He stole the key over two weeks ago, and although Eden kept him in poison-stone stocks, Ceolwulf now had the upper hand. He could hear Eden’s primary thoughts, not the ones Eden cast, but the thoughts under those, the more private meditations and hidden agendas, the mumbling undertone. Hearing them kept Ceolwulf from going mad in this painful solitude, and it helped him refine his plans.
He closed his eyes. Eden was coming early today. He heard Eden’s thoughts and intentions even before he heard his footsteps echo down the tile-covered hallway. Ceolwulf tensed. Although he was a large man and able to intimidate almost anyone with his size and strength, his blood ran cold. Eden would turn the poison stones off for a short time to allow Ceolwulf’s body to recover. It renewed the pain when he turned them back on. Others under Eden’s command boasted about how many days they could withstand the stocks. The length of endurance had become a source of pride. Ceolwulf was almost up to Trainee Oneca’s record of fifteen days.
The room filled with light when Commander Eden, followed by two bull-necked guards, stepped through the arch. He strode up to Ceolwulf and examined him. Oh, the master of bad breath comes to torment his pet.
“Trainee Ceolwulf,” Eden said, stressing the demoted rank, “I consider your failure a betrayal.”
Ceolwulf thought but did not cast, Ah, it will be more than torture today. I perceive you bring news and a change.
“In direct disobedience,” Eden said, “you attacked Commander Angelo. Moreover, you killed his recruit, and in so doing, you eliminated our only means to discover the Sittiri’s plans.” Eden stepped back and waved his hand over the central display. An image with depth, color, and sound appeared that showed the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa from Ceolwulf’s perspective. The image was his oc-lok recording.
In the image, Angelo, with eyes wide in recognition looked up from the ground and said, “Ceolwulf, you’re alive?”
In the recording, with the sounds of battle and Ceolwulf’s grunting against the amplified pull of gravity, his hand reached out, grabbed, and lifted Angelo by his throat. Ceolwulf pressed his free hand against Angelo’s face.
Angelo screamed, “Mama, papa, sphere. Acilic. Matramon. Felitu.” His eyes rolled back and Ceolwulf dropped him.
The scene shifted towards the militiamen. Ceolwulf’s hand came out again and grabbed Francisco by his throat, holding him high. Francisco’s face turned blue. The scene panned to the left and focused on Angelo, still on the ground and looking up. A snapping, crunching sound came, and the scene turned back to Francisco who hung with his neck in an awkward angle. Ceolwulf’s hand dropped him. In the next instant, the scene showed sky and ground flipping end over end, and then the ground close-up with blades of grass. The image faded.
Eden stepped up to Ceolwulf again, uncomfortably close. “This is the last record we have of the Tolosa event. Erik was unconscious with an amputated arm and our other scouts were either killed by the natives or ran in terror of Angelo. I have dealt with them.”
With the aid of the encryption key, Ceolwulf heard Eden’s secondary thoughts. Erik killed them after his arm was restored, a pity. The boy is too rash. Ceolwulf had to suppress a smile. Eden had constantly claimed Erik was his perfect student.
Eden sniffed. “Very disappointing. I have just spoken with the shadows, and they are losing faith in you. The Golden Kingdom is at hand; don’t you want to be a part of it? This battle and Angelo’s exposure was a prime opportunity, a convergence of events beyond our control. Now we are undone, not by the enemy, but one in our own ranks: you.” Eden rubbed his scarred, whiskered chin, making a rough, scratchy sound that, in addition to Ceolwulf’s other torments, grated on his nerves. “I doubt you have any concept of the trouble you caused.” With his finger, he flicked Ceolwulf’s dangling amulet. “Let me explain it using small words. We have no idea what their Ox Shalay directive was, but his recruit must have been very important to them. Why? Our efforts in the East should have drained their resources here in Iberia. The great Angelo should have left to help them, but he didn’t. Do you know why?”
