by Erik A Otto
Ron knew that guard duty would be passed on to him, as Mackie’s direct subordinate. An uneasy feeling crept over him as he remembered the man’s probing glances. Indeed, Mackie handed the weathered book to Ron and said, “Take care of this, and as for the man, keep him bound, and stay awake. I will take watch later in the night so you can get some rest. Understood?”
“Yes. Yes, sir,” Ron said.
Mackie walked away, following Foxhill and Deanne to the horses, leaving Ron alone.
Ron took up his post as the others camped nearby. He did his best to ignore the man, wrapping himself in his cloak and rocking back and forth to combat the chill of the mountain air. For some reason the man seemed oblivious to the cold, and showed no discomfort. His rags were thick, but surely not that thick, so how did he stay warm? Ron urged him to sleep, but he said he wasn’t tired. The man would occasionally cast his eerie looks. Otherwise he would busy himself writing in the empty book that hadn’t been confiscated.
It was more than an hour after the others had fallen asleep that the man whispered, “I need to go…you know.”
“So go then,” Ron replied.
“I would rather not leave it here, in the campsite, for both of our sakes.”
After a moment’s contemplation, Ron didn’t like the thought of that either.
“Can I squat in the trees there?” The man gestured behind him to the trees on the mountain ledge.
With the cliff face nearby, where could the man go? And he was bound and weaponless. “Fine. Let’s go,” Ron said.
The man stood, turned, and walked through the trees. Ron withdrew his sword, just in case, and gave him sufficient distance to ensure he couldn’t jump back and grapple him.
The man had a limp, or maybe it was his full bowels making him walk tightly.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about the book?” the man asked as they plodded carefully around the thin tree trunks and gray branches in the dark.
Ron didn’t respond, hoping the man wouldn’t ask again.
The man persisted. “Why am I bringing it to Spoons? What it’s for? Aren’t you curious?”
“Stop. Do it here,” Ron said.
The man stopped and turned, then looked down at his bound wrists. “Do you mind taking the twine off, or do you plan to wipe for me?”
Ron clenched his teeth. Again, what did Ron have to worry about? There was nowhere for the man to go, and he was unarmed. He wasn’t about to wipe the man, who, beyond being crazed, might have the plague.
Ron circled the man and undid the twine carefully.
“Thank you,” he said, squatting. Ron stood back, half looking away.
“Well?” the man asked.
Just get on with it, thought Ron, but the man wouldn’t relent. “Fine. Tell me,” Ron answered. “What is it you aim to accomplish with this book?” He remembered what Foxhill had said earlier. “Is it some collection of traveler’s tales for you to sing about? Are you some minstrel that the Fringe have hired for their amusement?”
Ron thought the man might take offense, but instead he laughed. “No, it’s a book, not a song, and I hope the people of Spoons should read it, of course. It may change things. You should read it too, Myron.”
Did he say, ”Myron”? Ron’s heart skipped a beat.
The man was still squatting, but he was watching Ron’s reaction carefully. He said, “Yes, Myron, I know who you are, but I suspect your colleagues do not. Similarity with one Bronté brother could be a coincidence. But two brothers, that’s something more. Three, though, then there’s no more doubt. No, Myron Bronté, I have met Baldric, Clyve, and the Imbecile. There can be no mistaking who you really are.”
Ron’s heart was pounding. His tongue felt like a wet noodle, unable to form words.
The man finished and pulled up his pants. He kept his eyes on Ron and said, “That’s why you should read the book, and read all of it. There’s much you should know about our enemy. And you deserve to know the truth about your brothers.”
The truth? The word made him feel nauseous. The only truth Ron could come to terms with was that this man was sounding exactly like the Truthseeker Deanne reveled in talking about; a man who claimed to seek truth but really only spoke lies. And it was well known the Truthseeker consorted with the Imbecile…and this man clearly knew his brother.
Ron gripped the handle of his sword firmly, his knuckles white with anxiety. Would this Truthseeker reveal Ron’s identity to Foxhill? Would he somehow escape using the blasphemous tricks he’d heard about?
