by James Maxey
“And now you’re unhappy,” said Aurora. “So what? The plan is to go get yourself killed by Greatshadow?”
“No,” said Infidel, sounding deadly serious. “The plan is to go get myself rich. Not pirate booty rich, not ancient artifact rich, but filthy, filthy, filthy rich. Because if there’s one thing I learned growing up in my father’s court, it’s that if you’re filthy rich everyone will bend over backwards to tell you you’re clean. If I show up in my father’s court with sole possession of Greatshadow’s treasure, I’m confident I’ll have a full pardon in my hands inside of ten minutes. The church might not be happy about this, but I’m betting after I donate funds to build a few new cathedrals, they’ll come around. I’ll be rich with my own money, not my father’s. I’ll be free to live where and how I wish. I’ll have my own palace with silk sheets on a bed so fluffy you’d think it’s stuffed with clouds. Every day I’ll take a hot bath while musicians serenade me and I’ll get out of the water and put on clean freakin’ underwear. And when I walk into my own damn dining room, people are going to run up to me with trays full of goddamn cake!”
Aurora nodded slowly, contemplating the dream. “And this is going to make you happy?”
Infidel shrugged. “I’m not shooting for happy. I’m aiming for comfortable and fat.”
“You’ll achieve more than this,” said a voice from the branches above. Infidel jumped to her feet. Aurora jerked her head up as a sheen of ice grew across her clenched fists. It was Relic. How the hunchback had climbed into the branches without us hearing him I don’t know. It seemed like a bit of a stretch that this could have been where Infidel had thrown him.
Relic peered down at the two women. His eyes glowed faintly golden in the darkness. He said, “You shall be beloved by all mankind, princess. You will be the champion who slew Greatshadow. For centuries men have perished due to the unpredictable malevolence of fire. Castles, hovels, entire towns have been reduced to cinders with no warning, killing young and old alike. Once Greatshadow is dead, fire will be a trusted tool of mankind, fully tamed, a danger no more. Children will sing songs about you a thousand years hence, just as they sing the tale of how the first Brightmoon vanquished the dragon of the forest. As for seeking the forgiveness of the Church of the Book, remember you won’t just return with the dragon’s treasure. You can also return with barrels of fresh blood, replacing the dwindling holy relic you stole. You can claim you were driven by divine visions to renew the blood. One day you’ll be regarded as a saint.”
Infidel looked up the slope of the mountain, toward the glowing caldera. “And maybe one day I’ll sprout wings and fly. Because if there’s a Truthspeaker on this quest, then I’m never going to be part of this dragon hunt.”
“Assuming there’s still a hunt,” Aurora said. “The Truthspeaker’s charred bones are probably at the bottom of the bay with the rest of the king’s fleet.”
“Nah,” said Infidel. “My father’s a jerk, but not an idiot. He sent those ships in to give the dragon a chance to feel like he’d finished off the threat before it even reached shore. It had to be a distraction. Tower and his team are already on the island.”
Relic nodded. “I concur. It’s only a matter of time before they contact the Three Goons. We must prepare for this moment.”
“Prepare how?” asked Infidel.
“You will need a disguise that Lord Tower cannot see through,” said Relic. “I have just the persona in mind.”
“Forget Tower. How am I supposed to fool a Truthspeaker?”
Relic’s glowing eyes twinkled as he chuckled. “That, my dear, will be far easier than you may think. Few are as easy to deceive as those most confident of the truth.” Then he cast his gaze toward Aurora. “The deception will require your cooperation, as well as the silence of the Three Goons.”
Aurora nodded. “If you promise to help me recover the Jagged Heart, I pledge to keep my mouth shut. As for the Goons, they’ve been hired as muscle; there’s no clause requiring them to disclose everything they know. We can buy their silence with a non-competing contract for those sub-rights.”
“I vow that recovering the Heart for you will be my second goal, though ensuring that Greatshadow dies remains my top priority. If you accept this, then we have a deal,” said Relic. He held out his gnarled hand. Aurora placed her giant hand upon it. Infidel laid her smaller hand against the ogress’s knuckles.
