by CJ Whrite
“I have a special announcement to make,” he said and took a deep breath. “I here have a letter from akimia Amlor inviting our own Roland Belanu to study with them on the road to become a Healer.”
“That’s Academia Amlor, Elder Handrad,” called Pelron under a roar of laughter.
Roland accepted the letter with shaking hands and elder Handrad gripped him by the shoulder. “Proud of you, lad,” he said. Roland nodded in a daze. His head was a whirlpool of confusion. He found Perlron at the edge of the crowd standing with his mother. She hugged him. “I wish your father could see this,” she said, her voice breaking. Apothecary Pelron led Roland away from the celebrating villagers.
“I don’t understand,” said Roland.
“You have been with me since you were twelve years old, Roland. In these past four years, you have learned what took me ten. A friend of mine is a Healer and has some influence at Academia Amlor. I told him about you, asking that you be given a chance.”
“I thought I would keep studying with you and one day be an Apothecary myself,” said Roland.
“You still can, Roland. But you have the opportunity to become a Healer, something that I could not.”
“But the academia is for nobles. How will I pay for it?”
“Times are changing. As a commoner you will take an entrance exam, and if you are accepted the academia pays a stipend to students.” Pelron clapped him on the shoulder. “From today on you’re a man, so I won’t tell you what to do, but think carefully over what is best.”
Roland watched as the reed thin apothecary disappeared back into the crowd, heading for the food tables. He watched the familiar faces of the villagers. Deriok was standing by Alman, cheering as the blacksmith lifted a barrel of ale above his head. The onlookers applauded and Roland could see the admiration for his master on Deriok’s face. Was this something he would never have? Protecting the village? Forging a legacy?
“Here you are,” said Layla. She smelled sweet and had flowers in her hair. “So I was right ...”
Roland looked at her dumbfounded.
“You will become a great man,” she said, her cheeks flushed. “I’ll wait for you.”
Roland smiled at her words. “Yes. I’ll be back.”
It was a promise he would never keep.
Chapter 2
Lightning flashed with blinding intensity, leaving behind jagged purple scars in the heavens. As darkness crept back, thunder boomed, the force of the sound driving sailors to their knees as the Swallow climbed yet another swell.
Roland gripped the supporting rope with one hand, trying to steady himself. It was a three-week journey to Darma, and four days after setting sail, the storm had struck. It had been raging for days now, and everyone was bone weary.
He clutched his leather satchel in his free hand. He only had a little bit of Wormwood left, barely enough for one person. As the weather had worsened, he had gone around the ship handing out the silver leaves to help with sickness. The leaves were supposed to be boiled and strained, but there was no chance of preparing it in such a way while the Swallow rode crest after crest. People were chewing it more as a comfort; the effectiveness was minimal.
There were six passengers including Roland. Since the storm had struck, they were kept in the ship’s hold for safety. A person falling overboard during the storm would be left behind, as it would be impossible to find the unlucky soul in the raging swells.
Roland listened as a man dry heaved. Roland hooked the leather satchel onto his belt, let go of the rope and stumbled to a barrel filled with fresh water tied against the hold’s bulkhead. He filled a cup with water and made his way back to the sick man managing to spill only halve the contents.
“Drink,” he said and held the cup to the man’s lips. The man’s face was ash grey, his lips cracked.
“All of you should drink water and eat some bread,” Roland said raising his voice.
“Too sick,” a man replied who had given up on supporting himself and was lying down, rolling from side to side as the ship swayed.
“Being sick is better then being dead. All of you are dehydrated, and eating dry bread will help settling your stomachs.”
Roland watched as the passengers stumbled toward the water barrel. He felt his way along the bulkhead until he reached a ladder. The air in the hold was sour from days of vomit. He managed to put his foot on the bottom rung and he pushed upward, shoving the hatch open with his shoulder.