All of a sudden, the man bolted.
At first Ron was surprised by the move. He expected the man might lunge for him, not away from him. Ron had the presence of mind to call out, “He’s trying to flee!”
Ron sprinted after him. The man didn’t make for an outlet on either side of the copse of trees. Rather, he ran directly away from Ron, toward the cliff. The element of surprise had given him a good lead, and he was more nimble than one would think given his limping and bundle of rags. But those flailing rags made enough noise that he was easy to follow. Ron would lose him behind one tree or another and then find him again.
The trees thinned, and Ron knew he must be nearing the cliff, so he slowed for fear of running off the edge. Abruptly the sound of flailing rags stopped, and Ron’s head swiveled frenetically, trying to find his elusive silhouette.
He caught sight of more movement. Just ahead to his right, a great shadow loomed, like a standing block of rock on the farthest edge of the mountain outcropping. As he closed the distance to the thing, details emerged…and a well of fear rose in him.
It couldn’t be real. His mind must be playing tricks on him. The darkness and shadows must be showing him some apparition, some falseness.
As he came closer, he froze, for the image didn’t change. Rather, it only gained in resolution. Then, with a great gasp, it seemed as though the massive thing belched at him.
Ron hesitated. Could he fight such a thing? Could he run from it? He tried to remember what it said in the Book of Canons.
But before Ron could so much as utter a prayer to Matteo, a stench reached his nostrils, his vision blurred, and he crumpled to the ground.
“Ron, Ron, wake up! What happened? Are you hurt?” Foxhill hovered over him, his canteen dripping water into his face.
“Is…is it gone?”
“Yes, we’ve searched the area, and there’s no sign of the man. We thought you might be in a coma; you were so hard to revive. Are you hurt?”
Ron felt stunned, but there was no pain. Vivid images flashed in his mind’s eye, violently forcing any remaining slumber out of his eyes. He sat up and looked around to see Mackie and Deanne also hovering over him. He was still near the cliff face where he’d seen…the beast.
“What happened?” Foxhill said. “Did the man fall off the cliff?”
Ron couldn’t help himself from stammering as his heart pounded. It felt like it was bursting out of his chest. “He…he ran, and I chased him. I reached the edge of the cliff and saw that he…”
He gauged the eyes of the three men on him, full of fear, full of inquisition. No, he couldn’t tell them what he’d seen. It was a fleeting instinct, driven by the anxiety that still gripped him, but he held on to it, hoping it was right. Instead, his mind raced, and he said the first thing that came to him. “I think he climbed up on a block of stone, here at the edge, and when I got here, he must have…hit me on the head. That must have been his plan, to hide on this rock and knock me out, then escape. But before I fell unconscious, I saw the rock break off of the ledge, and he plunged down off the mountain with it. Yes, he plunged down off the mountain.”
Foxhill nodded. “I thought he might have fallen. You’re lucky for your life, Ron. He was as crazed as I suspected. You should take better care on your watch, though.” Ron was barely registering the words. The images of his last waking moments kept flashing in his mind, over and over again.
They escorted him back to the campsite. T
hey could tell he was in a state and didn’t ask more questions, letting compassion for his injury and state of shock reign over curiosity.
He again considered telling them about the beast, but they would never believe him, and they would likely think him mad. He saw the way Foxhill looked at Deanne when he spoke of such things, and he didn’t want to be a recipient of those same looks. No, it was best that they all believed the man was just a crazed traveler who had died in the wilderness.
The others fell asleep easily after that, but Ron remained restless despite the late hour. Visions of the encounter continued to assail him, along with the Truthseeker’s words about his brothers. After tossing and turning, Ron left the tent and promenaded around the campsite aimlessly, hoping some exercise would expel his anxious energy.
His exertions did little, and he couldn’t help casting uneasy glances at the sky every few minutes, expecting to see the demonic thing swoop down on him from above.
