“No! Silence! No! What? No! Are you insane?”
“Yes! No! Maybe so!” Graytu bursts into laughter while my head pounds more and more. He quiets after too long. “That murderous gorilla is in fact a siamang. An ape all the same, but not a gorilla. You must have offended Coloss. Yes, that is what happened. Murderous, he is not, but territorial, he is. You were in his tree. And you offended him. You shouldn’t have done that. That is something you should never do, as I trust you have learned. I’ll formally introduce you sometime.”
“Coloss? You’ve named that beast? Oh, that’s right…you’re the Animal King. He’s probably you’re pet.”
“No. No. More like a soldier. A guardian.”
“The Redcliffe Guardian?”
“Yes! Yes, indeed. You’ve heard stories, I presume?”
“I have.”
He stands rigid and tall. “None are true. I’m sure of it. You tell your comrades he’s a gentle giant.”
“Sure.” I stare in puzzlement for a moment. “So, how did you get me back on solid ground?”
“I didn’t.”
“What do you mean?” This old man’s goal is to make me go mad with incomplete answers. I swear it.
“You have a guardian angel in the form of a young girl. I had nothing to do with your rescue. She’s quite a mischievous and ambitious one. I’m sure you’ll be fond of her. Oh, and my little pal here had something to do with it as well.” He smiles and scratches his squirrel behind the ear as it sits on his shoulder.
“The rodent! And some girl? Seems unlikely. Have I failed your test, then? Or whatever that was. What now? Can you get me across the ravine so I can finish my journey to Greybark?”
“Failed?” The eccentric old man, adorned in his dark-grey armor—which appears to be improperly maintained with green foliage growing all over it—laughs hysterically in a way that is perfectly fitting to his mannerisms. “You’ve just begun,” he continues. “And for crossing the ravine, you’ll have to figure it out on your own. That is why you’re here, is it not?”
“No!” I shout, unable to contain my anger and, in turn, wince from the migraine still attacking my head. “I’m here because you imprisoned me and told me it was the only way out. I suppose that wasn’t the actual Redcliffe Crossing, then? It was hardly red. You’re just a crazy old man using me for some demented entertainment.”
“You’re mistaken.” His tone becomes solemn. “Crazy old man? Maybe true, maybe not. It surely depends on your perspective. However, that is in fact the Redcliffe Crossing. You simply must find the answers for yourself. It’s not up to me.”
“Why? Why can’t you just help me get across?” I ask, irritated by his absurd challenge.
“You’ll find some answers once you get to the other side. I cannot do it for you. You can try again tomorrow. For now, come with me. We must eat. Recover your energy, you know. Maybe I can introduce you to your rescuer. Oh…and another tip. Fall again and you won’t likely get back up. You are a lucky sack-a-potatoes, you are.”
My arrogance has bested me. I believed I could force the people to grasp onto the idea of something greater than themselves. I believed it would give them hope knowing there was more to this world. The nameless man is no longer nameless. They have testimonials tying the miracle, the Hybreed, and all the false stories to a specific man.
20 Elder
Seven seasons earlier…
“H
e’s a Grim!” a young, bold, lavishly dressed Hiberneyt cries out. “And if he’s a Grim, no doubt his brother is too!”
A Grim? The most feared of the Graft races, I think. Is it someone that has the talent of the Dihkai and the Hiberneyt? They wield the power of death and eternal slumber. Why they’re feared most out of all others is unclear. I’d think having the power of life and death would be most feared. Not two forms of death. I wonder if that’s possible. Regardless, if this man is being called out as any of the Graft races, this Autumnal Festival won’t end well.
“Prove it,” one of the accused Dihkai responds. He remains calm.
“So, you’re admittin’ it then?” another young man, obviously belligerent, bellows.
“No,” the accused replies. “You’re manifesting words where there aren’t any, you fool. Stay out of this, and go drown yourself in another pint.”
“What you sayin’? That I’d too many? That I’s a drunkard?” The young man, dressed in light blues, slurs his words, followed by a revolting belch.
His tolerance for being on the wrong end of a slight isn’t high based on the tone of his voice.