Ceolwulf tried to shrug, but pain shot through his shoulders, and he only winced.
“You don’t know? Neither do we. We don’t have access to their Ox Shalay directives and now we don’t have access to their dead recruit.”
“I—”
“Yes, you. You killed him, and because of your rash actions with Angelo, he flung you across the field, preventing you from resurrecting the boy and retrieving him. Angelo probably resurrected him and recruited him on the spot because we have no more record of his movements. He is gone. The Spanish have continued their crusade without him.”
“Uskit’r,”49 Ceolwulf cursed in his native language. He didn’t have to act ashamed; he honestly felt it. He had let his want for revenge against Angelo go too far. At first, the plan went well. Since he knew Angelo cared more for his recruits than his own life, Ceolwulf had used it against him. He attacked Angelo to elicit a reaction, and it worked. He saw it in Angelo’s eyes. Ceolwulf could tell which one of the militiamen was Angelo’s recruit, because Angelo would try to protect his recruit first. The boy named Francisco was the first one Angelo looked to when Ceolwulf knocked him down, but then the plan turned to chaos. The combination of rage he felt for Angelo, the bloodlust of battle, and his own barutis strength implant were too much to handle. Before Ceolwulf thought to control his actions, the boy’s neck had snapped in his hand. Plans often go awry. He tried to console himself to little avail. Get rich with the Key’ari and get out. The game kills you if you stay in too long.
Eden’s hands hovered over the shackles for a moment, ready to change the poison stone’s intensity. He lowered his hands and shook his head. “I believe you might have learned your lesson. You shall review your plexus training, but your shackles stay on.” He released the chains, and Ceolwulf fell to the ground in a crumpled heap. Eden squatted down next to him and tried to look him in the eye. He spoke tenderly, almost like a father. “You are one of my best chieftains, Ceolwulf. The training is harsh, but necessary. “We have a chance to make the world a much better place with Avar-Tek. Too many others have squandered this gift on Avar, Epi, and now Earth. Someone needs to take charge and make it right. That is us. You understand? But we can afford no mistakes. Too much is at stake.”
Ceolwulf looked him in the eye and nodded, but kept his dark thoughts buried.
Chapter 37
Francisco
Almodovar
Summer, Year of our Lord 1212
28 Days in Captivity
“TEN,” FRANCISCO SAID AND DROPPED from the tapestry bar he had wedged between two rafters for exercising. He had spent almost a month in the Almodovar Castle under Sir Angelo’s training, and each morning he woke up with sore muscles but eager to please his knight and learn more about Avar and its magic.
“Good,” Sir Angelo said.
Francisco, knowing the routine, dropped to the floor and started pushing himself back up. “One, two—”
Although the prince confined them to their room for most of the day, he allowed them out for escorted walks through the garden and for meals with him in the dining hall. The castle was more like a palace than a fortress. It sat on a steep hill overlooking the town of Almodovar, a day’s ride to the west of Cordoba in the Guadalquivir Valley. The castle looked like it had not seen a battle for generations. Instead of stables for warhorses, Francisco saw fountains, and instead of archers on the battlements were potted plants and colorful banners. The castle’s armory was sparse, but the prince filled a larger room next to it with more books than Francisco had ever seen in one place.
Their captor, an Almohad prince named Sidi Abbad ben Ali, was a gracious but stern host. He fed them well, but kept a close eye on them. Delighted to discover that Sir Angelo played chess, he had challenged him to games that ran late into the evening. In courtly Castilian with hardly a hint of an accent, Sidi Abbad spoke often about how he was “looking forward to receiving the reply f
rom the Christian King concerning your redemption,” and what he would do with the ransom money. “Give alms first, of course,” he would always add. “I give double the requirement, you know.”
The room the prince locked them into was larger than the house Francisco grew up in back at Las Largas, which gave them plenty of space to exercise and practice unarmed combat. The linens were so clean and white that Francisco was afraid to sleep on them. The floor was covered with ornately woven rugs, which Francisco was grateful for, since he landed on them so often in combat. Two guards stood outside in case they figured out how to pick the lock, but the captives never tried to escape.
