“It is good to hear you have coin.” Kuth-Von seemed surprised by this information. “But will you have enough to buy the ships you need?”
“Will your captains refuse to hire their ships to us on grounds of faith?” Junari had wondered at this potential problem.
“Sailors spend too much time at the mercy of the winds to have more than a cupful of faith.” Kuth-Von gestured back toward the docks. “The problem is your destination, not your religious inclinations. You head to the Forbidden Realm, a land from which no ship has ever returned. Even if they did return, you’d be asking them to sail homeward with empty hulls. An empty ship is only just barely less useful than a sunken ship.”
“It has been decades if not longer since a ship attempted to sail to the Forbidden Realm.” Raedalus stepped more quickly as he spoke. “The urris may no longer guard it so tightly. Especially with the arrival of the dreams and the Goddess’s star. There may be no peoples to trade with, but there might be other things of value they could obtain. Surely there are men of adventure and enterprise among your captains.”
“You might find a few captains willing to take the risk, but you have nearly a thousand to transport and more to follow them,” Kuth-Von said.
“We can pay double passage.” Junari did not see a way around it.
“Can you afford double passage? Will your pilgrims who follow be as well funded as you?” Kuth-Von pointed to the pilgrim campground, now visible along the eastern portion of the wall where they walked, tents spiraling outward from Junari’s small pavilion in the center. “You would be better served to gather your coin and purchase one or two ships outright. You could carry two or three hundred at a time. It will take you longer to cross your people, but I do not see how else it will work.”
“And how long will you and the Circle of Elders allow those left behind to remain?” Junari considered the possibilities of Kuth-Von’s plan. She did not find them appealing.
“There is an abandoned town an hour’s sail up the coast. A great sea wave crushed it some years ago. They could gather there and wait for the return of your ships. As pilgrims arrive, they could be sent to meet their companions. To have them near the city for too long will incite the very things we both wish to avoid.”
They walked in silence for a time as Junari regarded Kuth-Von’s suggestion. She glanced at Raedalus. Practical as always, the look on his face suggested resignation to the deal. As she walked, she looked out at her pilgrims. She had not noticed at first glance, but saw now that they stood motionless. She smiled, realizing the entire pilgrim band knelt in prayer. Prayers for her protection and success, no doubt. If they could have such faith in her and the Goddess, she could do no less.
“I will need leave to meet with the captains along your docks, to hire them if I can, or to buy as many ships as possible if not.” Junari turned to Kuth-Von from the sight of the pilgrims in prayer. Her pilgrims. The men and women and children she had accepted responsibility for. She would see them to the Forbidden Realm, whatever the hindrances.
“Agreed.” Kuth-Von stopped near the stairs beside the eastern gate. “I will arrange escorts for you each morning.”
“Some of your citizens were not pleased to have us passing through your streets today.” Raedalus pointed to a bruise on his forehead.
“My apologies.” Kuth-Von seemed genuinely regretful. “I will double the guard and provide a closed carriage for you.”
“What will you require?” Junari asked Kuth-Von, staring into the man’s eyes, trying to gauge his response.
“Through your success, I will have what I require.” Kuth-Von smiled. “My ancestors helped found this city. They built the docks and the first shipyard. One of my great grandsires built this wall. This city is my lifeblood and my life’s work. In one manner or another, you and your pilgrims will leave and my city will be safe. And I will have my percentage of the shipyard profits of your departure. As you say, we may both take advantage of the game.”
“And how long will we have to arrange our ships?” Junari tried to ask the question in a causal way, but the tightening of her voice gave away her anxiety at the possible answer.
“I can hold the council off for seven days, no more.” Kuth-Von looked out at the pilgrims praying beyond his city’s walls. “After that, the priests and the elders will demand that we cast you back the way you came.”
