In the collegium, he had been angry and frustrated by his newly clumsy body and fragmented memories. It had been kindness on the part of the brothers to send him here, where he could slowly retrain his body and wits without the constant reminders of what he had lost. He knew he had come far from the broken man who had first arrived at the lighthouse, but without other scholars to measure himself against he had no true way of gauging his progress.
It was seldom that he allowed himself to reflect upon his loss though he could hardly blame Lady Ysobel for stirring up feelings best left forgotten.
He smoothed his face into a pleasant mask, letting none of his unhappiness show through. “Is there anything else I can do my lady?”
“If you would be so kind, please inform the headman that we are ready to depart,” she said.
“I will do that. And I wish you a fair journey and safe passage.”
“Fair journey to you as well, Brother,” she replied.
Fortified by a night’s rest, the journey back to the lighthouse was swifter than it had been the night before. Only twice did he find his way blocked and have to retrace his steps. Renzo’s dour prediction had come true, and the inlet had grown wider and deep enough that Josan had to swim across, though it was only a few strokes. He noticed that the flow of the water had indeed changed direction with the tide, answering his question from the night before. Perhaps the inlet would continue to grow, fueled by the power of the tide, until the small channel widened and the two halves of the island were permanently separated.
He recalled the map of the barrier islands and how their curved chain seemed to echo the curve of the mainland they sheltered. Was it possible that the islands had once been a single solid mass, before centuries of great storms and the relentless action of waves and tide had carved them into ever-smaller chunks of land? It was an interesting hypothesis, and there must be some way to test his theory. The library of the collegium had the accumulation of centuries of knowledge. Surely somewhere deep in the bowels of the library were maps of the islands, from the time that they were first conquered. Comparing these maps to the present form of the islands would be an interesting exercise.
His pulse leapt with excitement, for if his theory was correct, then this was surely a discovery of some note. His steps quickened, then lagged as the lighthouse tower came into view and he recalled where he was. He was a hundred leagues away from the great library of the collegium. In fact, he was as far from the capital as one could be and still remain within the Ikarian Empire.
Still, he could write to Brother Nikos and tell him of his theory. Brother Nikos would assign one of the young acolytes to research the maps, and if Josan was proven correct, no doubt his name would be mentioned when the acolyte wrote up his conclusions to share with their brethren. It would not be the same as if he had done the research himself, but it was still a way to contribute to the great work of the order and prove that he was still a truth seeker.
And surely such a discovery would be a demonstration that he had healed and reason enough for them to recall him from his exile.
Chapter 3
The collegium of the Learned Brethren in Karystos was home to over four hundred scholars and tens of thousands of scrolls, containing the accumulated knowledge of the ages. As head of the order, Brother Nikos presided over an empire of knowledge, guardian of secrets that were undreamt of outside the collegium’s walls. True, the brethren in Xandropol had a far larger library—and a collegium to match—but they were mere scholars. In Karystos, the brethren wielded power far beyond their walls. Nikos was a personal confidant of Empress Nerissa, something no other abbot could claim.
Ordinarily he reveled in his position, yet on this day his thoughts were troubled by a single scroll, and the scholar who had penned it. He had read the scroll once, when he had first received it, then locked it in his desk while he pondered his response. Three days had passed, and he was still no closer to an answer. All paths were fraught with potential peril, and he reluctantly decided to seek counsel. There was risk in sharing this information, but even more risk if he miscalculated his next move.
It took time for Brother Thanatos to respond to his summons, and when the elderly monk arrived in his office, his slack features and blinking eyes hinted that he had been roused from an afternoon nap. Leaning heavily on the arm of the novice who had escorted him, Thanatos limped into the study and was helped to sit in the high-backed chair set aside for visitors.
Nikos dismissed the novice and waited until the door closed behind him before speaking.
“Brother Thanatos, I thank you for coming so swiftly.”
“Not at all, I am happy to serve. My days are not as full as they once were,” Thanatos said with a half smile.
Thanatos was in his eighties, and had retired from teaching novices over a decade before. Still, his mind was sharp and his memories seemingly clear, and it was these two things that Nikos needed from him.
“What can a student of mathematical mysteries do for our esteemed leader?” Thanatos asked.
From another his tone would have been judged impertinent, but Thanatos was too old and set in his ways to remember to pay Nikos the proper deference. In his mind, the abbot was still the youth he had taught nearly forty years before.
“I need your opinion on one of your students,” Nikos said, reaching into the desk to pull out the troublesome scroll. “Tell me what you think of this letter from Brother Josan.”
“Brother Josan!” Thanatos exclaimed, as he eagerly reached for the scroll.
Nikos watched as he read the scroll, at first swiftly, his fingers fumbling as he unrolled it in his haste. The second time he read it more slowly, considering the import of each line. It was not a long missive, but Thanatos studied it as if it were a tome of his precious logic.
Nikos waited with seeming patience until Thanatos rolled up the scroll and handed it back to him.
“He seems well, if unhappy with his circumstances,” Thanatos said.
