by Erik A Otto
It was one of the first times she’d agreed with him without a debate. It was refreshing—almost enough to curtail his nausea. “So all I had to do to gain your confidence was to expose an international conspiracy and kill seven Fringe heathens?”
She managed an acerbic expression in response. Her eyes were laden with weariness.
They packed what they could. It took a while as Zahir had to pause on occasion to hold the bulkhead or heave more bile onto the decking. Hella took just as long.
They boarded the skiff and loosened the guide ropes to lower it into the water. Zahir released the final moorings just as the ship smashed the skiff into a wave, nearly vaulting the princess overboard. They went to work rowing the skiff with fervor, steering directly away from the ship at first, then cutting into the waves so they wouldn’t turn over the small boat.
It required their constant attention. At times Zahir or Hella would bail out accumulated water from the skiff back into the ocean.
Occasionally when crossing over the tops of swells they would see the Winter Solstice oscillating side to side in the distance.
Then, when he glanced back at the peak of a particularly steep swell, it was gone.
Eventually the waves seemed to lessen, as did the winds, but the rain wouldn’t stop.
Much later, it seemed like many hours, but perhaps it was only one or two, the sea settled back into it’s typical rhythmic undulations, and the precipitation waned to more of a spitting mist, barely noticeable relative to the torrent that had preceded it.
Chapter 20
The Good Son
Although Leftenant Henly seemed uncaring at times, Baldric reckoned he was a prudent man. He knew he should keep Sebastian away from the prying ears and eyes of the squad rather than repeat a brutal display like the one with the scout. So it was only when they were together in his secluded tent that Henly sat with Baldric, Darian, and Sebastian to ask of Sebastian’s story.
The story was long and, like the report from the scout, filled with peculiarity.
Sebastian acted like some kind of priest, or he at least spoke like one. As for his connection to Darian, apparently they had met south of Thelos at a woman’s homestead. He kept reiterating that he was in pursuit of profound truths. He said it with such passion, as if these truths were some lost child of his, or maybe a departed lover. Yet when Henly pressed him on what specific truths he was searching for, he seemed to lose track of them. He said he wasn’t sure, but he hoped to find out from the oldest Book of Canons. His religious fervor made him seem unbalanced.
What confused Baldric most was why Darian had been in some woman’s homestead with him. Baldric still didn’t really know what had happened to Darian before the Day. He made a mental note to try to ask him about it again later.
As the story went on, Baldric realized the man was more than unbalanced. Sebastian spoke of his hopes to find this oldest Book of Canons at the top of the Snail Mountains. He spoke of how he was captured by the Sambayans and Cenarans and made to work in a mine just down the road from their position. He told of great beasts being unearthed from the mine. He said he met a man named Thedric Ysodore who told him of a great conspiracy—that the Cenarans intended to cleanse the earth of all other nations—that they had been amassing forces and preparing for this day for hundreds of years. Sebastian even explained how the Cenarans were using the children of Belidoran nobility to blackmail them.
All the while Sebastian thanked and praised Matteo for giving him the strength to seek the truth and for leading him to them.
Baldric had heard stories of the Truthseeker. One villager had warned him, “Beware the Marked Man who says he seeks truth at the top of the world but really only spouts lies.” Baldric had dismissed these stories as simple traveler’s tales, but upon hearing the man in front of him speak, he felt more and more certain this must be him, a bona fide infidel in the flesh.
When Sebastian was finished, Henly thanked him and had his personal guard take him away to keep under watch. He told Darian and Baldric to stay.
“The story makes me very tired,” Henly said when Sebastian had been removed. “Is there something in Sambai that makes people go mad?” Henly turned to Darian. “You seem to know this man. What do you make of his story?”
Darian responded in his own voice, “It’s true he was in the same homestead with me—with the woman named Adeira.” He looked reflective, sad even. Then he turned to Baldric, as if the response was more intended for him. “His quest was the same, at that time. I had trouble understanding why he searches for this old Book of Canons. I didn’t believe his story then. But…he never once lied while he was there. In fact, he seemed incapable of lying.”
