A Tale of Infidels

by Erik A Otto

  Deacon smiled toothlessly and waited.

  Sebastian let out a sigh. He’d spent much of the time on the way from the keep debating what he would ask. His impulse was to describe the context around his ejection and ask Deacon for insight as to what might have happened.

  But as his emotions settled and he conjectured on the possibilities, he came to the pragmatic realization that Deacon couldn’t help him in that regard. Nor could anyone who wasn’t at the keep. Maybe the Sandaliers had found the anonymous letter he’d written for the Conductor, or they could have been monitoring him when he’d skulked through the hallway of ancient texts in the library. In either case, they may have decided to make an example of him.

  It was also possible they’d come to some late determination that they couldn’t accept what he’d done at the ruin. Perhaps they wanted to make a public spectacle of him—to warn others to not commit the same transgressions.

  Sebastian’s strongest suspicion, though, was that Timothur Granth accused Sebastian of talking about the events at the ruin, or worse. Sebastian had heard something of the arrogance of the Granths. He had unwittingly embarrassed Timothur in front of his friends at the Apprentices Gala, so there was some motive. Timothur’s strange behavior with Perenna across the Gala floor might also support the idea. Their passionate debate could have been Timothur making his insinuation to Perenna and them arguing about what to report. Perenna might have been trying to defend Sebastian, which could have been why Timothur had pulled her almost violently from the hall.

  It was only conjecture, but it was the most believable of the many scenarios.

  Of course, all of this was nothing a beggar might enlighten.

  Instead, Sebastian sought answers to the fundamental questions that had gripped his conscience so firmly in the last few weeks. He believed these questions were profoundly important to all of Belidor. They could be so important that if he did find the answers, he might be vindicated and absolved of his sins. And this really was his only hope. The alternative was…there was no alternative. He was nothing without cloth and sandals, without a vocation where he could serve Matteo.

  The source of the black book was the most pressing question—but it was also prickly. First, Sebastian wanted to ask another that had been nagging at him since the ruin. Maybe this one was not important for all of Belidor, but it was important for his own sanity.

  “What happens to people who are attacked by gargoyles?” Sebastian asked.

  Deacon smiled again and blinked. Then, as Sebastian didn’t waver in his gaze, Deacon surmised that the question wasn’t posed fleetingly. The smile turned into a frown, and he nodded knowingly. “An interesting inquiry, Harvellian, interesting indeed. You ask the question as if you might have seen one with your own eyes?”

  Deacon had surely asked the question facetiously, but Sebastian could feel the color drain from his face. “My apologies, I thought I was the one who asked the questions.” Sebastian made to reach for the money in the bowl.

  Deacon intercepted his hand with his own. Deformed arm or not, he was fast. “Now, now, Harvellian, I speak in mirth, of course. The gargoyles have been purged from Belidor by the Matagon Monks. There have been no reported sightings in hundreds of years.”

  A slight inflection on the word reported made Sebastian wonder of a hidden meaning, but he didn’t interrupt.

  Deacon then gave Sebastian his response. It seemed to have been scripted, as if he’d heard the question many times before. “According to the monks, the gargoyles are the scourges of the land, ghastly demons spawned long ago in Forefather times. When the gargoyle attacks, the victim is usually bloodied. Often times, however, given the sleep-inducing quality of their breath, most of these events are reported by people other than the victims. What happens to the victims has varied over time. After the Second Jawhari War, those who were attacked were usually placed on bed rest while any contaminants could be removed. These people weren’t impaired by the attack, other than perhaps in their own minds. Before the Second Jawhari War, victims were often scorned and told they could no longer be faithful observers of Matteo, such as apprentices or Sandaliers—on account of their contamination—although they could work in other more menial trades.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of all of this,” Sebastian said. “But do we know how many of the victims were killed by the gargoyles, and why they attack us?”