Besides himself, Thanatos was the only other person who knew that Josan had been sent to serve at the remote outpost of Prince Txomin’s lighthouse. And even Thanatos did not know the full story behind Josan’s exile. Only Brother Giles had been privy to that information, and he had died two years ago. As far as the rest of the monks were concerned, Josan was on pilgrimage, and his name was no longer spoken.
“The letter, does it sound the way you remember him?”
“His letters to me were written in a more pleasant frame of mind, but yes, I recognize his turn of phrase. And the logic of his argument to return here follows the classic form of five parts. Flawless.” Thanatos beamed, as if he were commending a pupil.
He wondered what Thanatos would say if he were to show him the letters from when Josan had first been exiled. Childish scribbles; he had barely been capable of holding a pen. Now he had recovered enough of his wits that he could argue in the tongue of scholars. But Nikos could not show Thanatos Josan’s earlier letters, any more than he could share with the monks the careful observations that Josan had made during his time as lighthouse keeper. Everything that Josan sent was carefully locked away, too dangerous to be seen by any except himself. It was vital that no attention be drawn to Txomin’s Lighthouse, nor to the man who lived there.
It was a shame that Brother Giles had not lived to see proof of his success. Both he and Nikos had been certain that Giles’s efforts had failed, leaving a witless child in the body of a man. But as time passed, Josan had reclaimed more and more of his former knowledge. The question was just how much did he remember? And what would he do with this knowledge?
“If you want my advice, I say that the time has come to bring him home. I know you told me that his wits were damaged, but the man who wrote this letter is a scholar of the first order. We need him here, not moldering away on some cursed rock pile,” Thanatos said.
“If only matters were that simple,” Nikos began. “But as I have told you before, it is not safe for Josan to retu
rn to Karystos.”
“Five years have passed; surely it no longer matters what he might have seen? He is a monk, hardly likely to be a threat to anyone.”
In this, Thanatos was being deliberately disingenuous. Knowledge was power, as both men knew, and a man with power was most definitely a threat. Still, he was not surprised that Thanatos was arguing in favor of the return of his favorite pupil.
“On the contrary, it matters a great deal. Josan would not be safe if he were to return.”
And neither would Nikos, though he kept this knowledge to himself.
“Then let him go to Xandropol instead. Brother Xavier would welcome another mathematician. It is not fair that Josan should waste his talents in that place.”
Nikos shook his head. “With all respect to our brothers in Xandropol, I do not trust them in a matter so delicate. For his own sake, Josan must remain where he is.”
“Then why did you ask for my advice? If you’ve already made up your mind…” Thanatos grumbled.
“I need your knowledge of his character,” Nikos said. He had known Josan merely as one face among the other novices, listening to the praise of his teachers, but his duties had kept him too busy to pay personal attention to a mere novice. Later, they had met only infrequently as Josan had traveled, bringing back riches of knowledge for the order. He did not know Josan well enough to predict what he would do next, which was why he had been forced to confide in Brother Thanatos.
But Nikos was caught in a dilemma. The reasons he had given Josan for remaining on the island were no longer valid, yet he could not afford to commit the true reasons to parchment. The risk that it would fall into unfriendly hands was too great.
“If I write Josan and tell him that he must remain on the island, will he obey? If he decides to leave, will he inform us or will he simply run away?” he asked.
“He’s a good lad,” Thanatos said, as if they were speaking of a youth and not a man approaching his thirtieth summer. “He will not like it, but he’ll do what you tell him to.”
“I hope you are right. For his sake, as well as ours,” Nikos said.
Brother Thanatos could be sentimental about the fate of one monk, but Nikos could not afford such indulgence. He had a far greater duty to the brethren, and the preservation of the collegium. Five years ago, Josan had been a broken tool in his hands, unfit for any purpose, a danger to both himself and those who sheltered him. It would have been wiser to let him die, but Nikos had exiled Josan instead on the slender chance that he might one day be able to return. But that day had not yet come, and one monk could not be allowed to jeopardize all they had worked for. If Josan could not be trusted to obey orders, then he would have to be dealt with. And this time, there would be no second chance.
Three weeks after the great storm, Josan shivered on the lighthouse platform, a blanket wrapped around his heavy robe as the first full moon of winter rose in the sky, signifying the final watch of the year. When dawn came, he blew out the lamps, then began the long climb down to the base of the tower. Supplies were low, but he had saved a handful of tea leaves for this day. He sipped the bitter drink slowly, savoring both its warmth and the clarity it brought to his tired mind.
By the time he had finished his breakfast and climbed back to the top of the tower, the lamps had cooled enough so they could be touched. Carefully he removed each glass globe, giving it a final cleaning and polish before wrapping it in linen and storing it in a straw-filled crate. The reservoirs of oil were emptied back into a cask, while the silvered mirrors and metal frames were wrapped in oiled leather to protect them against the damp winter winds.
