The Martyr and the Prophet (The Lost Testament Book 1)

by C. B. Currie

  The land was flat, surrounded by farms and pastures, though the soil did not look as rich as it was further south. To the west they could sometimes see the coast in the distance and far to the east, the Stormridge Mountains loomed, the highest peaks already dusted with snow. Between the road and the mountains the farmland sloped gradually upwards and away into the distance where dark forests crept across the foothills hiding more of the wild northern tribes he’d encountered yesterday.

  It was not long after noon when they stopped by a tiny village of rough-built hovels and a cottage with a makeshift spire that passed for a chapel. A grizzled farmer told them this was Wellstone, and that the priory was barely an hour’s walk along a narrow trail that branched off the main one, winding through windswept tussock and rocky slopes. All they need do was follow this track to the end and the commune would be within sight. Beland rode his mount up to trot between the Northman and the boy guard who’d turned out to be a fighter.

  ‘Alright, Jendry?’ He asked the lad.

  ‘Thank you milord, I’m fine. Will Garryth get better?’ He referred to the wounded one they’d left at Northwatch’s infirmary.

  Beland had no idea but thought infection might kill the man soon. ‘He’ll be fine,’ the knight answered.

  ‘Will we stay at the priory?’ The lad asked.

  ‘We will need a night somewhere and that village had no rooms. I imagine the priory has spare quarters, or at least a barn or stable.’ He thought even a sheep pen or chicken coop might do.

  The lad sneezed and almost doubled with the force of it. Then sneezed again several more times. ‘I could do with a rest.’

  Beland called a halt and the column reluctantly stopped. Fevers were a danger to any traveling force and he had to keep an eye on the well being of his men. He took off a leather glove, called the boy over, felt his neck and found it hot.

  ‘Head,’ he ordered and Jendry turned and tilted his chin up. His forehead was hot too.

  ‘Sailors said there was a fever in port,’ the eye-patched ruffian, Galbry said.

  ‘There’s always a fever where sailors drink,’ the knight answered dismissively. Yet he still frowned. He’d seen camp sickness in his day and feared being laid up too long at the priory while his men recovered. He could not afford to fall ill himself, if he were to lead effectively. He did not feel like convalescing for several days at a remote monastery. They had to take the same road home they had arrived by, with the worrying possibility that the robbers might return, though with the beating they had taken yesterday and stepped up patrols from Northwatch, Beland doubted it.

  ‘They’ll have a physician or healer at the priory,’ Beland said, not sure such an out of the way place would. ‘You probably just have a chill.’

  He patted the boy’s shoulder and they returned to their marching order. The road narrowed between fields ahead as it wound back westward toward the coast. Ahead was a low promontory and Beland could just make out some lo, rounded thatch roofs near the top and hearth smoke rising from them. Beyond that, out to sea, dark clouds were sinking on the horizon. He thought he saw the haze of distant rain.

  Nineteen

  The wayfarers did not hurry from place to place. Brookleith was only a couple of nights’ trek north along the forested back road from Havenside, not much further than Bastion was westward. That might have been true for a young man on his own, or with a few companions, but a caravan transporting an entire clan was a different story. There were women and children, and children never seemed to walk in a straight line for long without stopping to complain, play, cry or otherwise hold everyone up. Elderly folk, carts, donkeys, a pack of dogs a tether of goats made for a lot of stops and starts. They packed and unpacked efficiently for they all knew their tasks, but the travel itself was a meandering process and at several hamlets and inns they stayed at least two nights, in order to perform and trade, collecting money for the winter. It took the better part of a fortnight.

  When they came upon it, Brookleith looked like a comfortable place to Vanis. The caravan came in from the high road on an unseasonably warm day, descending a winding path from wooded hills to the east and the fields to the west that opened into a spacious village bathed in sunlight. Across the fields, crooked pines grew above the edge of a dark forest, reminding Vanis of Havenside. Their unruly branches reached around the high fields and the slowly changing trees behind them stretching back into a hilly wilderness. Through the village and to the south, the wooded downs opened to the road that would eventually take them to Bastion.

  Children came out to run excitedly alongside the colorfully-painted carts and the donkeys, as villagers stopped their chores to stand and watch, some greeting them with nods and short welcomes. Drelo spoke with a farmer and some well-dressed townsmen who seemed to hold some rank in the community and they were allowed onto the high fields near the trail they had entered by. A lone and tired-looking ash tree stood halfway up the grassy slope above them. There, they set about pitching more than just a campsite.

  Vanis assisted as the men unfolded and then spread out the cloth panels that would make up a large tent, big enough to take perhaps a hundred people or more. They pulled on ropes, lashed the panels together, hammered in stakes then set about pitching the rest of the tents and shelters. Then they arranged the chicken cages, penned in the goats with fencing they’d carried and tethered the dogs to posts; they made a large bonfire outside the great tent and set up a ring inside with hastily assembled benches placed around for people to sit and watch their performances. Being a larger village than most, Brookleith it seemed was entitled to the full spectacle of a Wayfarer visit.