  Deacon again eyed him curiously. “I’m only a lowly beggar, and can’t see through Matteo’s eyes, but I’m not aware of any deaths from gargoyle attacks, except in a few old traveler’s tales. The monk scripture says that gargoyles attack indiscriminately and then leave. We don’t know why they need blood, and we have never seen them eat anything else. These demons of the night are ravenous beasts, not creatures of logic and purpose.”

  Sebastian nodded. He couldn’t expect to get much else. “But what is the point of view of others—besides the monks? Surely elsewhere, in other nations for example, there must be more written about these incidents.”

  Deacon nodded, then leaned in and spoke quietly. “Throughout history, other cultures have had different attitudes toward the gargoyles. The Jawhari, for a time, permitted them to exist. Some say they still have sightings in parts of Jawhar. Probably these are tall tales to incite fear of the Jawhari, but you asked, and the tales exist. Other cultures are even more permissive of the gargoyles. The Cenaran snails are said to invite them into their homes and willingly succumb to the attacks, calling them bloodlettings. But as you know, they are a simplistic, savage folk, so one must forgive them. In the lands to the south and far east, it is the opposite. They were the first to exterminate the gargoyles, a hundred years before Belidoran monks were mobilized to do the same in Belidor, Thelonia, and Pomeria.”

  Although Deacon’s response was unsatisfying, Sebastian’s main concern had been addressed. The victims didn’t appear to be contaminated in any way. Words from a street beggar didn’t remove any doubt, of course, but did provide some comfort. The surprise was that there seemed to be few reports of deaths from the gargoyles at all, except in old traveler’s tales. If the gargoyle attacks were as minor as the one he’d experienced, and there were no aftereffects, why were they so feared?

  It could well be that the old man was spinning a yarn, but Sebastian knew it would be pointless to argue. Instead, he was ready to move on to what he knew would be a more difficult line of questioning. “I have another question, then. Pray you, by Matteo’s grace, I wish to understand if the Book of Canons has changed over time, and why? Specifically, was the Book of Canons edited in more than format, such that the Canons themselves were modified?”

  Deacon probably fielded questions about the weather, or how to assuage a pain in one’s side. Even the gargoyle question he’d surely heard before, as it was something a precocious child might ask. But this was entirely different. This was something that could require an academic—and potentially blasphemous—explanation.

  At first Deacon looked at him as if he were a nude naustic. Then he held his chin and eyed the empty wooden bowl in front of him.

  Sebastian obliged by dumping more change in the bowl.

  Even after the contribution, Deacon looked torn. He took his time in formulating a response. “I know you’re a pious man, so I’m sure you do not intend to blaspheme, son of Thyros. The Book of Canons contains the guidelines to divine virtue for all of us and thus cannot be amended in any material way. Rather, they are enhanced over the ages with better-fitting words, grammar, and historical knowledge so that Matteo’s messages can be made as clear as the waters from the impassable mountains for the generations to come.”

  Sebastian tried a different tack. “But do other versions of the Book of Canons exist? Where is the first one ever written?”

  Again Deacon hesitated. His eyes squinted at Sebastian, then he responded, “As I’m sure you know, it’s widely believed that the oldest copy of the Book is in the Old Keep library. There are duplicate copies that have been made over t
he years, some that are several hundred years old. These were given to Thelos, Marsaya, Tardiff, Esienne, Rio Castellan, and Pomer City. Of these, the Marsaya copies may no longer exist, if stories of the war with the Sambayans are true, but even these copies were made of later versions, not the original.”

  “Did any other books exist before the version that’s in the keep? Or were there other works that contributed to the Book, like an account of the Tale of the Crossing, for example?”

  “Yes, of course. The Book is not a solitary work but rather an amalgamation of tales. I’m sure these other works fell apart or were lost.”

  “I see,” Sebastian said, but the answer still wasn’t very helpful.

  After more time spent puzzling the matter, Deacon’s eyebrows raised, and he spoke again. “Actually, I know of one account that may be of interest. An old librarian who has read nigh on half the books in the Great Library once told me there is a little-known passage about the last days of the Shepherd that is kept only by the librarians. In that passage, it was said that after the first copies of the Book were made, the Shepherd brought the original Book up to the top of the Snail Mountains. This librarian believed a great temple to Matteo existed there.”