A man of the Seasoned Guard, donning his armored crimson silks, steps in to dismiss the commotion, but the Dihkai holds out his arm, gesturing for him to stand down.
“There you go again. I didn’t say that! It’s obvious you’ve already rid yourself of any intelligence, so another pint won’t do you any harm.” The Dihkai’s temper escalates.
“I won’t be toleratin’ no abuse from any Grim. Did you hear that?” he shouts over his shoulder to anybody who’s listening. “This man’s a Grim. We ought to do something about it!” he shouts to the crowd. “We can’t have any Grims walkin’ about us freely. It ain’t safe for the littles.”
“Yeah!” another angered man calls out. “Grims don’t belong around here.”
“Yes, then why don’t we do something about it?” Stone’s father, Arden, pleas while keeping his composure. “We’re a civilized realm, so let us step outside and gather some fresh air and fresh thoughts on the situation. Then, perhaps, find a carriage to get back home and sleep on those thoughts. No good decisions can be made in this state.”
“Sleep on it!” The man cries. He then shoves Arden with both hands, causing him to stumble backward and hit the ground. “He’ll be long gone by then, you fool! We can’t sleep on it. We need to handle this now!”
The offended Lahyf, with unexpected quickness for a man his size, jabs at the Dihkai in question and plants his fist right on his nose. Then, his brazen eyes immediately turn to the other Dihkai involved in the confrontation.
The same man of the Seasoned Guard moves to apprehend the drunken Lahyf, but the other Dihkai calls him off as well. The guard instead kneels to the fallen man to check his condition. These Dihkai clearly have authority over the guard.
“Do you know who we are?” the Dihkai inquires.
He’s wearing all-black formal attire and dressed a few classes above the impudent Lahyf accusing him, who’s donning a disheveled, sky-blue tunic with an unfastened vest. He looks to have been properly dressed earlier in the night, but its apparent the ale has taken over.
“A pair of no-good, nasty Grims. That’s who you are!”
“Atreus Martelli, son of Harris Martelli,” the Dihkai responds. “Named after Atreus Martelli The First, whom you may know as one of The First Four. And that man—”
“Boy!” the Lahyf interjects.
“That man you assaulted is Candrick Martelli. Also son of Harris Martelli. You have assaulted royalty. And by assaulting us, you have assaulted the Taoiseach himself. You will be punished rightfully so.”
The man tenses with rapid blinking. But his fear quickly quells back to anger. “Royalty? You’re no prince, boy, and your fadder’s no king. He’s a tyrant! Taboo is taboo! We don’t allow for no Grim to be walkin’ amongst us. Your fadder ain’t even ‘ere to protect you. Is he?”
He cocks his arm back to release a haymaker. But Arden, back on his feet, interlocks his own arm with the Lahyf’s just as he attempts to release his blow. The force of the large man’s strike carries Arden backward, putting him eye to eye with the angered Lahyf.
“You again!” he grunts.
With Arden locked in his grasp, the man cocks back his head and releases a blow right into Arden’s brow. Arden falls to the ground, unconscious.
A few of the surrounding spectators, unwilling to stand up to the drunkard, rush to Arden’s aid instead. They pull him away from the confrontation. One of them, hi
s wife, Shae. I wiggle my way through the crowd to assist her.
“How dare you!” the Dihkai hollers. “Now you’re assaulting men of Parliament as well. Do you not recognize that man? He is the Architect! You damned fool! It is time for you to leave. Master Fellwood! Dispose of this man.”
“I don’t think so.”
The Lahyf denies them and takes another swing at the accused Grim before the guard moves in. Atreus, anticipating the attack better than his brother did, easily parries the man’s jab. He grabs his arm in the process and forces him to the ground.
Master Fellwood, the commander of the Seasoned Guard, and one of his men force themselves onto the Lahyf while he’s down. The two guards aren’t enough at first. The Lahyf knocks them both off, but as he rises to his feet, his strength dissolves. Both guards, with hands planted firmly on his skin, immobilize the large drunkard. He falls quietly to the ground, unconscious. And he won’t wake until the guard chooses to wake him.
