards.”
Next, he walked her through the domed cathedral. It was huge and lit dimly by high-set windows stained every possible shade of black and grey. It was both grand and somber. He didn’t speak until they’d exited the building, then explained, “That’s where the devoted contemplate Goddess Death.”
“Aren’t all the monks devoted?”
“There are many ways to serve Death,” he replied. “Meditation is but one way.”
He walked her past the grounds where monks were training. She watched a great number of young monks moving together like they were dancing, but their motions more evocative of power than grace.
“Doesn’t such repetition make the fighters predictable?” Kala asked.
“Such practice is only for the young. Older monks are encouraged to improvise.”
“But can they escape their upbringing?”
“Can anyone?”
Kala found that his cryptic answers annoying, but she tamped down her impatience.
He guided her past a large building, which he told her housed the grand library, classrooms, and the auditorium where prophecy was debated. “You’re welcome to use the services in the building, but the catacombs are off-limits.” The catacombs sounded wholly uninviting, so she decided that wasn’t a problem.
They passed the kitchens and dining hall, and the tour ended at an expansive building housing the living quarters. “Let me show you to your room and your bath,” he said. He brought her to a simple room with a bed and a warm bath. Her pack was sitting on the bed, along with a plain grey gown that looked to be her size. He made to leave, but Kala stopped him.
“If it wouldn’t be a bother…” she began.
“Here you are,” he finished for her and handed her the four daggers that she’d used in the melee, which he’d somehow obtained and impossibly cleaned of blood.
“Thank you,” she said, but he’d already closed the door, leaving her alone with her bath. She stripped and soaked and reveled in the feeling of being clean. The scent of lilac wafted through the open window. A sinfully long time later, she got out of the bath and put on the dress that had been left for her. It was a simple linen slip, but it fit her well and showed off her arms and shoulders. She was admiring the fit when there was a knock on the door. She opened it to find Brother Grey in the hall.
“Ready for dinner?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m famished.”
“This way, then,” he said, and led her toward the dining hall. She followed him, but he veered away from the communal dining area. “A private dinner tonight,” he explained and led her to an elegant room with a table set for two.
The woman in the black robes rose from her seat, and finely wrought chains around her waist made a tinkling sound. She gestured for Kala to take the chair opposite her. “That will be all, Brother Grey,” she said by way of dismissal. He bowed and closed the door behind him.
“Let’s start over,” she said, extending her hand, “You can call me Priestess.”
“You can call me Raven,” Kala replied and shook her hand.
Kala watched the Priestess as she poured wine into two glasses. She had a casual elegance about her, and moved gracefully, but minimally. She passed a glass of wine to Kala.
“Thank you,” Kala said and took a small sip. The wine was old and delicious, and while she was suspicious of it, she was at the woman’s mercy and decided that if she was to be poisoned, there was little she could do about it. “Forgive me if this is an impertinent question,” Kala asked, “but I’ve seen other priestesses about the grounds. Would it not be more appropriate for me to refer to you as High Priestess?”
“We’re all the same rank when we return to the earth,” the woman replied, “So no, Priestess will suffice.”
An acolyte entered and placed a bowl of soup in front of each of them. Kala waited for the Priestess to take a sip before assuming it was all right to do the same.
“Brother Grey tells me that you worship Goddess Death,” Kala said to fill the silence between sips of soup.
“We worship all the goddesses and gods, but we find their favor inconsistent. Death is unwavering, so She is central to our devotions.”
The empty bowls were quickly whisked away and replaced with small plates of salad. Kala marveled at a miniature tomato and continued, “What is it you do here?”
“We mostly observe the world. If you sit at the river’s edge and wait long enough, you’ll see everything float by… dead animals, men, families, entire armies even. Death claims us all. We watch Her do her work, and we help when we can.”
That did not sound benign to Kala, so she asked, “How can Death need help?”
“It would be more accurate to say that Death helps us. Death renews like a fire does the forest.”
“Death seems pretty final to me.”
“To an individual, maybe, but not to a people.” The Priestess leaned back in her chair and studied Kala with keen eyes, then continued, “Let me tell you the story of the world. Once, our people spread out among the stars. They didn’t start here, mind you, but they came here a long time ago. They accomplished unimaginable wonders, but then they began to disappear among the stars. Some ascended, some descended, some destroyed themselves, and some simply faded away. Our ancestors feared we’d face the same fate and decided that the solution was to maintain a delicate balance. Our world is a garden that needs to be carefully tended and sometimes pruned. Death sustains life.”
Kala’s head swam while she tried to digest what the Priestess was telling her. She barely touched her salad before it was taken away and replaced with the main course. She picked at it without paying much attention to it.
Kala tried to summarize, “So the world is a garden, and you’re the gardeners?”
The Priestess paused eating and said, “The Ancients are the gardeners. We’re simply their hands, and death a tool in our hands.”