  Sebastian had heard the story before. The temple at the top of the Snail Mountains was a fairy tale told to young children but never mentioned by respectable Sandaliers. If it was written in one of the great books of the library, however, there might actually be some credence. But he had no desire to throw his life away on the Snail Mountains trying to find it. Perhaps that was why this story wasn’t widely told or published. Perhaps the Sandaliers didn’t want people forming a pilgrimage to the Snail Mountains. It would result in mass suicide.

  It was something, but hardly actionable. He looked around. There were only a few people in the square, and he doubted anyone was listening.

  Sebastian tired of poking at the periphery. There was no way to get answers without telling Deacon of what he knew. Besides, he doubted anyone would believe the old beggar if he repeated it. “What if I were to tell you that I have seen an ancient Tale of the Crossing account that is significantly different than the one we all know, in the Great Library no less. Can you say, in confidence, if there’s a chance the Sandaliers or librarians might have revised the Book for the good of the people, omitting some aspects of the Tale of the Crossing?”

  It was a heavy question, so Sebastian took the last of his change and put it in Deacon’s bowl. Sebastian hoped it was enough. In all, it was likely more change than Deacon would receive in a week.

  Deacon was confused by the question. Then he grew thoughtful. In the midst of his consideration, his hand shot out and took the change, making sure to vest his earnings.

  Sebastian added, “I know it’s a difficult question, but it would give me great relief to know your thoughts, Deacon. I’m only a humble man in search of truth.”

  Time stood still as Deacon thought, and thought, and thought. He would occasionally glance at Sebastian with a look of…suspicion? He couldn’t be sure.

  The crowd in the square had picked up as the lunch hour opened. To make matters worse, a pudgy shopkeeper with a sparse comb-over had taken his Cenaran servant outside and strapped him to the horse rack. He began lashing his naked back, tearing into his collection of dark tattoos to cross them with red rifts. “If you won’t listen to me, maybe you’ll listen to the lash, snail,” he said. People stopped to glare at the lashing, some nodding, some shaking their heads.

  As Deacon contemplated his answer, Sebastian began regretting posing such a controversial question, especially with the growing throng of people around, but it was too late.

  Suddenly Deacon stood up and yelled, “Blasphemy! Blasphemy, I say. This man is claiming the Canons are impure incantations of Matteo’s will.”

  Sebastian stood dumbfounded for a moment. Then he reacted quickly, despite his shock at the accusation. He pulled his hood over his head and walked from the square toward his steed. He was certain that all the eyes were following him, but he hoped that he was moving too fast for anyone to recognize him.

  Deacon continued, “Beware the son of Thyros! He seeks to undermine Matteo’s servants. He conjures deceitful lies in the form of blasphemous questions about the truth.”

  So much for not being recognized. Once atop his horse, he made haste away from the downtown, and Deacon’s voice faded from earshot. He didn’t ride directly toward the estate, which would require him to cut right through town. Instead, he felt it best to circle around the major concentrations of homesteads.

  In hindsight, he realized the position he’d put Deacon in. The son of Thyros asking such a question must have seemed like a trap, perhaps to call out the beggar as a naustic and remove him. In fact, Sebastian’s entire line of questions had been imprudent. But he felt like he had little choice. He didn’t want to be burdened by these toxic riddles forever.

  To think that he couldn’t even speak with a beggar in the street. To think that even this beggar was casting aspersions to slight his name, a name Sebastian had done enough to slight on his own.

  Once he’d made enough distance from the square and met with unoccupied roads, he reluctantly turned his horse toward the estate, toward home.

  Toward father.

  His frame sagged on his horse. He felt as if he carried the weight of Matteo’s moon on his shoulders.

