“You tested this? Empirically?” Miscomprehension had turned to disbelief, then to interest as Jodhrik spoke. The Great Master was focused himself, now, on what Jodhrik said.
“Indeed, Great Master,” Jodhrik said. “And not only immediately before her. Beyond the door of her cell, even down the hall. Obstructions seemed not to matter.”
The Great Master took a deep breath, held it briefly as his eyes fluttered closed, then released it. Jodhrik recognized the First Centering exercise, and did not disturb him. Then, the Great Master stood slowly, using a short, thick wooden cane to assist him, and made his way—rather ponderously, to Jodhrik’s rising frustration—to a bookcase along the nearest wall. The ancient man’s cane tapped rhythmically on the wooden floor as he walked.
He ran his finger along the volumes resting there, his lips mouthing the name of each as his finger touched it, as though he could visualize the words written therein. Then his finger stopped, and he extracted the volume it had touched. He shuffled back behind the desk and sat slowly after placing the book on the dark-stained knarlwood surface.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked Jodhrik, opening the volume and flipping the pages, one by one.
“No, Great Master,” Jodhrik answered truthfully. He had been allowed access to his mentor’s library for a number of years, but permitted to borrow only one book at a time, and his duties left little time for study, at that. The tome the old Proselyte had pulled out was very old, and had no title; Jodhrik had selected those he recognized when he had time to read.
“This book,” the old man said, his eyes on the pages as they slowly flipped over, “is a treatise written by the former Great Master Lon Shalvek. Approximately seven centuries ago.”
Jodhrik’s eyes widened at the Great Master’s words; he had known there were a number of old tomes in his collection, but he had seen nothing even remotely that old.
“It synopses the centuries before it was written, telling of students, proselytes, and masters who came before. There is only one entry . . . one entry . . . “ he continued flipping pages for a few moments in silence, then; “ah, here. He tells of a student he discovered in the Yellow Wastes of Krushaeda, during a sabbatical. He was known for taking such trips in his later years as Great Master. The student he found, he described as the most extraordinary case I have ever seen.” He was reading from the volume directly now, though Jodhrik imagined he was paraphrasing the older, difficult to understand dialect. “A man who could connect directly to the Great Link with ease, and make use of that connection in ways I have never before encountered.
“Yes,” Jodhrik exclaimed excitedly, “just like that. Great Master,” he added belatedly.
The Great Master read on; “If only he would join us at the Sanctuary, I am certain he would be destined to become the greatest master ever; but sadly, here in the Wastes we Proselytes are distrusted, named as sorcerers and invokers of black curses. Thus he refuses, and so his liberation is lost.”
“So very rare,” the old master said, shaking his head slowly, “and so sad. Only one entry, only one case. Never seen before, or since. There are rumours, of course,” he went on, waving his hand about dismissively. “Rumours of sorcerers in Somria, barbarian shamans beyond the White River, and such. But only this,” he tapped his finger on the book for emphasis, “is actual documentation of this condition.”
Jodhrik nodded, emphatically. He had imagined—hoped—that the conversation might go this way, but had somehow expected the Great Master to dismiss his claims, and send him, disappointed, back to his duties. That he had actually uncovered something of importance—no, a great rarity—had him glowing with pride. Pride, he knew, was a luxury men of focus should not allow themselves, but in this instance he could not resist it.
“Jodhrik, go to the girl, and bring her to me,” the Grand Master said finally, leaning forward to lock his eyes on the Proselyte. “Bring her to me, and this time, we will not let such unique talent slip through our fingers.”
“Great Master, she is to be tried for murder,” Jodhrik said in exasperation, “else I already would have done as you say.”
At that, the Great Master reached out a trembling hand, spotted with age and covered in wrinkles, and with his other, drew a gold ring from his middle finger. He turned it over in his hand and peered at it, as if making certain it was his, then placed it gently on the table before Jodhrik.
“Take my signet, Jodhrik. Order the prisoner released to your custody. Make certain the lord responsible knows it is a personal request from me. You must not return, Proselyte, until you bring me this girl.”