Infidel said, “Excellent. It looks like we’ve got it all worked out for me to join a group of men sworn to kill me so we can face off with a dragon that melts stone with his breath.” She grinned. “And Stagger used to complain that I never planned ahead.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
SUCH CRUEL THINGS
AT DAWN THE harbor rang with a cacophony of sledgehammers and saws as the Wanderers salvaged useful lumber from the shattered remains of Commonground. Along the shores, river-pygmies gathered up scraps of wood too splintered to be of use and heaped them onto bonfires. Nearby, the bodies of dead brethren were stacked into muddy blue piles. I always found it odd that the river-pygmies cremate their dead; a water burial would seem more appropriate. I need only glance up the blackened slope of the mountain to understand the origins of the custom. Greatshadow could wipe out the pygmy tribes at any time for any reason. They pygmies believed that, as long as they let fire consume their bodies when they were done with them, Greatshadow would leave them alone most of the time. Whether Greatshadow was even aware of this bargain I can’t guess.
Once or twice during the night, pygmies had come poking around the trees beneath the boat. I’ve no doubt they would have climbed aboard if Aurora hadn’t stuck her head over to investigate the noise. Her big, tusked face had sent would-be scavengers scurrying back into the darkness.
Relic left at sunrise. I’d watched as he scrambled down through the branches of the trees then dashed off through the debris-threaded thickets, agile as a cat. His crippled routine was obviously just a disguise. I have to say that he’d sounded like he knew a thing or two about disguises when he spent the better part of the night explaining his ideas for how to hide Infidel’s identity. He had wanted her to wear a suit of full plate armor, including a bucket-style helmet that would conceal her features. Infidel had vetoed this; she liked her comfort and full freedom of movement, and helmets got in the way of her peripheral vision. After a few hours of circular discussions, Relic had thrown his hands into the air and announced that he’d thought of the perfect disguise, but couldn’t share it. It would be a surprise, he said, as he scurried out to gather whatever supplies he had in mind.
I still felt like they were wasting their time. With Father Ver among the king’s men, Infidel would be discovered in seconds. My upbringing in the monastery had left me keenly aware of the power of Truthspeakers, and Father Ver was a legend. He was the most powerful Truthspeaker the Church of the Book had ever produced, as I knew all too well.
To appreciate the power of Truthspeakers, you need to know a little bit about the Church of the Book. High in the mountains of Raitingu, what the Wanderers call the Isle of Storm, there’s a temple built into the bedrock of the world’s tallest mountain. Within this temple is a chamber carved from pure white quartz. Here, on a pedestal of gold, sits the One True Book. The book is roughly five feet long, three feet across, and two feet thick. It’s bound in leather black as a moonless night; it’s said that if you stare at the cover, you can see stars twinkling in the void. In contrast, the pages are snowy white, thin as onion skin. The priests calculate that the book contains 7,777 pages.
Within this book, the Divine Author has written the history of the world, from the moment of creation to the final day of judgment. My life, your life, the lives of the dead and yet to be born, are recorded in minute detail on these holy pages. The One True Book is the final authority on all that has been, all that is, and all that will be.
Having access to this document would seem to give the Church of the Book a certain advantage over everyone else, save for one tiny d
etail: the book is far too sacred to ever be sullied by human hands. All men are too corrupted by lies to risk opening the book and actually reading it. The pure light of sacred truth would melt the flesh from the bones of anyone deluded enough to think himself worthy of sullying the pages with his unworthy gaze.
It’s taught that, one day, a Golden Child will arise, a perfect being uncorrupted by lies, who will open the book and read out the final account. The world we live in is built from four fundamental and opposing forces: spirit, matter, lies, and truth. As the book is read, all falsehood will be banished; all matter will be cleansed, all spirit will be purified. The world we know will be wiped away and replaced with the world as it always should have been, with a trinity of unified forces: truth, spirit, and substance.