As the Swallow swayed, the hatch fell down behind Roland and he dropped to his knees on the deck, dragging in lungs full of fresh air. Sea spray drenched him and the wind tore at his shirt. Lightning illuminated the Swallow and Roland launched himself toward the mast, tangling his fingers into the rigging. He pulled himself upright and braced his legs, getting used to the Swallow’s dance. There appeared to be less motion on the deck than below and he relaxed his grip.
Captain Rage stood at the stern, his feet firmly planted in a wide stance, his large hands curled around the ship’s wheel. The First Mate sat behind him on the deck, tied to the bulwark, one arm bent at an impossible angle. His head hung on his chest, swaying from side to side as the ship rolled.
Roland risked letting go of the rigging and he staggered toward the helm. “What happened to him?” he shouted above the wind.
“Brace yourself,” shouted Rage and Roland hooked his arm around the rail just in time. The Swallow shuddered as she topped a crest. She struck the other side with a jarring impact and it felt to Roland as though his arm was going to tear off. Rage roared a challenge to the heavens as he wrestled the wheel. The tendons in his neck bulged as he forced the ship back on course.
“That’s what happened,” he shouted. “Wheel slipped from his hands.”
“Can I do anything to help?” shouted Roland.
“No, lad. You won’t be able to move him on your own during this storm, an’ I’ve got the ship to think of. Can’t let the wheel go.”
“How long before the storm breaks?”
“Worst is past us, laddie. Maybe another day. But the watch changes at midnight and my crew will help him.”
It was difficult to judge, but midnight was at least four hours away. Too long, thought Roland.
Just then, a cabin door on deck opened and a girl he had not yet seen among the passengers entered the storm. She walked across the deck as if she was an extension of the Swallow. As the ship lurched, she adjusted her balance with ease, so it looked as though she was dancing toward them.
“Get back to the cabin, woman. Your father will drown me if something happens to you!” shouted Rage.
“How are you doing, Sea Uncle? Not tired yet?” she called back, her long red hair a storm of their own in the ever changing wind. The captain grinned, his black beard white from the salt.
“Not a chance in hell, lass!”
Her eyes widened as she saw the unconscious man and she shouted, “Jase!” running toward him. She knelt down and touched his arm gingerly. There was an ugly bulge where the broken bone pushed against his skin.
“We have to get him inside!” she pleaded and Roland nodded. He untied the ropes and grabbed the First Mate by the shoulders.
“Take his feet,” he told the girl.
“Careful now,” said Rage. “And I don’t want to see either of you on deck ’til the storm lets up.”
“Slowly,” she warned as Roland walked backward, holding the First Mate under his armpits. He tried to mimic the girl’s movement as the ship swayed, but he kept teetering on the edge of his balance.
“Don’t fight against the sway. Move with it without giving in to it,” she told him. That’s much easier said than done, thought Roland, and prayed for the cabin door to come closer quicker. They managed to reach the cabin without dropping the injured man and they laid him on the deck. Roland opened the door and then he dragged the First Mate inside, while the girl closed the door behind them, shutting out the storm.
Everything in the cabin was either bol
ted- or tied down, and Roland nodded satisfied when he saw a pallet bed in the gloom.
“Help me put him on the bed,” said Roland and together they lifted the unconscious man.
“Light the lantern,” he ordered.
While the girl complied, Roland took a small dagger from the leather satchel hooked to his belt. Starting at the sleeves, he sliced though the thin material of the man’s shirt. “Once I’ve treated him he will have to stay in this bed,” said Roland. “Is there a spare blanket or sheet?”
“Yes, a sheet,” she said, wincing as she saw the First Mate’s arm in the lantern light. Roland handed her the dagger.
“Please cut a spare sheet into strips,” he told her.
“What do you plan on doing?” she asked wide-eyed.
“I’ll push the bone back into place and wrap his arm. We’ll also need to tie him to the bed to stop movement. It’s not ideal, but in this storm I can’t do much more.”
“Are you a Healer?” she asked as she set about cutting up a sheet.
“Not yet, but I hope to be.”
