I felt as if someone had pulled the plug out of my boat in mid-ocean.
###
He came to find out what was taking me so long.
He stood in the doorway, tall and handsome and happy. The blue eyes looked at me with love. The turquoise sea-snake in his earlobe gleamed in the brown of his skin. I had wondered how a man could be so strong and yet so gentle, and now I knew: his strength stemmed from faith; his gentleness stemmed from belief.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were a patriarch?’
He didn’t ask how I knew; it was unimportant. He said, barely above a whisper, ‘I was so afraid of losing you. I was afraid it might make a difference.’
‘It does.’
‘Why? I love you.’ His agony tore at me.
‘You love God more.’
There was a long silence and I could read his hurt in his face. ‘That’s unfair,’ he said finally.
‘Yes. I’m sorry. It’s not quite what I meant. If I shared your beliefs, it wouldn’t matter. But I don’t. Tor, I can’t believe in your God, or your heaven. Under those circumstances, I can’t share your life.’
He winced as though he had been stabbed. ‘Blaze, even my belief is not absolute. I doubt. But I hope that there is a God who cares. Who rewards those who try to make this a better place to live in. If I’m wrong about that, well, I’ll still be glad I tried. It can’t be wrong to help others be happy.’
‘No. But I’m not that kind of person. I’m too selfish. I didn’t want to hang around Creed helping the less fortunate while Keepers fired cannon-guns at me—I wanted to save myself and get out of there! I don’t want to work for others. I want to work for myself. I want me to be happy. I want citizenship, a place to live, money to buy my own comfort. Oh, I wouldn’t now sail hard over everyone to get it, as I would have once, but I still want it.
‘Besides, your association with me has already harmed you—you have fought and killed when your religion tells you it’s a sin to kill. You have bedded me, although there has been no marriage. You even offered to torture Sickle and Domino! Your love for me brought you into disagreement with a fellow patriarch.’ I meant Alain Jentel, of course. I knew now what I had previously only sensed: Alain had pressed Tor to forget me.
He gave a twisted smile. ‘I never thought I was perfect. And I’m no dogmatist. I’m no Alain Jentel. I’ve always been at loggerheads with the Council of Patriarchs on a score of issues. I probably always will be. I don’t hanker after sainthood; too often it goes hand in hand with being sanctimonious. I’ll never believe that something as beautiful as lying in your arms, as loving you, can be wrong. I believe that it’s important for the Council to have someone like me around—I challenge the rigidity of their thinking. I want to be the grain of sand that irritates the oyster into producing the pearl, as long as I live. I’m a very unconventional priest, Blaze. You wouldn’t find me so very hard to live with.
‘And you are too hard on yourself. You have risked your life for others, not for yourself. You are a better person than you think.’
‘Am I? Perhaps. But I fall way short of your standards, Tor. And I can’t serve your God. You are first and foremost a patriarch; I understand that now. You serve the Menod. I think the Menod pursue the right goals, but for all the wrong reasons and, for all your pragmatism, often in impractical ways. You do it for God, for a promise of heaven; you do it by love, by example, by unselfish service. How could you travel with a woman who would rather wield a sword against her enemies than love them? I serve myself first, Tor. But you—you adhere to a different set of values. And you follow the dictates of the Council of Patriarchs. That’s what you were doing here on Gorthan Spit in the first place, wasn’t it? It was the Council of Patriarchs, not the Bethany Holdlord, who sent you to keep an eye on Ransom. And, I suspect, to look for Alain Jentel as well. You go where your Council sends you. Your stewardship is to the lay Menod, your duty is to the Council of Patriarchs and your service is to God. And if I’m reading the signs rightly, the Council is dedicated to opposing Keepers and undermining Keeper power outside of their own islandom.
‘I don’t share your calling I don’t believe in your God. And if I’m going to risk my life, it wouldn’t be in opposing the Keepers. There are worse evils. I simply don’t share your vision of the world, Tor. How can we live together?’
He was silent.
‘It was just a dream, Tor. A wonderful dream, but no more than that. I think in my heart I knew it, even before I realised you were a patriarch. We are too different. Our goals are too diverse.’