“Then, why am I here?”
The Priestess smiled broadly. “You, my dear, are a scythe.”
30
Skye
Skye stood in the cramped quarters with two other new additions to the ship. The ship rocked gently, and the boys swayed with it. Ellery, the ship’s Shift Master, looked them over sternly while pacing back and forth. “Why do the gods hate me?” he concluded.
The youngest recruit began to open his mouth to answer, but Ellery cut him off, “Don’t answer that question unless the gods told you themselves. Now, did they?”
The recruit shook his head.
“I didn’t think so.” He looked them over, then pointed at the gangly boy, “Okay, you, the spindly one. From the mere fact that you alone do not appear to be
falling over, I assume you’ve sailed before.”
“On a fishing boat, Shift Master.”
“Close enough. Report up top to the Deck Master. Tell him that you’re replacing the lad who fell to his death last moon. Dismissed.”
The boy departed, leaving Skye and the younger boy. Ellery turned to the younger of the pair, “You, the boy who talks to the gods, you’ll coil rope.”
“Then what?” he asked.
“Then, you coil more. Do you think rope coils itself? By the gods, they send me the thickest people. Are you trying to drive me insane?”
“No, Shift Master!”
“Thank the gods for that, then. Report to the Deck Master. Dismissed.”
Skye was last. Ellery looked him over. “Okay, inlander. Potatoes. That’s your life until we land in Bayre.”
“Potatoes are my life,” Skye repeated.
“Okay, smart ass, get below to the galley and report to the cook.”
“Where do I put my stuff, Shift Master?”
“You’re on a ship. You don’t get to have stuff. You could stow it in your hammock, but then you’re pretty well sharing it with the crew. Your problem, your call.” He stormed off.
Skye decided he’d figure out a solution to that problem later and went to report to the cook. It wasn’t obvious where the galley was, and he explored half the ship twice before he found it. He spied a large, greasy man stirring a pot that smelled suspect and concluded that he must be the cook.
“Potatoes, reporting for duty,” he announced.
“About gods-damn time they sent me someone. Those bastards don’t peel themselves,” he said, gesturing to a cavernous bin overflowing with potatoes. He looked more closely at Skye. “If you think you’re going to be sick, peel them topside. I’ll not have you throwing up around me. This place is disgusting enough without that.”
Skye thought topside sounded more pleasant than being stuck in the questionable-smelling galley. “Topside it is, then.” He looked around and spotted a cranny into which he shoved his pack.
The cook handed him a peeler and a bucket to transport potatoes up on deck. Skye filled the pail and headed back up the ladder. It surprised him how much activity there was on the deck of a sailing vessel, and he struggled to find somewhere that he wouldn’t be in someone’s way. He finally succeeded, and that’s where he spent most of his day, peeling potatoes and ferrying them up and down to the galley.
The crew ate three solidly unappetizing meals a day, but their work was demanding, and they were hungry regardless of the uninspiring food. After the evening meal and washing dishes, Skye was relieved of his duties and returned to the common room where the sailors slept, which he discovered was aptly named the ‘mess.’ He spied the other two recruits from earlier in the day and walked over to them.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
“By all means,” said the gangly lad, and Skye sat down. The boy handed Skye a jug. “The Pilot has a still. He thanks you for the potatoes, by the way.”
“Potatoes are my life,” Skye replied wryly and took a swig. It burned like fire. Skye choked and handed the jug back to the gangly lad.
“I didn’t say it was any good, just that the Pilot made it,” said the boy, accepting the jug. “I’m Dayl by the way,” he introduced himself, “and this is Gower.”
“I’m Skye. Pleased to meet you both.”
Dayl shook Skye’s hand, then Gower did. Gower continued what he’d been saying to Dayl before Skye interrupted them, “The Deck Master is such a hardass. Did you know there are a right way and a wrong way to coil rope? My mother would be so proud of me.”
Skye laughed, and Dayl added, “They say the Captain is worse. A boy fell overboard one night, and the Captain refused to turn the ship around to look for him.”
“That’d be a horrible way to die… cold and alone, and watching the ship sail away until your arms give out and you slip under the surface,” Skye mused.
“Or the sharks get you,” Gower added.
“What’s a shark?” Skye asked.
“No kidding?” Dayl asked skeptically. Skye looked innocent enough in his cluelessness, so Dayl continued, “You know how people eat fish, right?”
“Of course,” Skye replied.
“Well, sharks are the fish that eat the people who eat the fish.”
“Oh, that sounds unpleasant.”
“The gods’ own truth,” Dayl replied and passed the jug.
They’d had a fair bit to drink by the time the topic of girlfriends came up.
“I have a girl at home waiting for me,” Gower began. “She’s the sweetest thing.”
