by Erik A Otto
The Day’s Wake
Erik A. Otto
Contents
Map
The Day’s Wake
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
About Book 3
Also by Erik A. Otto
About the Author
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Day’s Wake
Book 2 - Tale of Infidels
Rev 1 - May 1, 2019
© 2019 Sagis Press
Cover design by Karolis Zukas.
All Rights Reserved
Created with Vellum
Map
The Day’s Wake
Tale of Infidels - Book 2
“On the 53rd day of the 717th year of the Age of the Crossing, the world shall turn. Many will fall to the sky. Matteo will welcome only those with piety into his embrace, while others shall be purged. For those that remain earthbound, the lesson shall be clear to both pious and impious: do not underestimate Matteo’s wrath.”
The Day of Ascendancy. From The Shepherd’s Prophecies, Book of Canons, page 341.
Chapter 1
The Good Son
There was a loud crash as the tumble of limbs that was Myron and Clyve rolled across the black steer rug into the dresser. The red planter wobbled on the top precariously for an instant until Baldric jumped up from his chair to steady it with his hand.
Baldric looked down at the twins with a furrowed brow. “I think that’s enough roughhousing for today,” he said. They panted from their exertions, both of them managing to don the same mischievous smile. Clyve then shrugged and stood up. He dusted off a piece of lint while Myron moved to sit against the window. Neither showed any sign of contrition.
Such were his irreverent brothers.
Baldric knew his intervention might backfire. Against each other they could at least be contained. Otherwise, their dubious fraternizing might inflict him and his brothers—or even their mother and father.
Radley entered the room. His head was shaven bare from the crown to the front, and he was wearing a somber black tunic befitting his new apprentice position. His clothing was a striking contrast to Baldric’s more festive ruffled riding shirt and sport leggings. It also clashed with the light sweaters and rough spun-woollen pants of the twins. Myron and Clyve shared a look and Baldric knew that some form of taunting lay in store for Radley, whether it be for his altered appearance, his new appointment, or for no reason whatsoever.
It would be best to intervene before any ploy could be hatched. “Radley, how are you?” Baldric asked. “I should say again that it’s a welcome surprise to have you back at the estate, especially when you could have stayed at the temple. We will do all we can to make your stay comfortable and without hassle.” Baldric cast a sharp look of warning at the twins as he spoke.
Many said Radley was a spitting image of Baldric, even though he was half a head shorter. He did have the same broad, proud face. But Baldric wore his hair shoulder-length and maintained a tight beard. It contrasted starkly with Radley’s shaven head and face, and so the similarities had become much more difficult to appreciate. Add to that the gray bags born of sleepless nights hanging from Radley’s eyes, and one could hardly tell he was a Bronté at all.
Radley eventually conjured up a response. “No offense, Brother, but it’s not your courtesy that will bring me comfort, but prayer and the end of this day. Forgive my candor.”
Baldric grabbed him firmly by the bicep. “Candor never requires forgiveness. And I know the burden that the Day has placed on you—on all of us. Please, have a seat. Why don’t you rest and recuperate. It’s in Matteo’s hands now.”
Radley nodded solemnly, but he looked unconvinced by Baldric’s assurances. He neglected the chair Baldric offered and stared outside the sunroom, sweeping left to right to review the preparations for the Day one more time. Baldric stood next to him and followed his eyes.
The twine mooring cables were littered about the property, crossing and tangling and reaching into the distance. They had only six hearthstones on the estate, but with the help of the local surveyor they had generated a mooring plan approved by the municipality. The survey wasn’t required by law, but Father wanted it done properly, of course.
The Innisbray residence was too far away, but one could see the mooring cables of the Harpers if one squinted. They looked genuine enough, with the characteristic blue hues of the approved mooring twine. Although when Baldric had spoken with Carla Harper she’d cited the wrong tension requirements. She even acknowledged they sought out a discount mooring line dealer. The Harpers often smiled a hollow smile whenever the prophecies were spoken. Baldric could tell they had no heart for the diligence required for proper mooring.
Radley reached the rightmost edge of his scan and began back to his left. There wasn’t much else to see, as far as Baldric was concerned. Aside from the mooring lines, the pasture of the Bronté estate undulated in front of them, punctuated by the occasional fence line, and softened by the emerald-green grass. All the Bronté animals were tied up in the barn, and it looked to be the same for the Innisbray and Harper’s estates on the horizon.
It could be that Baldric didn’t know what to look for. Maybe the Sandaliers taught Radley to look for hidden concerns on the Day that commonfolk couldn’t see?
Eventually Baldric tired of standing with his brother. He made for the kitchen to see how Mother was faring.
Baldric’s mother was a sturdy woman with a permanently flushed face. She also had a tireless work ethic; a mandatory requirement in caring for five sons. She cooked energetically, moving between chopping and peeling and stirring boiling pots on their two stoves.
She smiled when she saw him. “Hello, Baldric. Are you enjoying your brothers’ company?”