“Thirty-one, thirty-two.” He stopped and looked up, red-faced. “Don’t you genies—”
“Sittiri.”
“Sittiri. Don’t you Sittiri have a way to magically make muscles grow or have a strength potion so muscles won’t be needed?”
“We have methods, but they are not for everyone. Continue and I will explain.”
Francisco obeyed. “Thirty-three, thirty-four—”
“There is a specialist implant called barutis given to a few. The man who attacked you at Las Navas de Tolosa had a barutis. More importantly, I have told all my students that one must not rely on Avar-Tek, for one day it may be taken from you.”
“Forty-nine, fifty.” Francisco sat back on his knees. “Taken from me? Like my healing stone?”
“Yes. One must learn to fight with hands before one learns to wield the sword, for one may have the sword taken from him. One must learn to heal without a stone, because healing is for more than flesh alone.”
“You don’t have one. How do you heal?”
“I have two inside.” Sir Angelo patted his stomach and chest. “Here and here.”
“You ate them?”
Sir Angelo smiled. “No, a physician put them inside me. All Sittiri have them. We also have a linguist here.” He tapped his forehead. “It helps us understand and speak other languages.”
“He cut open your head? Do I have to do that?”
“Yes, if you choose to become a Sittiri.”
“And fight the Key’ari.”
Sir Angelo raised a finger. “We only fight if we have to.”
“To stop or fix these splits in time.”
“Yes.”
“I still don’t understand. How can time split?”
Sir Angelo took a piece of parchment off the writing table and folded it in half. “Let’s say there’s a way for someone to go back in time. We don’t do that now, but those who came before us did. Every time they did something, they split history into two ways: the way that was and the way that is. This is called a rift.” With his teeth, he carefully nipped off a tiny hole along the crease. He started biting off another hole, but stopped when he noted Francisco’s reaction. “Please forgive the crudity of this demonstration,” Sir Angelo said. “I have but primitive tools with which to work.” He continued nibbling along the crease, leaving a line of tiny holes. He opened the parchment, and held it before Francisco. “Each of these holes is a rift. Some rifts are small and most will eventually mend themselves, but some are large like these, and if there are enough of them—” He tugged on both sides of the paper, and it ripped in half. “That is the impasuko. It has never happened, but if it does, it is the end of this realm.”
“The end of Al-Andalus?”50
“No, the end of everything. The Earth, the moon, the stars, everything. Not everyone believes this. The Key’ari don’t. In fact, they use these rifts for their advantage. They are trying to make the perfect kingdom by using rifts and Avar-Tek. Every rift creates a new world, a new universe like ours with a slightly different history. Most of the time it straightens itself out so that two worlds become one again, but if the rift is big enough, it stays like holes in parchment. If there are enough rifts—” He handed the parchment halves to Francisco and let his words hang.
Francisco stared at the two halves and thought about how his life had been ripped apart. He couldn’t imagine what this impasuko would be like.
“And so,” Sir Angelo said, “that brings me to you, because you are the next to help us.”
“Why me?”
“You are my assignment according to the Ox Shalay prophecy.” He raised his hand. “More about that later, but I can tell you this, of all the ones I have recruited, I see in you the character of the ideal knight. Your generation has cast their greatest virtues in the knight noble: valor and charity. In most men, these virtues conflict with each other. Many have valor and courage in battle but bring cruelty home. Others are charitable to all, but allow evil to reign. Only in men with valor and charity balanced do we find true leadership that inspires others. We need it of women too, but it is of a different flavor.” Angelo regarded him intently and added, “I see these virtues balanced in you, but you stand on the edge of a cliff. A nascent darkness also lives within your soul that threatens the balance.”
“A what?”
“That is for you to discover during this time of slavery.”