No, it was his mind that needed a remedy, not his body. But there seemed to be no one to speak with, nothing he could do to come to terms with what he’d seen, and nothing to answer the questions that plagued him.
Then he realized there was one thing that might alleviate his trepidation. Even if it was filled with lies and traveler’s tales, it would at least be a life raft for his turbulent thoughts to hold on to, a medium to occupy him while his nerves calmed.
Late that night, Ron sat where the man had sat, opened A Tale of Infidels, and began reading.
Book 1
A Tale of Infidels
“You ask what virtue there is in wearing sandals? Tell me this. If you must wear humble sandals, would you not pause before riding a steed off to hateful wars? Would you not rethink vain ambitions like climbing the impassable mountains? No, do not remove your sandals. Let them remind you of the travails of our journey, as well as the careful path we must tread as Matteo’s servants.”
The Sandaliers. From The Shepherd’s Guide, Book of Canons, page 178.
Chapter 1
The Truthseeker
The breeze was harsh, biting at Sebastian’s exposed skin with every gust. It pushed across the boggy foreground relentlessly, unchecked by any hill or tree. He calmed his steed with a reassuring hand on its flank as he rode steadily forward along the gravel pathway. His long braid of hair bounced against his back, and his deep brown eyes were lively, scanning the full expanse of the northern plain.
A sparrow flew like a dart across his line of sight. As he followed the path of the bird into the wind, he could see the bog and grass rolling northward, terminating in the line of dikes protecting the plain.
The road curved and the Old Keep came into view. It was the same as he remembered. The towering edifice was nestled in beyond subtowers and battlements, oscillating in the light, and dominating the skyline. The symmetry of the main keep faltered only with the spherical bulb and arrow tip of the Matagon Spire jutting out and up from the northern side. The finest Matar bone fragments were perfectly interwoven into the superstructure—and the blocks symmetrically spaced—creating a faint pattern that sometimes tricked the eye into thinking the building was made of rough-hewn stone. Uncut Matar bone fragments also jutted out from the corners of the many battlement towers as a symbol of warning.
Looking back he could see Nala and Perenna’s horses keeping step behind him. Catching his glance, Nala advanced, pushing her steed to a light gallop to close the distance.
“Are you going to visit the library first?” Nala asked, now alongside him. “I’d love to join you.”
He glanced her way, unable to temper his frown. She rode high in the saddle, her petite torso undulating in repetitive arcs. Her light-brown hair was usually spiky and disheveled, but today it had been matted down by the hood she’d been wearing earlier in the day. Her face showed her ever-prevalent expression that fell somewhere between the depths of sincerity and the ignorance of a child.
Hadn’t he already answered this question? Why couldn’t she be more like Perenna, ever pious, who had said nary a few dozen words since their journey began?
Sebastian closed his eyes and tilted his head toward Nala to answer with countenance of a Sandalier. “The library is off limits to apprentices unless they are on assignment, or unless they are escorted by Sandaliers. Perhaps someday, if I pass the exams, I will have the opportunity to sample from the great works that lie within.”
Her expression revealed disappointment, but as was her way, it disappeared in a flash. She looked toward the Great Ocean and responded, “I guess that makes sense.”
The path continued to rise above the plain onto the Promontory of a Thousand Deaths, where a great many victories had been won in defending the Old Keep. Subtle flashes of movement were visible in dark arrow slits shaded by bony protrusions along the Old Keep battlements. Less subtly, two hooded guards stood in front of the gate, holding on to ornate bone-carved halberds. They weren’t donning the demure white cloaks and open toes of the Sandaliers but rather were covered from neck to foot in ringed mail made of treated wooden circlets.
Two armed guardsmen were never a good sign. When Sebastian had last visited the keep, there was only one man, a third-level apprentice, who had greeted him casually without any display of weapons or armor. Tensions around the Great Ocean must have increased, despite the reassurances given at the temple in Pyros.
The promontory continued to rise to an elevation of twenty feet from the bog below. They reached the drawbridge and crossed the moat.
