The Pen and the Sword (Destiny's Crucible Book 2)

by Olan Thorensen

  Sistian raised a hand. “That’s getting too far ahead for now. Some clans hardly support any scholastics at all, although I’m inclined to be positive about trying one of these universities. Would it need to be housed here in the abbey complex or outside, and how many additional scholastics would you envision?”

  “I suggest a new building near the abbey, and I was thinking of adding twenty-five additional scholastics. With your permission, we could call it the University of Abersford.”

  “Hmmm, I think the abbey could manage that. Would you envision specific topics of study?”

  “I suggest three broad areas. One would be what my people call ‘biology,’ the study of living organisms. Included would be topics related to medicant knowledge and agriculture.”

  And an avenue to introduce more physiology, anatomy, biochemistry, genetics, and everything else I can dig out of my memory.

  “The second would be mathematics. My impression from Cadwulf is that there’re several of the better mathematics scholastics scattered around Caedellium he thinks we could convince to move to Abersford, thereby giving us a strong group right from the start.”

  And mathematics is a core knowledge that feeds into many other fields, a way to introduce physics, more astronomy, and God knows what else.

  “The third area would be the study of other realms on Anyar—their history, customs, languages, and how they are ruled.”

  The abbot raised an eyebrow and scratched his chin. “This ‘biology’ I realize the value of, and perhaps the mathematics. Certainly, Cadwulf pestered Diera and me enough over the years about how mathematics relates to so much of the world and our lives, but the third one I’m not sure I understand why it’s important enough to emphasize.”

  “It’s because of the Narthani,” said Yozef. “Caedellium’s isolation from the rest of Anyar is over. Oh, there was trade before the Narthani came and some travel, such as Diera’s studying in Landolin. However, for most of the people of Caedellium, it’s as if the rest of Anyar doesn’t exist. I’m sure you know this has changed forever. The Narthani aren’t going away, not on their own. How they took over Preddi and got Selfcell and Eywell to ally with them is partly due to your clans not knowing about the rest of the world and how the Narthani have probably done the same with other peoples. The more that’s understood about them, the better Caedellium’s chances to resist.”

  A grimmer-faced abbot grunted. “I grasp your point. We’ve considered the Preddi stupid for allowing the Narthani in, but you suggest ignorance is an equally plausible excuse. And as for knowing more about the Narthani . . .”

  “My people would say to ‘know your enemy.’”

  And a nucleus of intelligence on the Narthani, if what I fear happens. We’ll need to know everything possible about them.

  “St. Sidryn’s has two scholastics who study the history of Caedellium,” said Sistian.

  “Yes,” said Yozef. “They’ll form part of a group of scholastics to study and compare all the peoples of Anyar, including those of Caedellium and Narthon.”

  A thought came unbidden into Sistian’s mind. Maera. By God’s creative finger, she would be a perfect scholastic for such a study! She knows as much about the history of the clans as anyone, plus she’s studied several of the mainland languages and histories, including Narthon and Fuomon. Of course, she’s the hetman’s eldest daughter, which complicates matters, unless this university was in Caernford. She’ll be visiting soon, and I can discuss it with her, then.

  The abbot decided. “You’ve convinced me, Yozef, to give all of this some serious thought about the possibility and implications. Also, I may be the abbot, but I need to speak with the other brothers and sisters for their opinions. I already know Diera’s.”

  Thus was born, in principle, the University of Abersford.

  Chapter 7: Maera Visits St. Sidryn’s

  Jacarandas

  The hills west of Abersford sheltered diverse valleys and dells that almost could have evolved in isolation. Yozef knew it was simply the jumble of Earth and Anyar plants intermixing or dominating, depending on happenchance, but he fantasized each landscape a different world. The ground was a jumble of rock, sand, and loam. Although Yozef wondered what geological history had created this terrain, he knew why it was unpopulated. More fertile and convenient land still existed on Caedellium to attract farmers and herders.