Junari stifled a sigh. Seven days. Three days short of a week. Not nearly enough time and likely far less money at her disposal then required for the task. She raised her hand against the glare of the sun as she looked out at her people kneeling in the grass and dust of the valley. She would need their prayers to get them safely beyond Tanjii and across the open waters to the shores of the Forbidden Realm.
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THE WITNESS
HASHEL
FUR AND tongue and whiskers accompanied a mewling purr. Hashel opened his eyes to find a small black cat curled on his chest, nuzzling her head against his chin. He smiled as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes with one hand, scratching the cat’s ears with the other. The cat purred again and licked his fingers. Hashel sighed. His cat, Serta, had licked his fingers like that back on the farm. The farm. Hashel’s smile faded at the memory. He smiled again, pushing his memories back beneath the ground of his mind, piling happy thoughts atop them.
He sat up, still petting the cat. He would name her Medra. A simple name. He wondered who she belonged to. He sat on the covers of a large bed, the old man, Ondromead, dozing on his back. They had fallen asleep in a stack of hay in a farmer’s barn, seeking shelter from a rainstorm that had dogged them all day. They awoke, as always, someplace else. They were in a bedroom of some sort. A chest sat under a small window, a table with a pitcher and washbasin by the door. An inn, maybe? Hashel had never seen an inn, but Ondromead had muttered much about the comforts of a bed in an inn on several of the nights they slept out of doors, pitching camp beneath the stars on rocky ground.
Hashel picked up the cat and placed her on Ondromead’s chest. The cat looked confused, padding around to find a comfortable place to lie. Ondromead opened his eyes and rubbed his beard as he groggily eyed the feline making herself a nest in the folds of his shirt.
“Found a friend, have we?” Ondromead ran his hand along the cat’s back. Medra stretched against his hand and arched her spine.
“Finally. To wake in a bed. It’s been months.” Ondromead picked Medra up and handed her to Hashel, who clutched the cat to his chest, petting her head as her tail lapped against his arm.
“Do you know the best thing about waking up in an inn, lad?” Ondromead scratched his scalp and turned to place his booted feet on the floor. “There are baths and breakfast.”
Ondromead smiled at Hashel as he pushed off the mattress with a grunt, reaching his arms over his head as he stood by the bed. Hashel watched Ondromead follow his morning routine, stretching arms and legs in various postures, moving slowly between them. He said it helped ease the aches of his old bones. Hashel joined him most mornings because it looked fun. Today, petting the cat seemed like more fun.
Hashel did not regret his decision to stay with the old man. Ondromead proved a great traveling companion, even if they did not know exactly where they traveled to or why. Waking each day in a new place became less and less miraculous and more and more mundane. Other things, at first frightening and confusing in their unnatural nature, came to feel commonplace. The purse that always had more coin in it. The book that always had more pages. The bottle that never emptied of ink. He found it easier to accept the strangeness of these things than the events he and Ondromead witnessed each day.
He hoped they would be called to witness a wedding or a birth. These were his favorite events. Ondromead’s mood always lightened on such days when he recorded what he saw and heard in the black leather book. Hashel hated the deaths. The deaths by acc
ident. The deaths by war. The deaths by fighting. The deaths by illness and old age. So many deaths. He looked away most of the time. He found it too hard to bury the memories when he saw people dying. Ondromead had explained that they could not interfere. That it would not be allowed. That he had tried many times, only to make things worse. If they were to travel together, Hashel needed to accept the nature of their bizarre existence.
After Ondromead finished his morning stretches, they found a bathing room down the hall. The cat, Medra, followed them, observing with great curiosity as an attendant, a boy of fifteen, helped them strip out of their clothes and sink into pools of warm water. Ondromead tipped the attendant with a silver coin from the purse as they dressed and left the room. Hashel had noticed that his clothes never needed washing now that he traveled with Ondromead. No matter how soiled or torn they might be by the end of the day, they were spotless and mended when he awoke the next morning. Another mystery he embraced without question.