Another man, dressed in a fine formal silver cloak, trimmed with pearl-white silk along with white gloves, instigates the matter further. He methodically removes each glove and proceeds to pull the two Seasoned Guards away from the drunken Lahyf. A Hiberneyt himself, just like the guards, and a well-educated one, for he drops both at once as soon as his hand touches the skin on the back of their necks. “Let’s see them battle it out, shall we? I, for one, would like to know if Atreus and Candrick are the Grims they are so blatantly being accused of being.”
“Let’s not,” a commanding voice calls out.
The man speaking is obviously a warrior. His posture, authority, and firm physique all display a man you ought not start a scuffle with. All except for his flamboyant hair, which contains enough dreaded colors it is difficult to decipher what race he is. With that colorful mop, his eyes appear to change color as he shifts in the light of the thunder lanterns. A deceiving trick.
“Master Stormwood. You, of all men, should be eager to see some hand-to-hand combat. You’re the Master of Arms at the Academy, for Susy’s sake. It will be a display of your greatness, of your exceptional ability, to impart your own skills onto these young men.”
“Maybe so, but tonight is a night of celebration. We celebrate the arrival of Autumn; we celebrate the life it will bring, not the death it appears to be. There will be no drawing blood tonight.” Master Stormwood stands tall, arms crossed, muscles tight. “May I ask who’s instigating the matter?”
With a curt bow, he replies. “Carib Reign, sir. I meant no foul play. The flowing ales simply gave rise to courage and unrest for further entertainment.” The instigator dares not challenge him, and the commotion fades.
A couple more Seasoned Guards enter the hall from their post outside to remove the belligerent men. The fanciful instigator is permitted to continue enjoying the festivities since he did nothing but instigate. Alongside Shae, Stone, Jay, and I, attend to Arden. I hurry to the counter to steal a glass of water. Shae wakes him easily with her healing touch, and he’s back on his feet without a glimmer of pain. What it must be like to have the talent of a Lahyf. He accepts the water, nonetheless, affirming that, without water, none of us would have life. The festivities continue uninterrupted for the remainder of the evening. The dubstep beats fill the hall, with the thunder lanterns giving off an electric charge. Those filled with music, dance. Those not as fortunate, like myself, mingle, and everyone enjoys themselves through the night.
As the night comes to an end and the dawning sun shows signs of its arrival, the McLarins deem it time to take leave as so many others have already begun disappearing. Stone, Jay, and I gather our belongings as Shae and Arden assist the servants with cleanup. They truly hold themselves no higher than any person around them. Stone and Jay are blessed to have such a caring family. If only more in this world shared similar characteristics.
Suddenly, a woman’s shriek echoes through the hall. It came from outside. Several lagging guests rush to the exit, Arden and Shae among them. We follow.
Off in the distance, several hundred paces or so, there are two bodies hanging from a large redwood. They wouldn’t be noticeable in the waking light, except there is an orange glow about them. Embers lighting the base of the tree. The two bodies are strung up and scorched.
It’s the two Martelli boys, no doubt. The Grim have been executed for no more than being born Grim—assuming the accusations have weight. I’m only a child, and I can see how ugly this is. Humanity can be revolting.
The one they call the Taoiseach embraces the testimonials of the Hybreed. Opposition is what I presumed, but maybe I’m too cynical. But betrayal is part of us all during this time of crimson shadows. I will not let my guard down.
21 Stone
“T
o see an unfiltered sunrise. It’s brilliant,” I murmur to myself and soak it in. The massive delta with its red flowing waters and the contrasting blue sky, all with an amber tint as the sun takes shape over the horizon. A gentle breeze brushes across my cheeks for a refreshing change. A needed change. If this serenity is everlasting aboard a fishing vessel, I would gladly take on the role of an angler.
Advocate Gunther was able to get me aboard the Phish Skooler with ease. Captain Fika Crowbill, a longtime follower of the Advocate, seemed eager for the extra deckhand. Not the guest or the package, but the deckhand. No man is allowed onboard the Phish Skooler without paying his dues. It wasn’t beyond reason, and I’m in no place to bargain, so I accepted the terms without question. And I accepted them as Elder Alderock, still hanging on to the secrecy of my true identity.
