“A thief then, come to rob you?” Renzo’s tone was neutral but his face was troubled. Violence had no place in the lives of these villagers, nor did thievery. These evils were confined to traveler’s tales of life in distant cities and towns. If Renzo had seen violence done during his youthful years as a sailor, such was long forgotten.
“A thief, yes,” Josan said. “What else could he be?”
Even to his own ears his words sounded hollow. The lighthouse’s artifacts would be poor compensation for the long journey, and the villagers had nothing to tempt even the meanest of thieves.
Marco rolled the body over with his foot, as if looking for signs of a stab wound. But in this he was bound to be disappointed, for there had been very little blood. Kneeling next to the corpse, he searched the body like Josan before him, looking for a sign that would reveal his identity.
“This was no petty thief.” Marco pushed up the left sleeve of the dead man to reveal a fading tattoo on the inside of his left forearm. A stylized lizard encircled by a double ring, it was the symbol of the former rulers of Ikaria. It had been outlawed for generations, ever since Emperor Aitor had assumed the throne. Displaying the symbol was enough to earn one a lengthy stay in the catacombs, or enslavement.
No mere thief would endanger himself by having such a damning mark. Nor would an ordinary assassin so foolishly flaunt his loyalties.
“Why would a traitor seek you out? Who are you and what is your true name?” Marco’s voice was cold, and he stared at Josan as if he were a stranger.
“You know me. I am Josan of the Learned Brethren from the collegium in Karystos. A scholar once, and now a lighthouse keeper.”
“You are a murderer,” Marco said.
“He is our friend,” Renzo argued. “This was an accident, it must have been. Swear to us that you did not intend to kill this man and we will believe you.”
It was a simple request. All knew that the Learned Brethren were men of peace, who eschewed violence. A monk could not be guilty of murder.
“I did not intend to kill him,” Josan said. Which was true, in its way. He still did not understand the instincts that had governed his actions, but he knew that his goal had been survival, not murder.
Renzo’s gaze searched his features. Whatever he saw there must have reassured him, for he gave a short nod.
But Marco was not so easily swayed.
“You lie. You killed this man, then you stood here dagger in hand, ready to kill again,” Marco declared.
“No,” Josan said, but even he did not know what he was denying. For he had indeed killed the intruder, and when he had picked up the dagger he had been prepared to use that as well. He had reacted as a warrior, not as a scholar.
“The proof lies here at our feet,” Marco declared. “No doubt you killed him because he threatened to reveal your secret. And who knows how many others you have killed? What happened to the monk that the brethren sent to tend this tower? Does he lie somewhere in an unmarked grave?”
“How can you accuse me of such things? Have I not tended the lighthouse faithfully? Did I not warn your people when the great storm approached? Only last winter you asked me to bless your marriage, and now you are condemning me as a murderer.”
He realized he had made a mistake, for rather than softening, Marco’s face hardened. Mentioning the marriage had only served to remind Marco of his long struggle to win Terza’s affections.
“I never trusted you. I always knew your soft words hid a false heart.”
Josan wondered grimly what would have happened if the fates had been different. If Josan had not been able to tap into his hidden fighting skills, they might have arrived in time to discover his body lying lifeless on the floor with the assassin standing over him. Would his death have convinced Marco that Josan was innocent? Or would he have still found a way to blame Josan for inviting his attack and bringing violence to this place?
“This man is a stranger to us,” Renzo said. “We know that the dagger is his, and a sign of ill intent. We will send word to Skalla, and no doubt the magistrates there will already know of his crimes.”
“And what of this one? Your friend who claims to be a monk?”
“He is a friend to all of us.”
“He is a killer, but your taste in bed-warmers has made you blind. Lucky for the rest of us that I can see clearly.”
Renzo gave Marco a venomous glare. “Your mind is as tangled and filthy as your nets,” he said.
“And you are a foolish old man. Others will listen to me.”
“Will you believe him if he swears an oath?” Renzo asked. He turned to Josan. “Tell us that you have never killed before. Swear to us by the power of the tides and the salt blood that runs in your veins that you are innocent, and we will protect you.”
Josan drew in a deep breath. He wanted to swear, wanted to protest his innocence. If Renzo had asked him this question only a few hours ago, he could have proclaimed his innocence with all of his heart. But that was before he had discovered that within him lay buried the skills of a warrior. Who knew what other secrets lay hidden in a past that he could not quite recall?
The Learned Brethren cherished truth above all things, and despite what had happened, Josan could not imagine betraying their teachings. But the same beliefs damned him, for he could not swear an oath, not when he knew it might be proven false.
When Josan let his breath out without speaking, Marco smiled at him scornfully. “I thought as much. It will be a pleasure to see you brought to justice.”
For the first time Josan realized that he had more to fear than their scorn. Before he quite knew what was happening, he had taken two steps back and seized the long dagger.
“You will not need that,” Renzo said. “We will let you leave.”
“But—” Marco protested.
Renzo put his hand on Marco’s shoulder, preventing him from lunging forward. “One man has died here already today. Do you want to be the next?”