・
The sun was setting when Jodhrik came over the final hills shrouding Benn’s Harbour from sight. He couldn’t recall who Benn had been, despite having been a student of history, but the harbor was impressive enough in scope to make any visitor wonder. It was as large as the city, though the latter wrapped all the way along the crest of hills surrounding it, and extending out into the sea in two great peninsulas. Jodhrik likened it to a crustacean’s claw, preparing to snap shut on the boats resting leisurely in its protected waters. A somewhat ominous likening, but then Jodhrik had always been one to see dangers where they might not lie, and opportunities where they might not manifest.
By the time he made his way down to the streets, it was time for the evening meal; the multi-storied houses he passed emitted laughing voices and ringing cups, and restaurants were lit with yellow oil lamps and buzzing with activity. Everywhere, he smelled meats roasting, and his mouth watered at the thought.
The barracks were likewise busy. Warders were still on the parade grounds, no doubt failing to please their ever-demanding drill-bannermen, and the mess was filled to overflowing with boisterous and hungry men. Jodhrik passed both and continued towards the headquarters building, where he knew he would face a challenging negotiation.
“Would you repeat that, please, Right-Guardsman? I do not believe I quite understood clearly.” Jodhrik stood unmoving before the warder responsible for the prison block. Banners depicting the ship-in-hand city emblem fluttered gently on a breeze that slipped in through two tall, narrow windows to one side of the gallery. He hoped that the effect made him appear more intimidating, which would properly reflect the anger boiling up inside him.
“Proselyte, the girl was released,” the Right-Guardsman repeated.
“Explain to me how a prisoner charged of murder is released,” Jodhrik said flatly.
“On the lord’s orders,” answered the warder. He showed no signs of being intimidated, but neither did he appear to be enjoying the exchange; Jodhrik imagined he wanted it to end as quickly as possible. Nevertheless, he wasn’t about to turn around without uncovering every detail possible; he stared at the man expectantly.
The warder sighed, and began again. “I don’t know the details, young—Proselyte,” he corrected. “The lord ordered her released. She left with the Front-Captain.”
“And where is this so beneficially overseen young lady now, then?” Jodhrik asked sardonically.
“I don’t know that, young man,” the Right-Guardsman answered, his eyes narrowing. Clearly he did not appreciate being spoken to so, and did not consider the Proselyte a threat to him, regardless of his rank.
If only he knew the signet I carried . . . Jodhrik thought, then pushed the thought aside. This wasn’t a matter of authority, he just needed the information.
“Right-Guardsman,” he began, trying a new tactic, “I apologize for my impatience. I am under orders directly from the Great Master of the Sanctuary of the Spirit, and must make haste.” He couldn’t resist emphasizing the source of his quest, and indulged in a taste of satisfaction as the guardsman’s eyes widened slightly. “If you can direct me to the Front-Captain, so I might speak to him of this matter with the greatest alacrity, I would commend you.”
“Unfortunately, Proselyte, the Front-Captain has departed for Somria in the company of Lord Perrile,” the Right-Guardsman said quietly.
<
br /> Jodhrik blinked. Surely . . ? “Perhaps, then, you might be helpful enough to know where he took the girl?”
“Certainly, Proselyte. She left with Lord Perrile as well.”
Jodhrik glared at him, stunned. “With Lord Perrile?” he repeated, his voice rising again.
“Just so, Proselyte,” the solider confirmed with a nod. “They departed two days ago.”
“Why in the name of peace would the lord sail west in the company of a murderess?” Jodhrik asked, both hands out with fingers splayed wide in exasperation.
“Proselyte,” the Right-Guardsman said slowly, a slim smile curling his lip as he demonstrated a clear indifference to Jodhrik’s attempt at exerting authority, “I wouldn’t deign to prospect at the lord’s motivations.”
・
The docks were busy, and smelly. Jodhrik had been informed by the Master of the Benn’s Harbour sanctuary, where he had spent the night, that any ships that might be departing for Somria would leave mid-morning. The Master had not told him that the fishing boats came in at around the same time; Jodhrik had spent the morning dodging fishing nets and climbing through catch piled on the dock, trying to find a ship to take passage on. He had little doubt that he already stunk heavily of fish, and was beginning to worry for his chances of even being allowed on board a passenger vessel if he found one.