Roland prodded the First Mate’s arm, feeling along the bulging skin. The bone had snapped between elbow and shoulder. It felt like a clean break. He was grateful that the man was unconscious. If not, setting the bone would have been impossible. The pain would have made him thrash around even if it was involuntarily.
“Have you done this before?” the girl asked and paled as she watched Roland gripping the First Mate by the elbow.
“No,” said Roland and turned his head so he faced her. He smiled nervously. “But I’ve read about it in one of my master’s books.”
He faced forward, held his breath and wrenched the bone back into place. The First Mate groaned and sweat beaded his face. Roland curled his left hand around the break, making sure that the bone would not slip out of place. “Sheet,” he said.
“My name’s Carla,” she said and handed him a strip.
“Roland,” he replied and gripped one end of the strip underneath his thump. “Thank you for helping me, Carla,” he said while he wrapped the arm. It had turned a sickly, bluish colour. Roland hoped that there were no bone fragments, or that the muscles were not damaged severely. As a sailor and First Mate, it would be difficult for the man if his arm did not fully heal.
“No, I should thank you. I’ve known Jase since he started working for Sea Uncle.”
“The Captain is your uncle?”
“My father’s a fisherman. He and the Captain have been friends since before I was born, but we are not related by blood, no.”
“So that’s why you can move so easily during the storm!”
She laughed. “I grew up on my father’s fishing boat. But you did not do so bad yourself, Roland.”
“That should do it,” said Roland while studying his handiwork. “Once the storm lets up I will properly splint his arm, but it will have to do for now.”
The ship lurched and he pressed down on Jase’s chest, keeping him steady. “Better hand me the rest of those strips so I can tie him down,” he said.
Together they tied the First Mate to the bed. Roland carefully held the broken arm against Jase’s side, also tying it down. Once finished he sat on the floor, closing his eyes. Carla pressed a wooden cup into his hand.
“Water,” she said. He smiled his thanks and drank deeply.
Carla sat on the floor across from him, her back leaning against the bed. As the ship swayed, she gently moved in unison with it. Roland studied her under half-closed eyelids.
Her red hair was damp and clung to her face. Her skin was milk white, her lips rose pink. He thought she looked beautiful.
“Do you always stay with the Swallow?” he asked, trying to think of something to say.
“No, I’m getting off in Darma. Father asked Sea Uncle to take me.”
“Are you to visit family?”
“My Uncle,” she said and wiped a strand of hair from her face. “My real Uncle that is. He’s a Goldsmith and I wish to learn from him.”
“You will be making jewellery then?”
“He once helped me to forge a small brooch when I was still a little girl. I’ve never forgotten the feeling of shaping something that will bring joy to other people.” She smiled shyly. “You probably think it’s silly of me.”
“Not at all. I feel the same way. When I treat someone it’s a great joy when they get better.”
“Are you going to the academia then?” she asked.
Roland nodded.
“You are not of noble blood, are you?”
Roland thought he saw a moment of distaste flashing in her eyes. “No. My master has a friend that has dealings with Academia Amlor. He persuaded them to give me a chance.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re not one of them.”
“You don’t like nobles?”
“What’s there to like?”
Roland shrugged, not knowing what to say. Life at the village meant he never had any dealings with nobles.
*
The storm broke the following morning, as quick and as complete as when it had started. Roland immediately woke as it passed. After battling against nature for five days his body felt strange not bracing. His muscles ached from the constant strain and the Swallow, too, groaned as her timbers settled after the punishment she had endured.
For a moment, he was confused not seeing the familiar hold and then he remembered the previous night. Something was pressed up against him and as he turned his head, his eyes focused on Carla’s face resting against his shoulder. He had fallen asleep sitting with his back against the wall and she must have snuggled up against him. If not for the need to check up on Jase, he would have happily stayed like that forever.
He nudged her over gently, trying to lay her down but she opened her eyes. They were large and deep green. For just a moment, they narrowed, and then they softened. “Morning,” she said. “Sorry for sleeping against you, but last night was freezing.”