One of the guards at the gatepost stepped forward and pounded his halberd on the ground. “Present yourselves.”
“I am Sebastian Harvellian of Pyros, a second-level apprentice, and I come with Nala Réalla of Aston and Perenna de Nagar of Esienne. Please accept our untaught souls.” Sebastian presented the Harvellian crest woven onto his interior forearm sleeve. Nala and Perenna’s muted forearm offerings followed his.
The guard barely glanced at the outstretched limbs, keeping his eyes anchored to Sebastian’s. After a quiet moment of scrutiny, he stepped aside. “You may pass.”
As the three of them rode through the gate, Sebastian closed his eyes in a gesture of peace and humility, and the guards, in turn, closed theirs.
When Sebastian opened his eyes, the tunnel under the gatehouse presented itself. Here, passing into the keep, the largest pieces of Matar bone could be seen up close. Some of the bones were in excess of twelve feet long and more than a foot wide in places, the largest he’d seen in his lifetime. They were elegantly interwoven together around the opening, with little space between them, creating walls of formidable strength.
The tunnel was followed by the courtyard.
The open square filled his senses with its disparate machinery. On the far end, apprentices of varying levels moved with purpose; running scrolls or tending to the stables or unpacking goods. A scaffold had been erected directly across from Sebastian, where two apprentices painted a mural from precarious-looking extension ladders above the construct.
The new work surprised him. When he’d visited months ago, the mural had shown the Shepherd leading the Sandaliers over the vast meadows of the southern lands. It had been a simple depiction of the Crossing, yet full of meaning to Sebastian. The faces had been blank and the countryside sufficiently bland for his imagination to paint the rest as he saw fit.
With the remastering, new colors and details were being added. The characters wore ambitious expressions. Some held staves and shields, and behind them rose the Old Keep, only in outline but still clearly discernible, with the distinctive Matar bone coloring and the Matagon Spire jutting out the side. In the distance were the squattish dwellings of their historical enemy, the Jawhari, painted in dark colors, where previously the Great Ocean had dominated the mural.
The changes took away from the original, in Sebastian’s humble estimation. It was less serene, and imbued with another quality; something darker, more fearful. It was unsettling that they would alter something he viewed a
s sacred, but he tried to dismiss his discomfort. “Change is as necessary as virtue,” Father would say.
He halted his steed to survey the remainder of the courtyard. Then he took a great breath to inhale the vitality of the keep’s inner workings.
Nala interrupted the moment. “Where to now?”
He answered quietly. “We must register with the clerk and be assigned rooms and work duties.” He stretched his arm out with an open hand toward the far end of the stable, where a booth extended from the keep wall. A large blue and gold Belidoran crest adorned the top of the booth’s wooden superstructure.
Sebastian could use some space after the long journey. Angling for a separation, he added, “We should go individually so as not to overwhelm the clerk. Perenna, please...” He motioned toward the booth with his hand.
Perenna didn’t answer but rather rode past and bowed her head to Sebastian and Nala with a graceful smile. She had good posture on her steed and was the same height as Sebastian, maybe an inch taller. Under her bonnet, her jet-black hair contoured her face closely with rounded side bangs, always hanging together perfectly. Her canteen, saddle, foodstuffs, and study materials were arranged neatly to either side of her on the horse, parallel to the ground, whereas Nala and Sebastian’s were always clumped together, jangling noisily with each hoofprint.
Sebastian quelled an urge to try to improve the arrangement of his horse after she passed.
Where with Nala he had to temper himself, he was unequivocally glad of Perenna’s company. Perenna’s father was a wealthy nobleman from Esienne who had taken her to Pyros so that she could meet Sebastian’s father, which naturally led to their traveling together to the Old Keep for the apprentice exams. She intrigued him with her poise and sacrifice. Here was a woman who could have followed the pretentious path to a life of excess that was typical for Belidoran noblewomen, but instead, she had become a servant of the faith.