Henly frowned at Darian and looked at Baldric with one eyebrow raised. “Incapable of lying? Really, Darian, I think you have graduated from borderline to completely mad yourself. Yes, there’s something in the water, I think.” Henly checked the flask in front of him melodramatically. “Okay, so his story checks out on that one point, fine. It doesn’t mean he’s not mad or a criminal. In fact, as I’m sure you both know, he fits the description of the Truthseeker exactly. I have the official document describing him.” Henly rummaged through a folder and scanned over a leaf of paper. “Here be a proclamation by the Matagon Monks…says he speaks about truth but really speaks fantastical lies…references the Book of Canons out of proper context…may reference mythical beasts…deluded and mad…heathen…and here is the kicker…may go by the name of Sebastian. Yes, there can be no question. This is the man they want. We should take him back to the main army, back to Granth. Do you agree, Baldric?”
Henly had taken to asking Baldric for his opinion recently. It was a good sign. All he had to do was acknowledge Henly here, yet he hesitated. Even though Sebastian might be mad, there were strange coincidences with the scout’s story, particularly about the Cenarans and also the large beasts. How could two madmen hundreds of miles from each other come up with the same story?
But he knew Henly didn’t want questions; he wanted answers. If Baldric brought up his concerns he might remove him from consideration for advancement.
So in the end, all Baldric said was, “Agreed.”
“Good,” Henly said, and he stood up.
Before he could leave, Darian interrupted with one of his fits. “We have to bring honor to our house. We have to bring honor to our house.”
Sometimes Darian would whisper a phrase or two emulating Baldric, but rarely out loud like this. Baldric could remember only one time, in fact. It was when he’d thrown out some torn-up hiking shoes of his. You never knew what Darian would get attached to. Baldric didn’t like it then, and he certainly didn’t like it now. “Darian, be quiet!” he said sternly.
Darian didn’t stop.
Over the racket, Henly leaned in to whisper into Baldric’s ear. “Remember what I said. You will lose more than rank if you can’t control your mad brother.” He left the tent, shutting the flap behind him with a flourish.
“We have to bring honor to our house,” Darian continued. “We have to bring honor to our house,”
Baldric grabbed Darian’s arms and raised his voice over the mimicry. “That’s exactly right, and that’s why we need to bring this man to justice. This is war, and no matter what kind of perverse kinship you may have with him, he is Marked. Not only that, but he may have intelligence about the Sambayans. He needs to be properly interrogated.” Baldric’s own words, as he heard them, made him feel ill at ease. He sounded like he was implying some kind of torture.
It only made things worse with Darian. He shook his head and spoke more loudly, “We have to bring honor to our house. We have to bring honor to our house.”
Was he mocking Baldric? It was impossible to know. Baldric was becoming increasingly incensed. There is nothing more annoying than having his own words parroted back at him.
Baldric shook his head as he absorbed his brother’s constant repetition, at a loss for what he could do to quell him. He wa
s tired of Darian’s outbursts, and this one was particularly grating. So he simply marched out of the tent with the same level of disdain as Henly, leaving Darian alone with his fits.
Darian was becoming too great of a liability. Baldric would have to find a way to prevent further damage to the Bronté name.
Chapter 21
The Jailor
Zahir couldn’t know how much the storm had pushed them off course, or if there were ocean currents driving them in the wrong direction. They would just have to head east and hope for the best.
The skiff was no cheap rowboat; it was a ship of sturdy construction in its own right. There was even a cantilevered mast and sail that could be unraveled and put to use. Zahir set this up as soon as he could, and it caught a decent gust of wind. He rowed all the same, for if they moved too far west they could be adrift for days. He had no desire to die marooned on the ocean.
The princess dozed for a while, after changing out of her wet clothes.