Roland was not sure whether he was happy or disappointed with her explanation. “Morning,” he said gruffly and stood. He went over to Jase. At first, he thought the First Mate was still unconscious and he felt a prickle of fear, and then he heard the sailor snoring softly.
Carla studied Roland as he examined his patient. He was tall, broad of shoulder and slender of hip. He wore his dark hair long, and it was tied together at the nape of his neck with a rawhide string. He did not look like the usual Healer to her. He looked more like a swordsman, although he had impressed her with the way he had taken charge the previous night. He turned his head and faced her. His eyes were dark brown, almost black. The intensity of them both excited and frightened her.
“I’ll leave him to sleep while I search for something to splint his arm,” said Roland. He felt proud about the way he had treated the sailor. His breathing and heartbeat were normal, and the hand of his broken arm had a healthy colour. Although you had only treated him for a broken arm, he reminded himself, caught between diffidence and pride. He left the cabin and stepped onto the deck. The sky was without cloud, the sun a welcome sight after the raging storm.
Rage was still on deck, barking out orders to the sailors. Roland quickly counted. There were ten men, and their bare feet slapped on the wooden deck as they rushed to check the Swallow for any damage. Rage saw Roland and waved to him.
“Why don’t you tell us your name, lad,” he called walking over.
“Roland Belanu,” answered Roland.
Sailors clapped him on the back as they moved past him. “We’ll have a little drink before the day’s out,” one of them said with a gap-toothed grin, tipping his hand to his mouth.
“Told the lads you and Carla helped Jase last night,” said Rage. “Better not take them up on that drink, though. You’ll end up as dumb as they.”
Sailors chuckled and Rage grinned before asking Roland, “How’s Jase’s arm?”
“I still need something to splint his arm. I could not do much last night.”
&
nbsp; “Nonsense. If not for you, my arm would’ve had ’bout as much use as a priest in a whorehouse,” called a voice from behind Roland. Jase stood in the cabin door, a bit pale but otherwise steady. A ragged cheer went up as he stepped onto the deck. “Better go back to sailing school, laddie,” and, “You should hold the wheel like you did that hussy the other night,” was the general consensus among the crew.
Jase turned bright red. “I’ll throw you bastards to the sharks. Brins, get up that rigging and check the sail. I can see a bloody great tear from over here. If you don’t fix’t within the hour, you can look forward to being a pig farmer!” he shouted amidst the laughter.
“Well I’m glad to see you’re in good spirits,” said Rage.
“Sorry ’bout yesterday, Captain. It was careless of me.”
“So long as you don’t die on me. Keep an eye on the lads for a couple of hours,” said Rage, and Roland realised that the man had battled the storm with hardly any sleep for the past five days.
“Thank you, Captain,” said Jase, knowing it meant he was still trusted.
*
Pushed ahead by the storm, the Swallow sailed into Darma harbour two days earlier than scheduled. The First Mate’s arm was well on its way to full recovery and Roland had unofficially become a part of the crew. As the ship birthed, Rage promised him that saving one of his lads meant that Roland could count on the Swallow whenever he needed.
The rest of the passengers hurriedly disembarked, grateful to be back on land. Roland and Carla first stood on the gangplank, parting with the crew. Farewells finished, Carla ran down the plank and stepped onto the side, waiting for Roland. She had offered to lead him to the academia.
Roland hesitated as he stepped down the gangplank, his senses reeling as he tried to take in the enormity of Darma. It felt like he would be swallowed by the city if he took another step. He saw Carla watching him with a bemused look and he hurried down, a sheepish grin on his face.
Roland quickly lost all sense of direction in the maze of streets and alleys. The village he had left behind was an open haven under the broad sky; no matter where you found yourself there was always a landmark to pick out in the distance. Here he felt like a mole burrowing underneath the dirt: hemmed in on all sides by walls that looked the same. He could barely see past the next turn; stone buildings and people blocked his view in every which way.