  When occasionally a solitary mood ensued, walking or riding the hills proved meditative. Today he walked in a new area for the first time. He had just climbed a hill and started down a grass-covered slope when, before him, in a small dale, towered a single mighty oak, or a tree he imagined to be an oak, alone in the middle of the grass, with no other tree in view. Where had this single tree come from? Did a bird drop a seed, an acorn, or whatever propagation mechanism it used here, and it sprouted and took root? Its massive trunk had to be eight feet in diameter, with a broad canopy of leaves nearly reaching to the slopes on all sides.

  Why had it not seeded offspring trees around it? Was it lonely? Although it was magnificent in its stature, Yozef felt sad for it. He paused next to the trunk, leaning on it with one hand, as if to feel a heartbeat. The thought flashed through his mind, as if he were whispering to the tree, I am here . . . you are not alone. I will remember you and the route here. I will visit you again. Yozef laughed at himself. Maybe the tree’ll talk to me next time.

  He left the shade of the oak and worked his way up the next slope to strewn rocks at the crest of the next hill. Boulders taller than himself coated the top, and as he came around one cluster, he stopped in his tracks. He expected each valley or dale to reveal novelty, but this time he was thunderstruck.

  Jacaranda trees! As I live and breathe, jacaranda trees!

  Yozef stood next to a boulder, amazed at the spectacle. As far as the eye could see, starting from the valley floor and rising to the tops of the surrounding hills, a forest of blue-flowered jacaranda trees was coming into bloom. He had never seen so many, and why here?

  At the bottom of the valley, California poppies covered scattered patches of open ground, their golden flowers just emerging. An artist or a landscape architect couldn’t have designed a more perfect setting.

  He soaked in the scene for ten minutes, before slowly walking down the slope, wondering, as he often did, at the haphazard distribution of Earth and Anyar life forms. Why jacarandas and not dogwoods? Dogs and not cats? Horses and cattle but not sheep or goats or camels? California poppies and not bluebells? Orioles and not robins? Butterflies and not moths? Dragonflies, but no mosquitoes? Not that he complained about the latter option.

  Whoever or whatever had transplanted Earth’s organisms, did they have a plan, a rationale, or was it random? Would the distribution elsewhere on Anyar be the same as on Caedellium or different? Maybe the Melosia continent had dogwoods and cats, but not jacarandas or dogs?

  He sat on the ground, his back against an isolated jacaranda trunk, feet amid poppies growing in the sandy soil and reaching for the sun through the characteristic sparse foliage of the tree. Full bloom would be in another sixday or two and likely last a month. He hadn’t brought a lunch, and the first hunger pangs growled. He sat under the tree for a few more minutes.

  Tomorrow. I have to come back tomorrow. Or soon. Full-bloom won’t be for a month or more. I’ll bring a lunch and spend a whole day here before the bloom fades.

  Reluctantly, he headed back to Abersford, carefully noticing landmarks. He was nearing his shops when he spied a carriage and accompanying riders turn off the main road and continue to the abbey. He watched them until they passed through the abbey’s main gate. The carriage looked fancier than most, with a symbol on the doors that reminded him of ones he had seen around the abbey and the village. Some kind of higher muckety-muck, he thought. Four outriders preceded the carriage and appeared more military than the men hereabout, with similar clothing that might pass as house livery—blue jackets and pants, brimmed hats held on by chin straps. He thought he c
ould make out short muskets and swords attached to their saddles.

  Over beers that evening at the Snarling Graeko, he learned from Carnigan that the symbol he saw was for the Keelan Clan and the hetman’s family. The big man didn’t know who occupied the carriage, but another patron said the hetman’s daughter had come to visit St. Sidryn’s.

  Beynom’s House, Yozef meets Maera Keelan

  Two days later, Cadwulf passed on to Yozef an invitation to mid-day meal at the Beynoms’ the following Godsday after services. The house lay outside the abbey’s main walls and atop a nearby low hill. Although spartan, the house was tastefully furnished, and what it lacked in size, it made up for with a view. A wide veranda faced downhill toward the abbey complex and the shore and the ocean beyond. The day was perfect: a blue sky with isolated clouds moving in off the ocean, carried on what on Earth would have been called a trade wind.