Francisco laughed. “Slavery? Sir, I used to live on the streets. Staying here is more like being a prince than being a slave. The only darkness I am guilty of is gluttony for living like a spoiled prince while my friends fight on the battlefield.”
Sir Angelo sat down and steepled his fingers. He sighed. “Indeed. This is not slavery; it is only captivity, and it will not do.”
“So, you have a plan for escape?”
Sir Angelo furrowed his brows and squinted at the floor. He spoke slowly. “Sooner or later suffering will find you. The stone cannot hide you from it. Embrace suffering. It is a gift. Don’t seek it, but when it comes, don’t waste it with bitterness. Don’t waste your sorrows.” He closed his eyes.
Francisco stood, staring at him. What does that mean? I know suffering more than he does. What is suffering for a knight or a Sittiri, anyway? Losing in battle or having his roast pig served cold? He cleared his throat and asked Sir Angelo, “How is suffering a—”
Sir Angelo raised a finger.
Francisco held his tongue and waited for the knight as he breathed slowly with his eyes still shut. Francisco guessed he was praying.
Sir Angelo opened his eyes and said, “We are done for the day. Prepare for dinner with the prince. Remember to eat with your right hand only and sample every dish but do not overindulge, even if he insists.”
Francisco stood up.
“And one more thing,” Sir Angelo said, locking eyes with him. “Brace yourself for harsher training to come soon.”
30 Days in Captivity
Two days later, Francisco and Sir Angelo ate another midday dinner with Prince Sidi Abbad ben Ali. The spread on the table before them was more like a banquet than their usual fair: meatballs, dried fish, melons, apples, pears, and fruit he had never seen before. There was not one variety of olives on the table, but three, and eggplant, pita bread, humus, pickles, and white cheese. Everything which was not a fruit or vegetable was loaded with pungent spices. If Francisco had taken Sir Angelo’s advice to try every dish, he would burn in hell for gluttony alone.
The prince was in one of his better moods, even laughing occasionally. He spoke with his hands and often paused to search for the most eloquent words or cut himself off in a rush of thought. Sidi Abbad wore a blue and red striped turban and a dark robe trimmed in gold over an ankle-length white jerkin he called a thobe. The gold-embossed hilt of a curved dagger stuck out from his belt. His dark beard was white on the sides, and his heavy, dark eyebrows often furrowed during this intense discussion with Sir Angelo. He appeared to be about the same age as Sir Angelo, maybe more than fifty years old. Yes, old. Sidi Abbad claimed he had three wives and fourteen children, but Francisco had never seen any of them.
“Because,” Sidi Abbad said to Sir Angelo, “I would like you to explain to the Castilian king not only how, ehm, gracious I have been, but that I have also observed your customs. My hope is that your king, having seen how I have exte
nded, ehm, hospitality to his subjects, would return the favor to his own captives and perhaps one day he will embrace Islam. All this food is halal—do you know what that means? Yes? Good. So, you would please tell your king we expect the same for our people captive in his lands. Only halal, not haram, which is not lawful.” He spread out his hands to the feast before him. “Ah, this is good, no? The Prophet—peace and blessings of Allah be on him—said, ‘Gather together at your meals and you will be blessed therein.’”
“Yes, indeed,” Sir Angelo responded with a nod.
Francisco sipped at his steaming tea, sweet and perfumed with fresh mint.
“Ah, it is a shame,” Sidi Abbad continued, “that your kings destroy so much. Have you ever seen such knowledge, such learning, and culture? I am sure it is a, ehm, a jolt for you, is it not? You are not used to it and must take it in slowly.”
“It is truly a wonder, but,” Sir Angelo said and pressed his hand to his chest, “if I may be permitted to speak boldly to my most considerate host? Beware of the temptations that brought down the former dynasties and empires. When they abandoned themselves to luxury and vice, life for their subjects worsened until they fell upon themselves in decay.”
The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1) Page 25