Marco glared but subsided. The odds were two against one, but Josan had a dagger and clearly Marco believed that he had both the willingness and the skill to use it.
It was ironic. He had committed no crime, had only fought back to save his life. But continuing to protest his innocence would win him nothing. Renzo might be prepared to give Josan the benefit of the doubt, to trust that in time a suitable explanation would be found.
But Marco believed Josan to be a murderer, and his voice would sway others. Josan could not afford to stay. Imperial law stated that only a magistrate could condemn a murderer to death, but the villagers paid little heed to written laws. They might well decide to hang him without ever giving him a trial or a chance to defend himself.
He had to leave. And he had to do so without harming anyone else. Marco was taller and stronger than Josan, but Josan was armed and had already demonstrated an uncanny skill for fighting. If they came to blows, Josan would prevail, but any such victory would be costly. Marco was too stubborn to surrender—he would not give up until he was gravely injured or dead.
Marco was a fool, but he did not deserve to die. In his own way he was acting honorably, to protect his people from someone he saw as a threat.
“I would go, but I cannot leave the lighthouse untended,” he said.
“I will keep watch, and Marco can fetch Terza to help. We kept the light burning in all those weeks before you arrived, and we will keep it bright until the brethren send another to replace you,” Renzo replied.
It was a sensible answer, but a part of him wished that Renzo had urged him to stay.
“You may run now, but I will see that word of your deception is sent to the city. One day soon your luck will run out, and you will face justice for what you have done,” Marco added.
Josan swallowed heavily. He would be leaving behind not just the lighthouse, but also the certainty of knowing himself a member of the Learned Brethren. Who knew if the monks would welcome him back once Marco’s account reached them? Even befo
re today’s events he had been warned not to return to Karystos.
Yet neither could he stay on the island, even if he could somehow convince the villagers that he meant them no harm. A killer had found him here once. Another could do so again.
It was of no consequence that he did not know why the assassin had tried to kill him, nor what he had done to earn the wrath of those who followed the old ways. Whatever the cause, he knew he must flee. Alive he could hope to learn the truth. Dead the secrets of his past died with him.
“The two of you must climb to the top platform,” he said.
“Why?” Marco asked.
“Shall I turn my back only to have you attack when I try to fill a waterskin? You do not trust me, so why should I trust you?”
He had the satisfaction of seeing Marco’s face darken with rage.
He was disturbed by how easily he had assumed the mask of cold calculation. Such behavior was foreign to his nature, or at least it had been before the attack. But calculation had already saved his life once and so he held his ground, his features bland, giving no hint of his unease.
Renzo turned and began to climb the stone steps. After a few muttered curses Marco followed. Josan watched them until they reached the bottom course.
“The sparker is in the tin box on the middle shelf. And you must strain the oil before filling the lamps,” he called up.
Renzo nodded but did not glance downward. Instead he set his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder and began the slow climb. Marco followed.
Josan fought the urge to call up to Renzo, to try one last time to explain what had happened. It felt wrong to leave like this. A betrayal of the friendship that had sustained him for the last five years. Surely there ought to be something that he could say? But how could he explain what he himself did not understand? Only the truth would satisfy Renzo, but Josan had no truths to offer, only questions.
Instead he watched, craning his head as the two figures continued their climb until they were barely distinguishable. At last he saw a small square of daylight appear as Renzo opened the wooden hatch, and first he, then Marco climbed onto the platform. Turning away, Josan entered the storeroom, knowing he had little time. He trusted that Renzo would wait patiently on the platform until he observed the monk’s departure, but Marco would no doubt try to make his way back down as soon as Josan was no longer watching.
The iron bar still stood in the far corner, and it was the work of a moment to retrieve it. He stepped back into the base of the tower, pausing for one final look at the dead assassin. Then he pushed open the door of the lighthouse. Shutting it firmly behind him, he threaded the iron bar through the metal slots that held the door shut when the lighthouse was closed for the winter. Now it could only be unlocked from the outside.
Marco would have no cause to remember the bar, since it was never used when the villagers were on the island, but Renzo knew it was there. Perhaps he had kept silent out of the remnants of their friendship, wanting to give Josan time to make his escape.
More likely Renzo had simply forgotten about it, distracted by the discovery of the stranger’s corpse and the realization that his friend was not the man he had thought him to be.
Strangely, Josan felt far worse about the loss of Renzo’s friendship than he did about having killed a man. He comforted himself with the knowledge that Renzo was in no danger. The storeroom held both food and water, and in a day or two at the most the villagers would send someone looking for the missing men.
He climbed the dune and followed the path through the bracken to his cottage. He kept a firm hold on the dagger but no one challenged him, and he was relieved to find the cabin appeared undisturbed.
Taking down his leather pack from its peg, he placed it on his bed. Wasting no time, he gathered food for a fortnight’s journey—dried fish, a sack of beans, and another of ground millet, which he used for porridge. He hesitated over a small jar of honey, then ruthlessly discarded it as being too heavy. His two tunics and spare leggings went in next, followed by his writing case.