  By late afternoon, sweating and tired under the heat of the sun, Vanis sat down with the other men on the edge of the field and looked down over the village as they passed skins of wine around. Drelo was down there somewhere speaking with elders. Many villagers were still standing around watching as the other Wayfarers laid out goods, set up lanterns and torches and the old man corralled his dogs and the women placed various other decorations. It was as though they had carried their own portable village with them, and were clearly setting up to stay a while.

  The fields and trees were bathed in a beautiful golden glow. Some of the young local women were waving at them and some of the men and boys of the caravan waved back, perhaps remembering old trysts from previous visits, perhaps looking to start new ones.

  Vanis noticed among the onlookers one girl who stood out, not only because she was pretty, but because she was not showing much excitement and was not waving to anyone. She was tallish with large brown eyes and long honey-colored hair, wearing a simple brown dress. She was big-boned; plump rather than fat, though all the girls in this town looked well-fed to him. She was holding hands with a small boy Vanis thought might be her own son, but guessed instead she was probably too young to be wed so long and it was likely a brother. He smiled in her direction, but she didn’t seem to notice. Then it seemed someone must have called to her from behind the crowd and her head whipped around, her hair following in a cascade and she turned and hurried off with the boy.

  He was called back to attention by Drelo arriving to summon the Wayfarers together. They filed into the great tent behind the headman and Vanis took a place at the back of the cluster, as the women and the old and lame sat, and children dashed in and out. The headman spoke in their dialect of Selevian, so Vanis did not understand many words and could not gather the gist at all. But when he was done he sought the young novice out and explained.

  ‘We will stay here through the autumn fair. After that we must make haste to the city before the winter sets in. The roads are good so it will be only a day to the Crossroads Inn and another day to the city after that. We’ll stay two nights there as we always do. By the time we get there, travelers from here will have told them we’re coming, and they’ll expecting us this season anyway. You’ll like it I think.’

  ‘I can play there if you like,’ Vanis offered.

  ‘Pe
rhaps you can, and they have already heard about you from merchants that saw us at the Goat’s Beard. They’d like to hear you play at the King’s Ransom tonight. There will be a lot of guests and our entertainment starts tomorrow. There could be good coin in it for you if you keep playing at taverns.’

  Vanis had considered the life of a wandering bard and it suited him for now. But traveling with the Wayfarers carried security in more ways than one. They knew where the market for their entertainment was, and following them would always get him a place in a tavern or inn. If he were on his own he wouldn’t be nearly as confident at approaching innkeepers and alemasters. There were also the more base delights though he imagined Gilene might tire of him before too long and he had already seen how easy it could be to meet women, as long as he could play a good song.

  ‘You need to think about how to survive the winter, my friend,’ Drelo went on. ‘Remember what I told you about the taverns in Bastion? Or even Castlereach?’

  He understood that Drelo was trying to help him, but he also felt as though he were being chased off. There would be lean times over the winter and the Wayfarers would be using much of their savings to lodge in the city. He was another mouth and while he had proven himself useful so far, he was not one of them. Perhaps his skills as a performer would be his own surety against lean times.

  ‘I don’t know what life in the city is like,’ Vanis said sheepishly.

  ‘It is not bad, but not so clean. Don’t talk back to men and stay away from the brothels unless you want the pox.’

  Vanis nodded quietly, wondering if the girl he’d seen that afternoon had ever been with a man. He resolved to ask someone her name.

  ‘And go see Burgwyn at the tavern before sundown. He will have work for you tonight.’

  Drelo slapped the boy’s shoulder as he always did and stalked off to deal with the preparations.

  Caera blushed as the bard smiled at her, while he stood playing to the raucous singing along of the crowd. The tavern was full tonight, for the merchants, farmers and other traders were in town, and the Wayfarers were there for their annual fair. This would be a week to remember, she had no doubt. The weather was warm for autumn and old Drunith, the herb woman who always came to bring apples from her tree for the tavern’s cider, said that it might be warm for days yet. The village all agreed Drunith was usually right.

  The previous song had been a bawdy one that everyone knew, but this one was sat and yet comforting. He sang in the tongue of the wayfarers, though she didn’t know what he was saying, she knew that much. He was handsome, though his nose was slightly crooked. He had thick dark hair and full lips and she wondered if she might kiss a boy like him this season, like Petal always claimed to have done. She’d seen Petal today, flirting with the Selevians, pouting and waving. She would not be so obvious she thought.

  His song finished he sat down at a table in the corner, not far from the fireside, where everyone could see him play and where her father insisted was the best spot for singers and storytellers. The customers clapped and he drained his mug. She hurried over with more of the King’s Ransom’s bitter brown ale for him.

  ‘Caera, isn’t it?’ the bard asked, all charm and smiles.

  ‘It is. But your name…?’

  ‘Vanis,’ he said and pushed his empty tankard away while she placed another in front of him.

  ‘This is from the good keg,’ she assured him. ‘It’s usually for our best guests.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, fingers brushing hers as he took the mug. She flicked her hair and stared at the table a moment.

  ‘What was that song called?’ Caera asked.