  Belinda Harvellian was a solemn, steadfast Apostle’s wife. Like Sebastian’s father, she rarely spoke. When Sebastian came home, her reaction was as he’d expected. When he told her he’d been ejected from the faith, she hugged him closely. She looked him in the eyes and told him he would find other ways to serve Matteo, she was sure of it, and that was all.

  Thyros Harvellian wasn’t as predictable. When he arrived home from his Apostle duties late that evening, he came to Sebastian. For a long time, he stood silently in the doorway, watching his son in the gloom of his bedchamber. Then he touched Sebastian on the head, said a prayer, and left.

  His father had learned of his failure, and that was enough—for now.

  Sebastian spent much of the night debating whether he should tell him of his broader concerns. Father had spent a year walking all the way to the Rim of Fire and back to prove the righteousness of the Canons. He was a seeker of truth, so he should respect Sebastian’s desire for the same. But how could Sebastian tell such a devout man that the Book of Canons might be materially flawed, especially when Sebastian had learned about it by skulking around against Sandalier protocols? What would be the priority of righteousness in father’s mind? Would it be telling of the truth or defying protocols?

  No, Sebastian couldn’t confront his father, at least not yet. The prospect was an attack on everything Thyros Harvellian believed in. Instead, Sebastian stayed in his room, confined to the prison of his mind. He tried to figure out how and when to broach this secret to the man he most respected…and most feared.

  Eventually, he fell asleep.

  Soon after he awoke to his mother’s hand shaking him vigorously. Her eyes were heavy and wet. “Sebastian! Sebastian! You must wake up.”

  “What? Mother, it’s still dark. I didn’t sleep—”

  “Shhh. Listen closely, Sebastian. You must leave. I’ve prepared all that you need. Go where you must. Your father, he loves you, but…”

  Mother often kept details of her conversations with Father to herself, believing it to be Father’s will. Sebastian reached out to her to grasp her shoulder, to try to extricate the real facts of the situation. “Mother, please tell me.”

  She didn’t sob or wince, but tears still streamed out of her eyes. “Yesterday, someone came to your father in the Apostle’s office. They accused you of…blasphemy. They said, in the square of Pyros, you were slandering the Canons, saying they were untrue. Your father thought it was the right thing to do to report it to the keep—you know, because of Sandalier protocols. Your father, he will never deviate. Well, the messenger returned in the middle of the night,
and I heard him talking to your father. He said…he said…that you’ve been Marked—that the monks will be coming for you.”

  Sebastian had been…Marked? He was going to be interrogated, perhaps tortured, perhaps killed by the monks for crimes against Matteo? Surely this was a mistake. What had he done that was so wrong? Even if they knew all of his transgressions, they must know there was no malice in his heart. He hadn’t done any real harm to Matteo’s people.

  Mother continued, “Sebastian, I don’t care what you did. I love you. Your father does as well. No matter what he says or doesn’t say. No matter that he doesn’t shed tears, I know he loves you deep under his duty-bound nature. But Matteo is his master, and he will give you to the monks, thinking that it’s Matteo’s will. But I…I can’t. Go. Go far away. Maybe someday, months or years from now, the monks will forget or forgive you, and you can find a way to see me again. My beautiful boy.”

  Finally she did wince. She promptly covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

  But the monks never forgot. The monks never forgave. Once you were Marked, you were an infidel for life. Sebastian might never return, unless in bondage or as a corpse.

  In a daze, Sebastian did as his mother told him. His mother’s love was all he had, so all he could do was follow the path she had chosen for him. And he refused to believe that it was Matteo’s will to be taken by the monks. Something was rotten here; something was wrong. If the Book could be changed, then the monks and Sandaliers could be wrong as well.

  Sebastian donned the priestly robe that his mother had given him. It was weathered and shoddy, and Sebastian soon realized it was the robe once worn by his father on his trek to the Rim of Fire. His mother also grabbed the old glazed Navigator’s map, another relic of his father’s trip. Finally, a heavy satchel had been prepared, which he hoisted over his shoulder.

  Well before the morning light, in quiet and in haste, he left the estate on the same steed he’d come in on, not looking back.