Josan hesitated as he eyed the logbooks that held the place of honor on the crude shelves, each wrapped in leather to preserve them from water and insects. Copies, for the originals were preserved in the collegium, the logs contained the record of his five years as lighthouse keeper, and the accounts of those who had come before him. It seemed a crime to leave them behind, in the care of the villagers, who could neither read nor write in the Ikarian dialect reserved for scholars.
Yet he could not take them with him. He was not certain that he even had a right to them. Better that they stay behind. Renzo would see that no harm came to them, as he would watch over the lighthouse until a new keeper arrived.
Someone who carried the confidence of the brethren. A man of scholarship and of peace. A man who could remember his past and for whom the future held no fears.
Josan shook his head to clear his thoughts. Turning away from the logbooks, he picked up two waterskins and filled them at the well. Then he returned to the cabin. Shouldering his pack, he rolled the blanket from his bed into a thin bundle and tucked it between the straps.
Leaving the cabin behind, he climbed to the top of the dune, pausing for one last look toward where the lighthouse stood, the dark gray stones standing resolute against the forces of time and nature.
He had spent five years on the island. It was the only home he could remember, for his years at the collegium were misty, as was so much of his life before the fever. He remembered what it had felt like to awaken, his body wracked with pain, not knowing where he was nor even his name. Slowly his memories had come back to him, but they were only bits and pieces, like an ancient mosaic that was missing most of its tiles.
He had listened when the monks had told him he should be grateful to be alive. That he should not trouble himself over his missing memories, but rather give thanks that there was still some small way in which he could serve the brethren. He had accepted their judgment, and while his exile had chafed, until today he had had no reason to question their motives.
He did not know when he had learned the ways of a fighter, nor why someone would seek his death. But the answers he sought were out there. Somewhere. It was up to him to have the courage to face his past, whatever he might discover.
Better to know himself a murderer than to live a life of lies.
Chapter 8
The Learned Brethren prided themselves on living lives of simplicity, disdaining anything that might distract them from their pursuit of knowledge. It was said that a monk would go without food for a week in exchange for a mere glimpse of a rare manuscript. From his birth, Josan had lived according to the brethren’s ways, taking his turn at performing the most menial of tasks. And the last five years his existence had been even more spartan. If asked, he would have said that he lived a life of privation, though by his own choice.
Now he realized how foolish he had been. As his stomach ached with hunger, he grimly reconsidered the tale of the fasting monk. Starvation was a virtue only when it was a choice. Given the choice between a bowl of soup and a chance to be the first man in two hundred years to read the scrolls of Alexander, Josan would choose the soup.
His life as lighthouse keeper had been full of luxuries, though he had been too foolish to see it at the time. The food might have been plain but it was ample, there was a roof over his head to keep off the weather, and he had been able to sleep soundly at night, unconcerned over who might disturb him. All of this had been ripped from him when he had been forced to flee.
The stranger had not killed Josan, but in a real sense he had taken his life. Josan had lost more than mere comforts. He had lost the certainty that came from knowing who he was. While he had chafed at his exile, there had been security in knowing himself a monk, part of a chain of scholarship that stretched back through the centuries.
It had taken a stranger to show him that he was more than a scholar. That he was capable of killing when provoked. Once revealed, such trut
hs could not be forgotten.
Even if Marco’s accusations had not forced him to flee, Josan knew that he would eventually have left the island on his own. To stay there would have been to deny the uncomfortable truths about himself. And while he feared the answers he might find, he could not live in ignorance.
He had fled to the mainland bent on solving the riddles that the stranger represented. Who had sent the assassin? Why would anyone want to harm Josan? Why had the Learned Brethren sent him to the island, and why were they so insistent that he not return to Karystos? What crimes lay hidden in the parts of his memory that were still fogged by his illness?
Fine questions, and answering them was a worthy goal. But it was quickly supplanted by an even more important goal, that of simple survival. News of Josan’s supposed crimes had swiftly reached the mainland, and he found himself being hunted. His shaven head made it impossible for him to hide from those who had heard of the renegade monk.
More than once he was forced to flee from those who sought to capture him. He grew lean as he relied upon his indifferent skills at foraging, supplemented by the occasional theft. Each time he stole it shamed him, and he swore that he would not do so again. But the next time hunger caused his limbs to tremble and his head to swim, he would once again forget his scruples.
As the months passed, his growing hair and tattered rags made it less and less likely that he would be recognized. Still, in isolated villages any stranger was viewed with suspicion, and he dared not stay longer than it took to beg or steal a meal. Gradually he began to make his way south, toward the more populated areas of the province. If he found a large enough town, he might be able to lose himself among the crowd, if only for long enough to earn a few hot meals and perhaps a coin or two to put in his pocket.
He still needed answers, but he had realized that he needed to stay alive long enough to find them.
Survival was a matter of living day to day, but he could not ignore the signs around him, as summer gave way to autumn. The orchards and fields would soon be barren, with nothing left for him to scavenge. The creatures with whom he shared the pine forests grew plump in preparation for the long winter, while he himself grew leaner and more discouraged.
The First Betrayal Page 10