His silence dragged on.
‘I’ll not go back to the Keepers,’ I said gently. ‘I’ve learnt that much. I’m going with Flame.’
He spoke then, and there was surprise in his voice. ‘But she’s going after Morthred, surely.’
I nodded, impressed that he had read her so well.
He said, ‘There’s hardly money or comfort in that.’
‘I care about Flame, about what happens to her. And if Morthred dies, I’ll be a citizen of the new Dustel Islands. You see, there is something in it for me. There always has to be.’
‘I would have thought there was something in it for you with me. Quite apart from the fact that the Menod are not entirely without influence when it comes to the citizenship and marriage laws involving its patriarchs and their families.’ He was trying not to be hurt, but he couldn’t hide it.
‘The possibility of citizenship was not the reason I wanted to go with you and you know it. I thought it was enough to love you, but it’s not, Tor. There has to be a common purpose. We wouldn’t even have children to bind us.’
He shook his head, in sadness, in resignation. ‘Every word you say makes me love you more, for what you are. You are all I lack.’
‘But I am right.’
‘Are you?’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps. But I don’t know how I will learn to live alone all over again now that I have met you.’
I stepped into his arms and we held each other for a long time. Then he moved back. ‘If ever I can help you, contact me through the Council of Patriarchs.’
I nodded. For someone who had once never cried, I seemed to be doing a lot of looking through blurred eyes lately.
He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a pendant on a chain of black coral. He put it over his head so that the badge of the Menod faith, a spiral inside a triangle, swung on his chest. It was a symbolic gesture, a public acknowledgement of what he was. He said, ‘You’ll be in my prayers as long as I live.’
‘It can’t do any harm,’ I told him.
We smiled at each other, empty aching smiles. ‘I won’t ever change my mind, Blaze. Remember that, if ever you need me,’ he said, and was gone.
###
Have I finished my tale? Why no, I haven’t really reached the end of the story as far as Gorthan Spit was concerned. Not yet.
And, of course, in many ways what happened there was just the beginning of a much larger story. As I said somewhere near the beginning of this tale of mine, the seeds of change, of the Change, were planted on Gorthan Spit. For the Change to occur, it was necessary for me to reject both the Keepers and Tor Ryder and join my future to that of Flame and Ruarth Windrider. For without me, without my sword and my knowledge of the Isles’ low-life, they would never have survived long enough to do what they did, and the Isles of Glory would never have been the place it was by the time you people arrived. You might have been greeted by Morthred the Mad when you sailed into The Hub.
And then if I’d stayed with Tor, he might have lacked the drive and the angry passion that impelled him to become the visionary leader he was, that turned him into the kind of man who could challenge both the Menod Council of Patriarchs, the power of the Keepers and ultimately the very nature of sylvmagic itself. Without my rejection of Tor, you might have been greeted by Keeper cannon-guns when you sailed into The Hub.
Oh yes, in the end we all played our
parts in changing the Isles of Glory: Ransom Holswood who became the Holdlord of Bethany; Syr-sylv Duthrick who became Keeperlord of the Keeper Isles and Morthred the Mad who wanted to be monarch of us all; poor dead Eylsa who gave me the mark on my palm so that I could enlist ghemphic help when I needed it; even Seeker, Tunn’s mangy dog, played his part too.
But I digress. I haven’t told you the end of my tale of Gorthan Spit.
Duthrick, you see, in his desire to get the black powder for the Keeper Isles, had not done with us yet.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I didn’t go straight to the docks and Flame after Tor left me at the inn. There was still something I had to do. I wanted to find Tunn, to discover if he was all right. I had meant to ask Flame to look at him, to see if she could help heal his dunmagic whipping, but I’d forgotten and now I felt terrible about it.
I asked after him down in the taproom. The innkeeper, who now practically spat with fury each time he laid eyes on me, told me he hadn’t seen Tunn for days. At least, that was what I thought he said; he was actually hard to understand because his broken nose was still puffed up to the size of a sea- cucumber and his mouth was distorted by the dunmagic welts that criss-crossed his face.