Downstairs, they found a table in the common room of the inn, and Ondromead ordered breakfast from the serving maid, a young woman in her twenties who seemed more asleep than awake. Hashel tried to guess where they could be in the world from the woman’s accent. He easily recognized the Easad tongue spoken in Atheton and Nevaeo, as he formed his thoughts in that language, but had never heard the accent. He gestured around the room of the inn with one hand, the other still petting Medra, who sat curled in his lap.
“Somewhere in Atheton.” Ondromead looked at the other patrons of the inn. Two men nearby talked over cups of morning ale and plates of sausage. “In the north, I’d guess. I would ask, but I gave it up long ago. People look at you strangely when you don’t seem to know what town you are in. I’m sure we’ll overhear something that will tell us soon.” He nodded toward the men at the table. Ondromead often eavesdropped on people speaking close by, sometimes even writing down in the book the things they said.
“…tell you I heard the priests talkin’ ’bout it, I did.” The elder of the two men, scrawny with a ragged beard, tapped the tabletop for emphasis. “Gonna do it today.”
“Don’t seem right.” The younger man, large-boned with long hair pulled back in a knot behind his neck, shook his head. “Not their fault.”
“They’re heretics.” The elder man took a swig of ale.
“They don’t see it that way.” The younger man poked at an uneaten sausage with a greasy finger.
“They had the dream,” the older man said.
“Lots of folks have the dream. Don’t make ’em heretics.” The younger man brushed a stray lock of hair from his face.
“Sure it do. The dream is how you knows yer a heretic.” The old man eyed the younger suspiciously. “You had the dream?”
“People got no control over what they dream.” The younger man grabbed his cup of ale and took a long drink.
“That ain’t no answer, is it?” The old man jabbed a finger at the younger. “Is you dreamin’ ’bout the false goddess bitch or not?”
A commotion outside the window drew the older man’s attention before the younger man could answer. They turned their heads to see a crowd of people rushing past, some yelling, others screaming, several being carried or pulled along against their will.
Hashel looked to Ondromead as the serving maid approached with two plates of steaming sausages and flat fried eggs. Ondromead frowned as he looked at the food and then out the window, finally bringing his eyes to rest on Hashel, still petting the cat.
“Our purpose calls.” He pulled a cloth from his leather satchel on the bench beside him and gathered up the sausages from the plates. Hashel snatched the fried egg from his plate, stuffing it in his mouth in large, lip-burning bites. Ondromead took a few coins from the purse and placed them on the table before slinging the strap of the bag over his head and standing up. “Ready?”
Hashel nodded and stood, the cat still cradled in his arms.
“That cat may not belong with you.” Ondromead stroked the cat’s head with his finger. “Best to let her choose her own path.”
Hashel sighed and put Medra on the floor. He would like to have a cat again, but Ondromead had a point. The cat might belong to the serving maid. Its name might not even be Medra. The cat followed them to the door and watched them as they stepped out to witness the mob of people yelling in the street. Hashel looked back to see the cat skitter out of the way as the two men from the other table stumbled through the doorway.
Hashel lost sight of the cat as he and Ondromead pushed along the edge of the crowd. He reached up and took the old man’s hand, knowing how easy it would be to get separated in the crush of people. The thought terrified him, the egg in his stomach feeling like it might crawl back up his throat.
Ondromead pulled him up the side of the street, staying close to the buildings to avoid the angry faces in the center of the crowd. Hashel did not stand tall enough to see where the mob headed, but he heard plenty of voices among the townspeople to make a guess.
“Heretics.”
“Gettin’ what they deserve.”
“Should of put ’em in the square long ago.”
The press of people thinned out as the crowd passed into a wider space between the streets, likely the town square. Ondromead tugged them to the side, around the edge of the dirt-packed space. Hashel still could not see what the people moved toward, even though he could tell by the direction that the crowd faced the town temple. Ondromead stopped, holding his free hand above his eyes to shield them from the morning sun. Hashel glanced around, spotted what he needed, and disengaged from Ondromead’s hand.