  The two Beynom children still living at home were not in attendance, and four people sat around a table. Diera introduced Yozef to the other guest, a slender young woman with brown hair and penetrating green eyes. They ate under overhanging vines with red-and-yellow-striped flowers that reminded Yozef of trumpet vines. Culich and Diera sat opposite each other, as did Yozef and Maera Keelan. The meal was typical: fresh rolls, butter and preserves, several cheeses, a greenish-fleshed melon, tangerines, candied figs, a fruit juice mixture of unknown composition, and kava.

  They passed the meal talking of trivial matters, including the weather, the prospects for crops that year, stories from the history of the Beynoms and the Keelans, and probes by Maera Keelan to Yozef, trying to tweeze tidbits of information about his past. He had gotten so used to deflecting or misdirecting that he hardly noticed her questions, which was worrisome, because inconsistencies could be picked up.

  Of the four, the Keelan daughter’s dress was more formal. The Beynoms wore light robes and sandals, while Yozef had not even considered appropriate dress. He was wearing an everyday outfit, though freshly cleaned, and the plain leather footwear he wore daily. Maera wore a white embroidered pull-over blouse with a low neck that ended just where her chest rose. Below was a green skirt of shiny material that changed colors, depending on the angle of the sun and the folds in the cloth.

  Something like silk, Yozef thought. Not everyday attire for Caedellium.

  He answered Maera’s questions about his family. As usual, he stuck to basics without giving details that might raise suspicions. He described his siblings, parents, and studies in general terms. He didn’t elaborate on details, such as although his younger brother played an instrument, it was in an amateur heavy metal band.

  Yozef deflected more detailed questions about his family by asking Maera about her siblings. She described three sisters, with obvious love. Yozef thought he detected special warmth for the youngest of the three, a hint of exasperation about the next youngest, and a touch of . . . something . . . when she mentioned the oldest sister being courted by suitors.

  When the meal started, the Beynoms facilitated the conversation, though by the end they quieted while Yozef and Maera interacted more and more. The hosts finally excused themselves with calls of duty: Diera, to check on patients at the hospital, and Sistian, to prepare for a ride to a neighboring village, where the village chief had asked him to preside at a wedding that afternoon.

  Rising, Sistian said, “Please. It’s a beautiful day. The two of you continue to enjoy it and regale each other with family stories. Also, Yozef, Maera is interested in learning more about your various shops and enterprises.”

  Somehow finding themselves without the older couple’s presence changed the atmosphere, as if they had served as a buffer or a framework for the two guests.

  Maera played with her napkin, as the silence extended. Then . . . “As Sistian said, Ser Kolsko, I would like to see your projects and have them explained.”

  “Anytime you wish, Sen Keelan. I’m afraid I have meetings this afternoon, but we could begin tomorrow morning, starting with the distillation facility, if you’d like to accompany me.”

  The plan settled, Yozef excused himself.

  Maera returned to the abbey and her quarters to write her initial impressions. She stared at the paper as she gathered her thoughts.

  Something of a disappointment. With all the stories and reports I was expecting . . . what? An impressive intelligence or a warrior figure with a dominant presence?

  She tried to be wary of preconceptions, but his average size and mild manner didn’t fit her expectations.

  Not a handsome man or a masculine one, I guess would describe it.

  The brown hair and beard were nondescript, except for odd highlights she first thought reflections of light until she recognized a few lighter hair strands. Not gray, which would be early for someone his age, but a lighter brown, beige even. Then there were the eyes. Brown and green were the most common, and occasionally blue, though a darker blue than Yozef’s.

  His eyes are lightest blue I’ve ever seen. More like a light gray. They’re his most distinguishing feature, and when they turned at me was the only time I sensed there was something more than common there.

  She returned again to the paper and willed herself to write her first impressions.