The vessel is nothing special. A typical fishing boat the size of a schooner and aged beyond the finest cheeses. The captain and first mate have a cabin above deck and the rest of the crew have small quarters below deck where the kitchen, mess hall, ice storage, and infirmary all reside as well.
“I know you’re a greenhorn, Elder, but you’ve got to learn fast. We can’t have you stopping to smell the minnows every chance you get. And since you’re no good for anything else, get to scrubbing. Here.” The captain shoves a horsehair mop and a bucket of murky water into my hands.
I don’t see how scrubbing the deck with dirty water is going to help anything, but I hold my tongue and get to it.
“And when you’re done here, be sure to stop by my cabin.”
I’ve been aboard the ship for almost two days, and I already have a new understanding of a hard day’s labor. I figured fending for myself in the Broken Forest would have given me a good appreciation, but Captain Crowbill is doling out a whole new level of hurt. The captain tends to downsize me with his words, telling me I’m only good for scrubbing, but my duties have proven otherwise.
We’re up before sunrise and I receive an inkling of a meal before I get to it. My first duty of the day is to clean up after morning meal, scrubbing plates, washing tables, and preparing the mess hall for the next meal. Then, I report to the captain for whatever needs he may have, including tidying up his quarters, scrubbing out his pot, and acting as a messenger—that part is the worst, for I get degraded no matter the receiver. Not one of them appreciates a greenhorn—if I can even claim that title. And I’ve had no proper introduction, so they know not why I’m here. I’m an outsider is all they know.
Then, second meal comes, and I clean up after all the fishermen again with a short meal for myself to follow. After that, I’m to scrub the poop deck with the undersized mop they’ve provided me. And when the fishermen are done fishing for the day and hunker below deck to the mess hall for their final meal, I scrub parts of the boat I don’t know what they’re called. Terms like spar, halyard, and bow are tossed around as if they’re common tongue. But I’m finding as long as I continue scrubbing, they don’t really care what it is I’m scrubbing, so I haven’t learned their jargon yet. Once they’re finished with their final meal, then I’m back to scrubbing their dishes and making sure everything is ready for the next day. But that was the first few days. We’ll see what excitement comes my way
today.
Come to think of it, nearly all I’m doing is scrubbing, whether it’s the deck, some other part of the boat, or the dishes. Damn.
“Yes, captain, sir. Scrubbing’s my specialty.” I offer a forced smile.
He rolls his eyes at me. “By the way, expect a flogging later. Accept it, and we’ll be done with it.” And he walks off.
A flogging. Why would he say that?
Fika Crowbill is an elderly and surly man, parallel to all other fishermen I spied in Greenport and all the fishermen aboard this vessel. He maintains the reputation well from what I’ve picked up in the brief time aboard his ship, and he looks the part too. What hair he lacks on his head is accounted for on his face with a peppered-grey, unkempt beard that a flock of albatross might call home. And that gnarly scar that stole a couple knuckles from his left hand—what stories he must have. Though, with his connection to the Advocate and his firm religious views, I wouldn’t doubt he’s as soft as a pincushion on the inside.
I return to the captain’s quarters as requested and knock on the door. No answer. Maybe he expected me sooner. My duties have kept me busy past second meal, and he didn’t say anything when I saw him on the deck last, but I don’t know. I knock again and still no response. Hesitantly, I push the door in. He’s not about his cabin, and the place is cluttered with parchment, ink, and portraits strewn about his desk and the floor just below. I step inside to tidy up the mess as I wait. The portraits are of his family, I presume—a wife and two beautiful daughters, who both appear to have children of their own. Without touching anything on his desk, I take a long glance at the parchment. They’re love letters. Several passionate love letters that were written many seasons ago if the dates are accurate. Signed Your Adoring Husband, Fika. But they sit right on top like he had just been reading them.
Hmm…love letters written to his wife but in his possession. Maybe he never gave them to her. Maybe he never had the courage to unravel his emotional side to his wife—or anyone else for that matter. He’s an iron barrel filled with gooey, sappy matter just like the rest of us. I’d never dare ask him the truth of it, though. The consequences, I fear, would be more than I’d like to endure.
Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1) Page 24