  ‘They call it Nas Velvas – No Return,’ He sipped the ale and she thought it incredible that he knew so many words in another tongue.

  ‘So what do the words mean?’

  ‘Let’s see,’ the bard began, “My darling don’t go; I’ll count the days until you return; all I have is yours; I will not go back to what it was; but you will not come back again,” Something like that.’

  ‘You can speak Selevian?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘They taught me the song and told me the words. I can’t tell which is which, but it’s something like that.’

  Even his honesty was charming.

  She wanted to sit down but she was working, so instead she leaned on the table to hear him over the din. She thought she caught his eyes flicker over her breasts and she flushed. ‘It’s so sad that song.’

  ‘A lot of theirs are.’ Vanis said.

  ‘Do you know more?’ She asked, ‘Happy ones?’

  ‘Yes, there’s one I liked from the start. They told me the words in our tongue so I turned it into a local song. Want to hear?’

  Caera flushed even more deeply and grinned from ear to ear. A song just for her - it was beyond her dreams and beyond even some of Petal’s lurid tales - she might have kissed boys, but they’d never sung for her. The young bard took up his lute and headed once more to the fireside.

  ‘What’s it called?’ she asked.

  ‘Freedom of the Road,’ he called back.

  Another table called for more drink and she hurried off as Vanis began to strum. The audience stopped and listened, for they didn’t know the song, but its rhythm was energetic and its chords were rousing. People leaned in and some began to sway. Vanis began to sing, emulating the husky, ululating voices of the Wayfarers when they sang, but the words he used were in the Wesgarder tongue.

  The day will come; you will find your road

  And it will be all you dreamed

  And when this day comes

  You will know it’s yours

  You’ll wander far, taking many falls

  But when you get up again

  The road is still there

  Leading on, into the unknown

  The freedom of the road

  You don’t have to suffer

  It’s the rhythm of your life

  The horizons and the stars

  Freedom of the road

  Nobody has to suffer

  Wander where you will

  And the summer skies will guide you

  And I’ll hear you

  Follow music in my ears just like the clouds do

  Calling to your wandering soul from places far

  And you needn’t suffer even one day more…

  Caera stood rapt. She had dreamed of roads and of travel and of leaving Brookleith. The song might have come from the Selevians, but seemed like it was made just for her. He looked at her sometimes as he sang and it made her heart race. She was glad Berryck was not there that night, or Petal or anyone else. He was all hers.

  She was called away again by thirsty patrons, as the bard took a bow and began his next song. She had never seen such a busy night in the tavern and had never seen someone play so well to the crowd. She hoped he would come again the next night, the one after that and all through the week.

  Later she saw him off outside after the last of the patrons had left, while her father was inside cleaning up. He promised to meet her during the day when she had time. He was charming, if a little brash: he even leaned forward to try and kiss her when they parted, but she had pulled away and blushed. He gave up but squeezed her hand by way of goodbye. Berryck had once tried to hold her hand and she had recoiled in disgust. This time she could feel Vanis’s hot touch long after he’d left and she wanted to feel it again.

  Twenty

  The sailor had died in the morning. Father Haendric, now shaven and dressed in brown monk’s robes rather than the grey garb of a priest, had made his way to the dockyards with Brother Januth. Together they had inquired as to the other sick boatman but he had boarded a ship that had returned to the capital. When they had arrived back at the House of Enduring Grace, even more derelict in the harsh light of morning, the woman who assisted Januth during the day showed them the body.

  The lesions on his back had burst near the end and Haendric had hoped it would give the poor man some relief fro
m the pain. His fever had reduced a little and his breathing had even improved. But the woman, Gildreth, who looked like she might have had a colorful past before caring for the downtrodden, said that an hour later he’d suffered seizures and the fever had returned and his breathing had quickened and stopped before she could do anything. Haendric couldn’t imagine what she might have done anyway. He had never seen a disease kill so quickly. They removed the bedding, covered in blood and fluids, to be washed.

  As they had prepared to have the body taken out, three more patients had arrived, all from near the docks. One was a child brought in by his parents and he was especially weak. The boy did not even show signs of the sores on his back before a coughing fit and fever took him. The adults lasted a little longer, one passing in the night and another the next day. And half a dozen more were brought in after that, mostly sailors. The infirmary was overflowing within a few more days, with bedrolls spread out on the floor between the cots and all patients who had come in before the affliction moved out altogether. The House of Enduring Grace closed its chapel nave and the benches that had passed for pews became makeshift beds. The dead mounted and were quickly removed and still more sick people arrived. At least the weather was getting warmer after a cold spell, but that didn’t seem to change things. If anything, even more people seemed to be getting sick. The old and the very young took especially ill, often succumbing within hours of arrival. By the time Donnal returned a few days after dropping Haendric off, the priest counted a dozen dead and twice that number laid up in the hospice.

  The knight looked grave. ‘They’ve stopped looking for you, he said. ‘There were patrols sent out about the shire but they returned with nothing. They’re using their own men, from the South. Now with the sickness spreading the reeve and the bishop seem to have more on their plate. The archdeacon doesn’t seem to think you’re important enough anymore.’