They made it through the night, and into morning. Then she took a turn on the oars to let him rest. He was spent from the ordeal and vomiting, and knew his body needed to recuperate.
He slept for several hours and woke to more clouds threatening them on the horizon. For a while they were moving along side the weather, but gradually it came closer. They could see lightning tripping across the sky and sheets of rain cascading down.
“It might miss us,” the princess said.
“No, it will hit us,” Zahir said, looking into the morass of billowy clouds. “But maybe not soon.”
Hella didn’t debate the matter any further. She wore a sullen expression.
He rowed harder but could only go so fast. They had water to drink, food to eat, and a few hours rest, and yet he still felt weak. He hated to admit it, but the princess could be a faster rower.
He let her take a turn. They switched every few minutes after that.
Eventually they could see land. First it was a faint discoloration on the horizon, then there were bluish rocky cliffs. It was Thelonia…probably. The scale of his map was too large, and he couldn’t know if there were also islands near the coast. It didn’t matter. Island or not, they needed to reach shore.
They pushed harder.
The storm started to overcome them before landfall, but they kept rowing. Zahir left the sail up, bracing himself against it at times to ensure it retained its angle in the strong winds. They weren’t about to let this storm push them out to sea.
The rain was coming down heavily when they found a rocky landing. Unfortunately the shoreline didn’t offer much hope of a reprieve from the storm. It was layered rock escalating to steep cliffs as far as they could see in either direction, with tall waves pounding against it.
“There!” Hella said, pointing.
It was a grotto, possibly far enough away from the waves to be protected, but still exposed to the wind and rain from above.
Zahir pulled the boat up on shore and tied it to a large boulder while Hella made her way across the fractured surface of their landing area. He unfastened the sail and took whatever supplies he could. When he reached the grotto he went to work covering the top of the opening with the sail fabric to prevent rain from getting in. He worked on it for quite a while, ensuring it was secure, even as the wind and rain whipped at him, and even when the waves came in and doused his legs. He didn’t care. He was just glad he wasn’t still on the ocean.
Once he was comfortable that it would provide them with enough shelter, he joined Hella higher up in the grotto so they could wait out the storm.
The storm lasted for the rest of the day and began to clear as night fell. They would occasionally be hit with a spray of water through the opening of the grotto from a particularly strong wave, but for the most part the sail did its job to protect them. They changed and tried to dry out their wet clothes for the second time. It was cooler in the grotto than out at sea, but it was warm season so they weren’t in any real danger of hypothermia.
It was cramped inside, so Zahir removed the sail when the clouds were gone to make it feel more spacious. Matteo’s moon shone brightly once the storm had completely moved on. He welcomed the silver light into his embrace, and he whispered a short prayer of thanks.
Zahir’s hunger came back with a vengeance, so he dug into the rations they’d stolen from the ship. He tore through three pieces of jerky, ate a whole box of Fringe crackers and gorged on a large ripe tomato in the span of a few minutes.
Hella also ate from their rations, albeit with less gusto. She seemed interested in watching him eat.
Perhaps she thought him an animal, but she made no remarks about that. Instead she asked, “Do you think they will have warning signs up for me in Thelos?”
“I don’t know. The Fringe—more than half their words were lies. There may not have been any signs up in Esienne.”
“But if it’s true I’m Marked then there probably are, even as far east as Thelonia. That’s what happens when people are Marked, ever since I’ve been little, the signs go up everywhere.”
Zahir nodded. She was probably right. There were enough warning signs up for her in Jawhar, so he couldn’t argue.
The princess gazed out into the night. “It’s strange. Everyone thinks I’m this terrible infidel, yet they know nothing about me. It’s hard to reconcile.”
“Make sure you do reconcile princess. People will hate you and they will act on it. Most people see only your brand, and that’s all. You were once a princess, and that brand did you well. People acted accordingly, treating you with respect and dignity. Now you are the Traitor. People will also act accordingly. You are your brand and your brand is fear.”