“My girl is the prettiest girl you’ll ever meet,” Dayl bragged and fished out a folded-up sketch of her from his jacket pocket, handing it to Gower.
Gower whistled and handed it to Skye. He had to admit that while she looked a little young, she was inarguably pretty. “You’re a lucky man,” Skye told him. “Did you draw that?”
Dayl laughed, “If I were that skilled, do you think I’d be hanging upside down like an idiot high above the deck? No, she drew it for me when I told her I was taking a sailing job to make us some coin.”
“Pretty and talented,” Skye whistled.
Gower reached for the sketch and examined it carefully. “Are you sure she didn’t embellish it a little?”
“Shut up,” Dayl replied and grabbed it back. “If anything, it doesn’t do her justice.” The sadness in his voice told them that it was the truth.
The boys stared at Skye. He looked back at them, uncertain of what they expected.
“Your girl?” Gower prompted.
“Oh, right. The girl I left behind is fearless, and I mean truly fearless. She can, and has, slain a leopard and a pack of dire wolves. She has a fire in her eyes that makes you want to lose yourself in them. She took my breath away the first time I saw her.”
“Wow,” Dayl said, “I’ll bet you can’t wait to see her again.”
“That’d be nice,” Skye replied, and a lump formed in his throat. “I think I need some air, gents,” he said, patted them on the shoulders and left to head up on deck.
Stars lit the moonless sky. Skye found a quiet place to lie down and watch them. They shone so brilliantly that it felt like he could reach out and pluck one. Where are you, Kala? he thought. Are you looking up at the same stars?
Skye was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the man watching him from the shadows.
Skye woke with a splitting headache. He lay in his hammock but didn’t recall having returned to it after spending time on deck the night before.
Dayl walked past, cradling his head in his hands. “I’m going to die,” he muttered.
Potatoes, Skye remembered and dragged himself down to the galley. The cook shot him an accusatory look that Skye ignored and lugged his bucket of potatoes up on deck. He waved up at Dayl in the rigging, but Dayl didn’t notice him.
“Mind the boom!” the First Mate yelled.
Skye grabbed his bucket so it wouldn’t slide away as the ship rolled. The boom swung violently in the wind and Dayl, who hadn’t gotten out of its way in time, was thrown far overboard.
Skye leaped to his feet and raced for the aft end of the ship. He darted past sailors who stood helpless, watching Dayl thrash about in the water. Skye scooped up a coil of rope, threw it over his shoulder, and quickly fashioned a climbing knot as he ran. He swung the looped end over a stanchion as he sailed over the railing into the sea, holding the loose end of the rope. He hit the water, surfaced, and the saltwater burned his eyes as he looked around for Dayl. He spotted him struggling to keep afloat, but nowhere near enough for him to reach before the ship sailed off.
“Hard to port,” the First Mate yelled, and the ship careened far over to the left, dragging Skye’s rope close enough for Dayl to grab ahold of it.
The rope reached the end of its play, and it jerked so violently that it almost flew out of Skye’s hands. He held on tightly and was dragge
d through the water face-first, struggling to breathe through the spray.
The deckhands hauled on the rope until they dragged poor Dayl and a shivering Skye on deck. Cheers of “Potato!” rang across the deck, and it took Skye a moment to realize that he was being saluted.
The First Mate walked up to Skye and threw a blanket at him. “That was stupid,” he said but rested a hand on his shoulder before walking away.
Skye dried off and returned to find that his bucket of potatoes had disappeared overboard in the commotion. He sheepishly had to admit to the cook that he needed another bucket and peeler. The cook yelled himself hoarse until Skye escaped back on deck with a replacement bucket of potatoes. He received several pats on the back as he navigated around the deckhands, searching for a place to peel them.
When he’d finished work for the day, he sat on deck with his journal, sketching a map of the coastline based on conversations he’d had with different sailors. The sea breeze caressed his cheek and he found himself daydreaming about Kala. He suddenly felt watched and looked up to see a cloaked figure observing him sketch, or rather staring at his journal. Skye looked down at his journal to see what might have captured the man’s interest, but when he looked up, the man was gone.
Skye returned to the mess and found Gower hovering over Dayl, who was lying in his hammock with bandaged ribs, looking forlornly at the ruined sketch of his girlfriend.
He saw Skye walk up. “I owe you my life,” he said.
“I think your girlfriend owes you a new picture,” Skye deflected.
“I didn’t know you could swim.”
“Neither did I, but how hard could it be?”
“Hard!” Dayl replied and shook his head, then winced and rubbed his temples, “I’m swearing off booze.”
“Until the next time you almost-die and realize that booze is the only thing that makes the in-between almost-dyings worthwhile.”
“Okay. I’m swearing off the Pilot’s booze.”
“That’d be wise.”
“Oh. I almost forgot. Some guy was rifling through your hammock earlier. I don’t think he saw me lying here.”
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