In fact, he had already asked at each of the galleys that looked to be open to passengers, with no luck; all were sailing east. There were a few cargo vessels he had yet to call at; the ship before him now, low in freeboard yet wide, seemed a dubious prospect for a long sea voyage. Nevertheless he called at the gangplank for the steward.
The man who came down, obesely fat and covered in sweat with a white apron at his waist, seemed as dubious a proposition as the ship itself had appeared.
“Wha’yol ca’ f’?” the man asked in a thick Coastlander accent.
“Peaceful day, young man,” Jodhrik said with a polite bow. “I am a Proselyte from the Sanctuary of the Spirit, under orders of the Grand Master, and I seek passage on a vessel to Somria. Might your vessel be destined there?”
The steward stared at Jodhrik for a long moment, the asked, “Pros’lit?”
“It is so,” Jodhrik replied, bowing again lightly.
“I’ga cap’n,” the man said, and turned and walked off.
Jodhrik remained standing at the base of the gangplank, wondering if he had heard correctly. Then another man appeared, dark of skin, tall and broad-shouldered, with a thick whorl of black hair; a Somrian, and a fearsomely ugly one at that. Wide, thick lips dominated his lower face, supporting a misshapen nose, bulbous and twisted. His eyes were nearly hidden under two eyebrows that Jodhrik thought nearly thick enough to nest birds.
The newcomer wore a black vest and a billowing pair of pants, all in fine-weave cloth. He placed his right hand on an argent medallion at his chest and bowed strangely, almost a curtsey.
“Seek ye passage, am I heard, man of the spirit?” he said. He also had an accent, obviously Somrian, but spoke fluidly and comprehensibly, clearly having traveled to many lands.
Jodhrik bowed again. “To Somria, Master. Might you be on your way there?”
“It is so, but less than directly,” the captain replied. “Two stops shall we make, on that passage. It would be a long and less than pleasant journey, for a man of the spirit,” he added carefully.
Glancing at the rail, Jodhrik recalled the low profile of the ship. “You have made the trip before?” he asked.
“Many a time, man of the spirit.”
Jodhrik nodded. “I would join you then. Name your price, that it be fair. And,” he finished, “please address me as Proselyte.”
The captain made his strange bow again, eyeing Jodhrik introspectively, and motioned the Proselyte aboard.
Jodhrik strode cautiously up the plank, prepared that it might suddenly shift, and stepped aboard. There were a number of large square objects of various sizes strewn about the main deck, covered in canvas. “What are those?” he asked, reaching out to pull up a flap and peek inside.
“No,” the captain said, pushing his hand away; Jodhrik had not noticed him come up beside him, and was startled. “Keep away from these, Proselyte. Very dangerous, beasts,” he elaborated.
Jodhrik nodded, but tried to peer through a separation in the fabric anyway.
“Dangerous,” repeated the Somrian. “Come, I will show you your sleeping place. It will not be comfortable,” he said, shaking his head.
Jodhrik nodded again. He expected it would not.
・・
The undulation of the ship woke Jodhrik during the night. It was not particularly rough, but long, heavy swells had the ship rolling from corner to corner as the vessel made its way across them diagonally. The motion was alien to Jodhrik and he was unable to fall sleep after waking, so he went out on deck and made his way carefully towards the bow, holding the rail as he did.
The night was clear, with a full sky of stars overhead. Pausing at the rail to gaze skyward, Jodhrik could make out every constellation he knew, and many star-shapes he did not; he could even clearly make out the Swirl, a vast stream of stars stretching across the night sky from horizon to horizon. Why it was called a swirl, Jodhrik had no idea; it had always been so, in as far back as any of the books he had read on the subject.
He heard a snuffling sound, and a grunt. Despite the breeze and the creaking of the ship in the rolling seas, Jodhrik could tell it came from the covered container nearest him. Angling his head to the side, he attempted to see under the canvas, but in the dim starlight it was impossible. Jodhrik searched the sky for the moon but couldn’t find it despite the lack of cloud cover; he hadn’t been keeping track, but it must have been a new moon.