He thought she might object, but instead she looked thoughtful. “I think you’re right,” she said. “Even in Pomeria no one really knew me. I was just a princess, maybe sometimes known as the precocious one, but nothing more. Except maybe to my sister Aisha. She knew that I wasn’t any one thing. I was many things, some good, some bad. It’s funny, out of everyone it’s only her I really miss. I long to tell her my story. But the others…I don’t even miss my parents.”
Zahir flashed his dark eyes at her, nodding. “I know this feeling, princess. I’ve been Jailor for many years. That is my brand, and it’s such a strong brand that the world outside of Kalianca has become distorted by it. I’m a monster in a maze, trying to get out. Eventually, if I can, I will find my way back home, to my temple; my family. My wife, Gharam, and my girls, they know me. They are the only ones. Maybe Wahab understands me, but only my family knows me.”
The princess was staring at him, her eyes reflecting Matteo’s moon. She was lost in thought for a moment, and then she said, “Thank you for bringing me here, Zahir.”
He didn’t quite know how to respond. People didn’t “thank” the Jailor of Kalianca. Was she being crafty in some way? Was she trapping him with her Pomerian wordplay? After a long silence, she said, “goodnight, Zahir,” and she slid some dry clothes under her to rest on.
Perhaps she realized he wouldn’t fall for it, whatever her game. Not that evening, anyway.
Or maybe…it was possible, he supposed, that she was being honest.
He maintained a furrowed brow, watching her as her breathing moderated. Eventually he stepped down out of the grotto to look along the shoreline. No one would come down here in the night, he reasoned, and there would be no one looking for them anyway.
He didn’t need to stay awake.
Still, he tried to remain alert, if only for a few minutes more, but with the waves crashing rhythmically nearby, and the princess breathing softly, it was hypnotizing. Exhaustion seeped into his rubbery limbs and he relinquished his hold on the night.
Chapter 22
The Naustic
Nala and the Purveyor continued east, skirting around Esienne, and then plunged through a deep forest near the Thelonian border to avoid Rio Castellan and Marsaya. Some other Fringe travelers helped them find a little-used ferry crossing of th
e Prosana River. It took only three more days to reach the outskirts of Thelos, but they didn’t venture into town. Before that, the Purveyor suggested he check in with the Fringe encampment on the outskirts to see if they had any intelligence on Sebastian.
The Fringe camp was substantial, at least relative to what Nala had seen in other cities. There were two hundred tents, almost half as many as she had seen at Round Top. Some of these tents were being packed up and laden on horse drawn carts in preparation for an excursion. There was space for a hundred more tents as well, with rectangular plots of dead grass in places.
“Was this a bigger camp at one time?” Nala asked as they trotted slowly through the camp.
“Yes, people are preparing for the journey to Spoons. Soon there will be only a few remaining here in Thelos.”
“What’s Spoons?”
“A settlement, much like Niknak, to the east of Thelonia. It’s quite remote.”
“Why are they going there if it’s so remote? I thought the Fringe thrived on being at the center of trade.”
“They fear the Cleansing, Nala.”
“Well, that’s silly. You can’t live life like that.”
The Purveyor looked to her with eyebrows raised, as he often did, as if she were some impetuous child.
The Purveyor guided them to one of the more official-looking tents. It had a small forked brown flag flying over the entranceway. She remembered a similar-looking flag at the Purveyor’s tent at Round Top. The Purveyor didn’t call out his presence or knock. He simply entered the tent, and Nala followed.
A curvy woman sat at a desk with papers neatly organized in stacks about her. Unlike most Fringe, she wore sparse clothing, in this case a v-necked blouse that showed off her bosom. She was fumbling her hands around her like they had lost control, but no disorder in the papers ensued. When she saw them enter, a grin revealed disjointed smallish teeth. “Paulo, what a pleasant surprise.”