Until the day of that Final Account, all that we know of the contents of the Book have been learned through prayer. Truthspeakers spend years on their knees in the temple, their faces pressed to the floor, weeping, sweating, laughing, screaming as they plead with the Divine Author to reveal even a few lines of sacred truth to them. After years of effort, the Truthspeakers go out into the world to spread the received revelations.
The Truthspeakers gain certain gifts as a result of their devotion. The most powerful Truthspeakers can see the falsehoods of the world and correct them. For instance, if it’s raining, and a pious Truthspeaker understands that the One True Book foretold that the day would be sunny, he simply tells the sky it’s supposed to be blue. The clouds will part and the sun will come out. This may be hyperbole; I’ve never personally witnessed a Truthspeaker pull off such a feat. But, I have witnessed another magical gift. It’s impossible to lie to a Truthspeaker. Believe me, I’ve tried.
The monks run a vineyard where they produce the sacramental wine used in certain church rites. The wine isn’t intended to be used recreationally, but when I had my first sip at age ten, I appreciated the warmth that spread through me as I swallowed, and wanted more. By age twelve I’d sneak out at night to the pitch dark wine cellars to finish off entire bottles, luxuriating in the mellow heat that spread through my body and washed over my mind in a soothing wave. I’d lie on the frigid stone floor in the darkness and dream of using grandfather’s bone-handled knife to hack away vines from ancient statues in steaming tropical jungles.
Alas, the monks kept meticulous track of their inventory. A Truthspeaker was brought in to investigate the missing gallons. I’d heard from other orphans that you can fool a Truthspeaker if you can fool yourself. You couldn’t lie, but truth wasn’t always black and white. I was certain I’d be asked if I’d stolen the wine, and, technically, I hadn’t. The wine didn’t belong to any one person. It was property of the Church, and I was a member of the Church. It was no more a theft for me to share the wine than it was to drink water from the communal well. I trusted I could slip through this loophole if the Truthspeaker interrogated me.
I remember the moment that I’d been brought into the room where Father Ver waited. He was middle-aged then, his close-cropped dark hair speckled with gray at the temples. His skin was pale from spending most of his life in a cave. There was a large callus in the center of his forehead from decades spent rubbing it against the floor. His eyes were sunk back into his skull, hidden in shadows. The interrogation room was lit by a single candle which sat on the table between us, and the light flickered like twin stars in the void of his eyes.
Despite his stern expression, I walked into the room with a confident swagger. I sat down and faced him, unafraid to meet his gaze. I waited for him to speak to me. Seconds passed and he said nothing. I slid back in my chair, prepared to wait him out, but turned my face away. It was uncomfortable to look at someone so directly without saying anything. As the seconds passed into minutes, I’d glance at him and always find his eyes locked on my face. I began to fidget. I could feel his stare boring into me. I started sweating. My palms were clammy as I wiped away the moisture on my brow. I trembled as I worried he might mistake my discomfort for evidence of guilt. Which was absurd, I reminded myself, since I hadn’t stolen anything. I wanted to tell him this, but my tongue had grown thick in my mouth. If my rubbery limbs had possessed the strength, I would have fled the room. Instead, some horrible internal magnet kept pulling my gaze toward his. I felt as if my face wasn’t truly my own, but was instead a mask I’d all but forgotten I was wearing. The Truthspeaker’s eyes were peeling back that mask to reveal the sinner beneath.
After what felt like hours, he spoke, in a low, gravelly voice. “You are the wine thief.”
I collapsed to the floor, my tongue leaping to life: “Yes! Oh yes! Yes! It’s true! I stole the wine!”
Hot tears erupted from my eyes as I wept, my body wracked with sobs. I was vaguely aware of Father Ver rising and walking around the desk.
“You will stop crying,” he said, standing before me.
Instantly, I stopped. It was like he’d reached in and flicked some unseen switch that commanded my tears. I reached out and hugged his ankles, groveling as I pressed my cheeks against his sandal-clad feet. “Forgive me,” I whispered. “Forgive me.”
“You will stand,” he said.