Curiosity surpassing caution, he moved closer and lifted the canvas slowly to one side, exposing the corner of a metal cage.
The cage, fully uncovered, probably would be about two arms-widths on a side. Large enough for . . ?
Jodhrik didn’t see anything yet, but he heard more snuffling. He pulled the canvas a bit further to the side, and moved around the cage, trying to see further in.
There was a blur of motion, and suddenly a face was before him. Covered in thick, dirty hair, the face was dominated by a disproportionately massive brow that shadowed the eyes from view completely. The nose was inhumanly thick as well, and the lower face was covered with an impenetrable beard.
Jodhrik couldn’t see the thing’s body, hidden in the shadows of the canvas as it was, but the hands that curled around the metal bars between the creature and himself were entirely human.
For a moment, he stared into the darkness where the thing’s eyes were, and though he couldn’t see them, he imagined its eyes stared back at him, with a flicker of intelligence.
Something whipped past Jodhrik’s ear and slammed into the bars with a rattling clang. It partially struck the creature’s hand and, while Jodhrik staggered back from the shock of the noise, the thing in the cage also shrank back, holding its hand in pain, and whining.
“Proselyte must be more careful,” the captain said, hulking over him, no more than a shadow. Did the man never sleep? “Dangerous, I did warn him. Beasts,” he repeated, as if it explained everything.
Jodhrik stuttered some sort of apology and backed away slowly. The captain’s shadowy countenance had somehow become feral in itself, and he wondered which made him more nervous in that moment—the captain, or the beast in the cage.
“Good night, Master,” he finally managed, and turned to go back below.
As he passed through the hatch into belowdecks, he glanced back and saw the captain still at the cage. He was slowly pulling the canvas back into place. Jodhrik stared, uncertain of what he saw, and listened intently, but heard nothing over the waves. Still, the manner in which the captain moved as he covered the cage . . . it seemed as though he was speaking.
Speaking to the beast.
12 SAYRI
The por
t city, which Arad told her was called Yalcinae, was enormous. When she had first arrived in Benn’s Harbour, Sayri had been astounded by the sheer volume of buildings jammed into such a small space. But the space itself had been something she could grasp; the city circled the hills around the harbour and was contained within it. She could easily have walked from the tip of one peninsula to that of the other, circumventing the city entirely, in less than an afternoon.
This city was very different. When they were still far from landfall, Sayri could already see an area of the countryside that was grey, rather than yellow and green, and tufts of smoke were visible rising from it. Not long later, Yalcinae itself was presented to her, in all it’s colossal grandeur. By the time they approached the docks, the city stretched as far as she could see in both directions, and disappeared up among the hills away from the sea. The buildings, shorter and thicker than those in Benn’s Harbour, were made mostly of orange brick, which Arad explained was, for the most part, mud; there were stonemasons in Yalcinae, but peasants had formed homes from mud for so long that it remained the primary method of construction, and was far cheaper. The shapes were different too—instead of flat, square roofs and platform verandas, most of these buildings ended in low curved domes, and balconies were nowhere to be seen.
But what impressed upon her the most—by far—were the people. From a distance, she imagined she was looking upon an anthill; the very ground itself appeared to be moving. As the ship came closer, she saw that the streets were swarming with brightly dressed people, beasts of burden, and wagons, all flowing smoothly around each other as if following the gestures of some unseen conductor. She stared wide-eyed as she came to realize what she was looking at, and Arad laughed at her, then wrapped her in his arms and whispered sweet words in her ears. She stared on, though, as they continued to approach. It was simply too unfathomable, leaving her entranced and unable to look away.
She welcomed his affection, though. After a ten-day at sail, his initial joy in reuniting with Sayri—and consequently saving her!—had begun to be overshadowed with a darker mood. She knew why; his mind was gradually turning away from his new life in Benn’s Harbour to focus on his past and his homeland, which he had, perhaps, hoped never to return to. Retracing his route back to Somria, especially in the employ of Lord Perrile and knowing his purpose there, meant facing his father. Sayri did not know what Arad was more afraid of; his father’s reaction to seeing him, or his own feelings when he laid eyes on the man, the first time since their confrontation regarding his sister’s death.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 13