  The sun played hide-and-seek with the clouds the next morning when Maera met Yozef in front of the cathedral. She wore an ankle-length yellow dress of fine linen, covered by a light green–colored smock. She’d replaced the slippers at the Beynoms’ lunch with leather shoes, and her brown hair was nestled in a bun behind a wide-brimmed straw hat. Yozef noticed that although the dress and the shoes displayed workmanship beyond the means of most Keelanders, the smock was utilitarian and showed unsuccessful attempts to remove ink spots.

  The Beynoms had assigned their son Cadwulf as her local guide. He excused himself when assured that Yozef would shepherd her.

  “Remember,” Cadwulf murmured into Yozef’s ear, “she’s the hetman’s daughter. You can’t just leave her on her own. If you and she finish touring the shops, bring her to the bank, and I’ll look after her from there on.”

  How they would travel between the abbey and the workshops never entered Yozef’s mind. Cadwulf rescued him with a ready one-horse dray with two passenger seats and a driver. Silence ruled the six-minute ride, while Maera sat primly, looking around and occasionally nodding to citizens they passed. A few women curtsied, and one man awkwardly bowed.

  Only when they entered the distillation building did Maera first sense something truly new was ongoing in Abersford. Five workers were diligently working on apparatuses whose purposes she had no clue. What struck her immediately were the level of activity and the mood of the workers. All were engaged in tasks she didn’t recognize, and from their voices, there was a sense of “play,” instead of “work.”

  Yozef called out to a worker, who waved. “Hey, Yozef. About time you showed up for work. Who’s the young woman? Have you been holding out on us?” The man said something to the other workers and walked over to clasp forearms with Yozef.

  “Filtin, this is Maera Keelan. She’s here visiting the Beynoms and is interested in seeing what we’re doing.”

  Filtin stiffened and made a short bow. An expression of respect and reservation replaced his previous good humor. Maera wasn’t surprised. Being a member of the hetman’s immediate family accustomed her to such responses.

  “Sen Keelan, pardon my comment. An honor to meet you and show you our work.”

  Maera accepted the distance her position placed between her and most clanspeople and regretted it, when she noticed. However, today, curiosity ruled her attention. Yozef explained the basics of distillation and the equipment Filtin and his crew worked on. The next hour served as a crash course in distillation and an occasion for Maera to demonstrate her quick grasp of new concepts. She stopped the explainer, be it Yozef or Filtin, whenever she didn’t fully grasp any aspect. It made for a slow beginning, though progress accelerated as her understanding grew.

 
Once the explanations and her questions slackened, they went into an adjacent room to witness a production run of ether. Now that she had heard the principles of distillation and seen the ether condense on top of the glass column, then the rivulets as they ran down and dripped into the collection receptacle, she smiled and clapped her hands in appreciation. By this time, Filtin’s manner had relaxed in his eagerness to explain to an interested outsider what to him was obviously a work of love, and the banter she’d witnessed when they first arrived gradually returned. Maera had not been around many common workers, except at Keelan Manor, and she remained surprised at the workers’ level of enthusiasm and their casual camaraderie with their employer.

  Filtin accompanied them to other shops, and they finished briefer tours of the kerosene and soap facilities by mid-day.

  “Would you like to return to the abbey for mid-day meal, Sen Keelan?” asked Yozef. The dray and the driver remained near the distillation shop.

  “I believe the cannon foundry is next,” said Maera, “and then gunpowder and the bank. Perhaps there’s somewhere to eat here in the Abersford. Where were you planning on mid-day meal?”

  “Oh, I usually just drop in on whatever shop is next, and the men and women give me something.”

  Give him something? How odd.

  “In that case, if they could spare a little more, perhaps we should just proceed to the next demonstration.”

  “Okay,” said Yozef and turned away to a worker checking a new glass column.

  Oh-kay?

  Filtin saw her puzzlement. “It’s an expression from Yozef’s homeland, Sen Keelan. Okay means something like ‘yes’ or ‘in agreement’ or generally positive. You’ll find the expression has become common here in Abersford.”

  “Thank you, Ser . . . er . . . I didn’t get your family name.”

  “Fuller, Sen Keelan. Filtin Fuller.”