Though my body felt hollow, gutted by guilt and shame, my muscles moved to obey his words and I rose.
Father Ver frowned. “There’s a weakness in you,” he said. “Unfounded hope is the source. Your grandfather paid you a visit two years ago.”
“Y-yes,” I said, sniffling.
“He filled your head with tales of vanished kingdoms, pygmy tribes, and lost treasures. Seductive visions for a boy your age. You’ve turned your eyes from the path of righteousness and now dream of life outside this monastery.”
I wiped snot onto my sleeve and said, “My g-grandfather is going to t-take me with him next time.”
“We both know this isn’t true,” said Father Ver.
I swallowed hard.
“If your grandfather wanted you, he could have taken you on his last visit. You aren’t our property, boy. We’d welcome one less mouth to feed. The truth is plain; Judicious Merchant loves the jungle more than he loves you.”
I wiped my cheeks and whispered, “He... he said the jungle is too dangerous for a child.”
“Do the pygmies not have children? In any case, your grandfather is a free man, still in possession of remnants of your family fortune. He need not live in a jungle like a savage. He could have raised you in comfort on some modest country estate. His actions show what he truly loves in this world. It isn’t you.”
I dropped to my knees, doubled over, feeling as if I’d been kicked in the gut.
“Your thirst for wine comes from your love of falsehood. In your intoxication, it’s easy to feel as if the dreams you cling to are real. It’s time to let go of your childish embrace of fantasy. Truth will never be found digging among the ruins of failed civilizations. Truth is revealed through prayer and obedience to the church. The great adventure for any man lies not in exploring the ruins of distant jungles, but in navigating the ruins of his own soul. Your soul in particular is a treacherous labyrinth. Your father, mother, and grandfather all live, yet you are an orphan. What a heavy burden, to be so unloved. I understand why your dreams seem more attractive than your piteous reality.”
I dug my nails into my palms, trying to make the pain blot out the words. I sniffled. “H-how can... how can you say such cruel things?”
“It is a measure of your weakness that you mistake truth for cruelty,” said Father Ver. “Within the One True Book, your life has already been written. I know nothing of your future; there is too much contained within the Book for one man to study it all. I have no certainty of your eventual fate, but slaking your blasphemous thirst with sacramental wine is a poor omen. My informed speculation is that one day you’ll die drunk on some distant shore, leaving your bones to rot in an unmarked grave.”
He walked to the door and rang a small bell to summon the monks. He didn’t look at me as he said, “If I were the sole arbiter of your fat
e, you would be hung. A boy who is a thief will almost certainly grow into a man who is something worse. Alas, the brothers will sanction no punishment more severe than flogging. You will receive ten lashes a day with a braided leather whip for the next seven days.”
My mouth went dry as I thought of the pain I would endure.
“I know you are afraid of what’s to come,” he said, his voice softening ever so slightly. “Look at me.”
I turned my face toward him as he untied the knot that held his simple robes at the waist. He shrugged the heavy cloth from his shoulders. He turned, revealing his bare back. He was more muscular than I’d suspected. There was no fat on him; his muscles looked wiry and powerful beneath his white skin. I squinted in the candle light. Quickly, I understood what he was showing me. His back was crisscrossed with scars and countless fresh scabs.
“When the whip touches you, pain flashes through your mind like a light,” he said. “Follow this light. It will lead you to truth. Pleasure leads only to falsehood; pain guides men to what is real. Truth is hard. Truth is harsh. Truth is all that matters. It is stark and beautiful and complete. Embrace your pain, child, and you may yet live a righteous life.”
He pulled his robes back up his shoulders. “Should you not heed my words, pray we do not cross paths again,” he said. “When next we meet, I will not show such mercy.”
He left, and I listened to this feet pad away down the stone hall. I was all alone, his words echoing in my ears. All I could feel was gratitude. Father Ver had given me a precious second chance. I didn’t fear the punishment to come; I was eager for it, ready for the whip to beat away my weakness and bring me to the same state of grace as this holy man.