I looked for Tunn in the fuel shed, but he wasn’t there, so I went to the place where he hid his pet, the place where I’d seen him last. He was still there, crammed into the space behind the fish boxes. Seeker was also there, whining miserably, tail drooping. His mange had improved, but he looked thinner than ever, if that was possible. You could count the ribs with a glance at his flank.
I thought Tunn was just asleep, but when I touched him he fell back out into the open and his eyes were staring, his arms and legs stiffened into a grotesque tangle. It had been a slow and painful death; he had not been dead long. The worst thing of all was the look on his face—proof of a fear so great that it had taken away all his trust in his own kind. He had died in terror and pain, alone save for his dog. I think it was there, kneeling by his side, that I first really reconciled myself to what Flame and Ruarth intended to do; I knew then that I couldn’t let Morthred roam the Isles leaving agony and death like this in his wake. It was there, on the fisherman’s wharf, that my anger became a thirst for revenge. Tor wouldn’t have approved of the emotion, but I was glad of it. It made my fear less important.
I picked Tunn up in my arms and turned to go back to the inn. Seeker looked up at me hopefully and thumped that huge tail of his. I was about to send him on his way when I noticed what I hadn’t seen at first—the animal had made a pathetic attempt to feed his dying master. There was a pile of uneaten scraps at my feet, fish most of it, and quite unappetising, but Seeker had done his best.
‘You stink,’ I said. ‘You’re probably the ugliest mutt I’ve ever seen. Your coat is a mess. If there’s one thing I don’t need, it’s to be lumbered with a pet.’ He swept his tail through the air with gusto, sending several fish boxes flying, gazing at me all the while with pleading brown eyes—and I had a pet I didn’t need.
###
The four or five customers in the taproom took one look at me and my burden and hurriedly left. I laid Tunn on one of the tables. The innkeeper was about to utter an outraged protest when he saw my face and changed his mind. I said, ‘I want the lad given a proper burial—no throwing him to the fish, understand?’
He nodded dumbly.
I gave him some money. ‘That’s for your trouble. And when I come back to Gorthan Docks next, I shall expect to be able to see the grave. Understand?’
He nodded again.
I don’t know why I bothered. What did it matter what happened to the boy’s body after he was dead? I should have done more while he was alive. I knew it was illogical, but I did it anyway. Guilt, I suppose.
‘And now feed my dog,’ I said.
The innkeeper looked down at Seeker, who was doing his best to hide under a chair. The chair was small and the animal was large. ‘That?’
I nodded.
I waited while the creature ate probably the best meal he’d ever had in his life. He would have eaten still more if I’d let him, but I was afraid something might burst. His stomach was as bloated as an inflated pufferfish.
Only then did I head down to the docks. Seeker lolloped after me, feet scattering the fish scales in all directions.
Ruarth Windrider and several other Dustels met me halfway and I didn’t need to understand their words to know something was wrong. Promising myself that one day—soon—I was going to learn their goddamned language, I hurried on to find the mullet boat that was sailing for Mekatéhaven.
Now that the tides and winds were right, the main docks of the harbour were busier than I’d ever seem them before. A motley assortment of drunkards and vagrants were earning a setu or two loading ships; chandlers along the seafront appeared to be doing good business. The only idle people were a couple of old men sitting on barrels outside one of the chandler shops, and they looked so decrepit I doubted they’d been capable of work in years.
When I found the mullet boat, tucked against the docks between a Gorthan Spit trader bound for the Cirkase Islands and an unmarked ship that had smuggler written all over it, there was enough sylvmagic dripping across its deck to light a mansion on a dark night (for Awarefolk anyway), far too much to have come just from any spell of Flame’s. ‘What the shit happened?’ I growled at Ruarth. He, of course, could not reply.
The only person on the deck of the mullet boat, leaning nonchalantly on the railing, was Garrowyn Gilfeather. He inclined his head in my direction and adjusted that extraordinary wool garment about his body. ‘Garrowyn,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for Flame—have you seen her?’