His hands moved without conscious direction, though that had not always been the case. When he had first come to the island, he had been so clumsy that he could barely walk. Whenever he had tried to move quickly, he had tripped over his own feet, and objects had slipped from his grasp. It had been weeks before Renzo had trusted the new lighthouse keeper enough to allow him to care for the most fragile objects.
Gradually Josan had gained control over his body until he no longer felt as if he were living within a stranger’s skin. Gaining control over his fragmented thoughts had been harder, but here, too, patience and discipline had been the key.
Remembering the frustration of those early days, he now took pleasure in the deft movements of his hands as he carefully packed each object away. He observed that the globes were showing their age, for despite the care of the monks who had tended them, each globe had a network of fine scratches. If they were not replaced, in time the damage would render the globes opaque, dimming the light and weakening the strength of the beacon.
Fortunately, the silvered reflecting mirrors had fared better, and were still unmarred despite decades of use. The royal treasury could replace the fragile glass globes if it chose, but the magically crafted mirrors were another matter. And without the mirrors, the lighthouse would be useless. By the time a ship saw the beam cast by an ordinary mirror, it would already be among the shoals. Only these specially crafted mirrors could reflect a beam far enough to serve as a warning, and he doubted very much that there were any left in Ikaria with the skill to manufacture a new set.
Morning turned to afternoon by the time he was satisfied that all was in order. At last he closed the wooden shutters, nailing the makeshift boards in place. He had done his best to repair the damage caused by the great storm, but he lacked the tools needed to craft wood into the correct shape and fit it onto the heavy hinges. Instead Josan had salvaged the last pieces of wood from the broken shutters, reinforcing them with staves taken from the empty oil barrels. Crude they might be, but they would serve to keep both birds and the winter weather out of the tower until he returned in the spring.
Descending to the base of the lighthouse tower, he picked up a waterproof pack that held his clothes, a writing quill, a half-filled bottle of ink, and the two books that chronicled his experiences since he had come to the island. The rest of the logbooks were too heavy to carry, so instead they were stored safely on the lowest course, along with the other tools of his trade. As he left the tower, he barred the door shut to prevent any animals from trying to turn the lighthouse into their winter den.
The sun was already low in the sky by the time he reached the sheltered cove on the northwestern side of the island and the small boat drawn up on the sandy beach. The villagers had returned to the mainland a fortnight before, but by custom they sent someone to fetch the lighthouse keeper on the first day of winter.
Young Piero rose to his feet as Josan approached, his thin face breaking into a relieved smile. “I was beginning to fear that you weren’t coming today,” he said.
Josan shook his head. “Took longer to close up the lighthouse this year. Come spring I will need your father to lend me one of his carpenters to craft proper shutters.”
“I’ll tell him,” Piero said. “And the new inlet, has it grown? I thought to take a look at it myself, if there was time, but the day is rapidly fading.”
“The inlet is no wider than it was on that second day, perhaps fifty feet across, and the water is calm, more like the sound than the sea. But it’s too deep to wade.”
Josan shivered as he remembered the uncomfortable crossing. This time he’d placed his robes and sandals in the waterproof sack before venturing into the icy-cold water, so he’d have dry clothing to don on the other side. But the chill had sucked the air from his lungs, and it had taken a long time for him to warm up again.
“Some changes on the mainland as well,” Piero said. “The storm brought flooding, and we lost the granary down by the commons, but your place is still there. Terza spent the last two days getting it ready for you.”
Josan grimaced, and Piero laughed softly at his expression. Josan was the elder by at least a half dozen years, and had the advantages of one who had been educated by the finest minds in the empire. But when it came to the ways of young women, it was Piero who was the master, while Josan constantly displayed his ignorance.
Piero watched him for a moment, then softened. “You need not worry about Terza. When Marco returned from escorting the noble lady to Skalla, he brought Terza a fine necklace of glass beads, and she invited him to share her hearth.”
“I am pleased for them both,” Josan said.
Indeed he had been concerned over Terza, and how he could deflect her attentions without giving insult to her and thus insulting the villagers who provided him with both food and shelter. By law, they could not deny him what he needed to survive, but they could make his life extremely difficult if they chose.
Terza was not the only woman of the village who flirted with him, but she was by far the boldest. Some might have felt flattered by her interest, but Josan knew that she would have behaved the same toward any young man who had come from the heart of civilization. She had not realized that the man she had set her sights on was damaged.
He shook himself to clear such dark thoughts from his mind.
“Come now, let us make our way. You’ll never warm up standing here.” Piero had mistaken his gesture for a sign that he was chilled, and Josan saw no reason to correct him.
He loaded his belongings into the center of the small rowboat, then helped Piero drag the boat into the water. The waters of the protected sound were calmer than those of the open ocean on the other side of the island, but Josan’s late arrival meant they were fighting the tide. After a few minutes pulling at his oars, Josan was sweating freely. Still, with two sets of oars pulling, they made fair progress and in less than an hour they had crossed the sound, arriving just as the sun slipped below the trees.
The First Betrayal Page 3