Hashel moved back through the throng of people toward an unattended wagon. He climbed the spokes of the large wooden wheels and flipped his legs over sideboards. He caught Ondromead’s eye as the old man pushed through the people to stand nearby. Hashel jumped atop a barrel in the back of the wagon and turned to face the town square.
The square resembled more of a rectangle, stretching back from the mouth of the temple at the far end. The twin spires of the Tot Gioth temple, one for Mother Creator and one for Father Destroyer, rose above the temple body in stones of red and white. A simple wooden scaffold sat before the wide stone arches of the temple entrance. Branches of fallen trees piled the space beneath the framework, five thick posts rising up at regular intervals between the roughhewn planks. An iron brazier stood at the edge of the platform, a fire of short logs burning in its metal arms.
“A sad day to follow a soft bed.” Ondromead climbed up into the wagon to join Hashel at his post. He pulled the black book from his satchel, taking out the bottomless inkwell and always-sharp quill.
Hashel looked from Ondromead to the pyre of wood before the temple. A commotion crested and flowed like a wave, rolling from the front to the back of the crowd. He tried to make sense of the many voices repeating the same words.
“What?”
“They found ’em.”
Hashel saw several men with drawn swords push five people through the space behind the scaffold and the temple, herding them toward the pyre posts. Although tied at the hands, a man, woman, and a girl who looked to be about fifteen clung together, sobbing. The man, the father, tried to shield the wife and daughter from the rocks and potatoes and other items cast at them by the crowd. The two other prisoners, a man in his twenties and another in his late fifties, held their hands above their faces as the sword-bearing guards pushed them forward.
Hashel’s eyes followed the man, wife, and daughter as the guards pushed them onward, stumbling toward their deaths. The air froze in his lungs, his lip quivering as his hands shook.
“You should not watch.” Ondromead patted his shoulder gently. “I have seen far too many of these star-goddess believers burned as heretics. It will do you no good to witness this.”
Hashel could not take his eyes from the family tripping over their feet as the guards forced them to the pyre, ducking projectiles from the angry townspeople along the way. The sight of the three brough
t the memories he had so deeply buried reaching up to grasp at his heart and pull him down into darkness. He had seen them, but not seen them. Known them, but not known them. Loved them, but not loved them. He had watched them die and would watch them die again if nothing could be done.
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THE TEMPLE
RAEDALUS
“THERE MUST be assurances.” The man, Kai-Mando, crossed his fingers on the distended pot of his belly and leaned back in his leather-cushioned chair. His narrow face, framed by a close-trimmed beard, set an odd contrast with the arching dome of his stomach. “Without assurances, we cannot weigh the risk of a transaction. When a captain comes to us and asks for money to buy a ship, we have the vessel as assurance if he cannot repay the debt as agreed.”
“The ships we buy will be the assurance.” Raedalus frowned, repeating words he had spoken several times to similar men. The banker spoke a Tanjii dialect of the Shen language that often left Raedalus struggling to follow the conversation. He glanced to the Mother Shepherd and saw the look of great concentration on her face as she tried to interpret the banker’s words.
“In a normal transaction, indeed.” Kai-Mando patted his stomach. “We can gauge and calculate the risk of a ship lost at sea. We can work this into the price we charge. The adjustment on the debt. A captain who sails up and down the coast will pay less atop the loan than one who sails for the Sun Realm to trade with the talking snakes.” Kai-Mando grimaced at the mention of creatures he clearly found disturbing. “We can add no numbers to calculate the risk of sailing to the Forbidden Realm. None who go return. If our coins purchase your ships, and your ships do not return, we have lost our coin and have no assurance to balance that loss. No adjustment is high enough to assuage that risk.”
The Dragon Star (Realms of Shadow and Grace: Volume 1) Page 35