‘Oh, ay,’ he said casually. ‘She was here a while back. Her arm looks just fine. The stump healed beautifully.’
I blinked. How could he have seen her stump? He wasn’t one of the Awarefolk… I wanted to think about that, to think about how he could smell dunmagic, work out the implications, but there was no time.
‘What happened to her?’ I asked.
‘The Keepers came’n took her,’ he replied. ‘Luggage’n all. She’s not sailing on this boat any more.’
I remembered Duthrick’s threat: I’d never let you leave this island— He’d finally thought it all through, done all the adding up, including the presence of Ruarth. I’d underestimated him…
‘Are ye looking for passage to Mekaté too then, lass?’ Garrowyn asked. ‘The captain—’
‘No,’ I cut him off and I glanced at the Keeper Fair. It was also preparing to sail that night if the activities on deck were anything to go by.
I turned away to hide my whisper to the Dustels, who had lined up on one of the mooring lines. ‘Ruarth, if you can find her, tell her I’ll be with her as soon as I can. After dark sometime. Perhaps just after the ship sails.’
The birds flew away and I also turned to go, but Garrowyn spoke again. ‘I can smell fear,’ he said. ‘And she was scared.’ The look he gave me from under those unruly brows was dispassionate.
‘And you didn’t help her?’ I asked.
‘Against Keepers?’ His tone was deliberately incredulous. ‘Lass, I don’t mess with magic. Any magic, if I can help it. She’s already had more help from me than she had a right to expect.’
‘You’re all heart, Garrowyn Gilfeather,’ I said.
‘I’m a physician lass, no more, no less. Compassion I have no time for. Compassion does not heal the sick, but it does weaken he who feels it. I would have thought ye’d know that.’
I turned on my heel and headed for the main street. His voice echoed after me: ‘Hey, halfbreed—if ever ye come to Mekaté, head for the hills and ask for Garrowyn Gilfeather of the Sky Plains people, the selver-herders. Ye’ve not seen the best of Mekaté, till ye leave the lowlands behind ye.’
I ignored him and set off for the sea-pony pens on the other side of town. Seeker followed, his nose low to the ground, snuffling along as if he was tracking prey. The sea-pony liv
ery kept their mounts in the sea of course, penned in with netting. The owner, a Bethany Isles man with a wooden leg, was in a black mood when I arrived. He had just been chasing away a crowd of dirty Spitter children whose one delight in life, if he was to be believed, was to tease the animals. He wasn’t inclined to listen to me when I said I wanted to buy a sea-pony. I suppose I could have hired one, pretending I was going to bring it back, but I’d been the victim of dishonesty often enough myself to have a distaste for robbing others—with the exception of slavers and suchlike; them, I’d steal from any time.
I haggled and pleaded and finally beat the price down to something I could pay—just. The amount wasn’t lessened by the fact that I had chosen the strongest and largest animal in the pens. I insisted that it be fed well and then I went into the town to do some shopping. I bought food (desiccated fish and seaweed cakes); several large drinkskins; four hide bags, their seams sealed with sea-urchin glue, to keep everything dry; some rope and a few other small items. When I had nothing left in my purse except a couple of small coppers, I went back to collect my newly fed purchase.
My parting shot to the Bethanyman was that he would do well to keep his mouth shut about my purchasing the animal. I tapped my Calmenter blade meaningfully and he gave me a scornful look. ‘On Gorthan Spit,’ he said, ‘everyone keeps his mouth shut about everything if he wants to keep his throat from being cut.’
That was probably true up to a point, but if the Keepers actually thought to question him, I doubted that he’d consider it a wise policy to lie, especially when they could use sylvmagic to check that he told the truth. However, it probably didn’t matter all that much; by the time the Keepers had found out exactly what I’d done, I’d be long gone.
I rode the sea-pony away, out to sea. The halfbreed children were back at the edge of the pens as I took the animal out through the boom the Bethanyman had opened for me, and they pitched a few rocks in my direction for no reason other than mischief. When I looked back, the Bethanyman was chasing them away yet again.
The Aware (The Isles of Glory Book 1) Page 34