It was the first time they’d all been together in two years, and Baldric could see how happy it made her. Unlike Radley, she didn’t seem worried about the Day. Maybe she didn’t give the prophecy much credence. Yes, she would speak cautiously of it and put on a concerned front when asked, as everyone did. Either way, if the Day made her five sons come together for a home-cooked meal in wartime, it was something Mom would support.
“I am, Mom, but Darian hasn’t joined us from his room. I’m sure he will soon, though. Where’s Father?”
“He’s in his study. Will you be a dear and collect him and your brothers? We can sit down in a few minutes.”
“Sure, Mom.” Baldric nodded and walked down the steps, past the bedrooms to the study. The door was open. Father was brooding over a stack of papers at his desk under the veiny skylight, an image Baldric had seen often over the course of his lifetime. Father’s oily black hair shone and grey eyes twinkled when he looked up.
“Dinner’s ready, Father.”
Father sat back, his head in his hands, as if finishing a thought. Apparently he was actually accessing an old one. “Have you s
poken with Radley yet?”
Father had asked him not once but twice to have a heart-to-heart talk with Radley. He was concerned about his increasing obsession with the faith and where his beliefs might lead him. He’d said Radley wouldn’t open up to him, but he might open up to Baldric. Yes, Baldric would talk with him, but Radley had been home less than a day. It wouldn’t be tactful to confront him yet, never mind finding the time.
But this was Bartholomew Bronté, and when he wanted something done, he wanted it done yesterday.
“Sorry Father, I haven’t found the right opportunity. Perhaps tomorrow after he’s rested? It is the Day, as you know. I’m sure his head is elsewhere.”
His father considered the response, then nodded. He would never say that Baldric was right. No, if Baldric was right, a nod was the best he could expect.
Father gathered his dinner jacket and walked past Baldric into the kitchen. There he paused to assess the boiling pots cooking on the stove. Baldric followed.
Baldric heard some laughter, so he figured he’d better check on his brothers. He made his way past his parents into the sunroom again.
The cacophony he’d heard was generated by Myron, who was laughing hysterically. It was surely fueled by some remark Clyve had made. Clyve’s face was indeed deadpan, and cast in the direction of Radley. Radley stood with his back to the window, facing the twins, his hands crossed in front of him. It was an awkward pose of forced pacifism Baldric had often seen in Radley.
Darian had entered the room and sat meekly in the most distant corner, his legs pulled to his chest. He looked gaunt and intense, his eyes meeting Baldric’s with a slow nod. There was a dark patch of skin on his face, which could have been a bruise. Darian had always been aloof, but since his arrival from the north, he seemed even more so. He hadn’t had any of his loud mimicry outbursts, but he was muttering a lot under his breath. He also seemed to limp about the house, as if he might have a sprained ankle.
Baldric was curious about what had happened to Darian in the north. There were stories of much chaos and bloodshed, but Darian was only a league cadet until recently—he probably saw little of that. Still, Darian’s look seemed heavier to Baldric. Baldric made a mental note to speak with him, but first Radley.
From Clyve’s disposition, Baldric surmised he was in the middle of laying into Radley with one of his incendiary arguments. “So, Your Holiness,” Clyve said. “Isn’t it true that your shoeless heroes write these books? I have to admit, whichever priest wrote it had a good sense of humor. I might even read the Canons if they were all about absurd prophecies like this one.”
Radley responded soberly. “The Sandaliers rarely create new works to add to the Book. Rather the Book of Canons versions are copied with great precision from the original works of the Shepherd so they can be preserved and disseminated. We have—or I should say used to have—Canonical texts from over three hundred years ago in Marsaya, and they all speak of the prophecy. I’m sure we have preserved some in Thelos as well.”
“I don’t know much about the Canons, but they also speak of gargoyles and the Rim of Fire and Red Rains, don’t they? Do you know anyone who’s seen any of these things?”
“We are blessed to live in a righteous time. The scourge of the gargoyles has been eradicated by the Ma—”
“Oh, brother, you’re right,” Clyve cut him off, adopting a dramatic air. “I should have more faith. But in all seriousness, when you become one of our divine servants, can you write a prophecy about Freckles coming back to life? I miss him. It should be well received because he was very pious. Or at least he peed a lot. That’s piety, right? I think maybe even a few times right where you’re standing.” Myron cackled again. Radley became quiet. His body was stiff with tension.
Baldric hoped Radley understood the pointlessness of debating. It wouldn’t do any good to get confrontational. Unfortunately, he did something worse. “I’m sorry for Freckles,” Radley said after a pause. “He has been embraced by Matteo.”
Radley was being sincere, but it made him seem detached from reality. His painfully religious response broke Clyve’s deadpan look, forcing him to belch out a laugh as Myron’s cackles reached an even higher pitch. Myron actually rolled out of his chair onto his side.
Baldric knew he needed to stop the debate from escalating further, but he couldn’t think of what to say.
And perhaps he was already too late. Radley’s face had gone from pasty to flushed, the gray bags under his eyes twinged in blue. Every man had his breaking point, and Clyve and Myron were quite capable of finding it. “Clyve, you would be well served by more prayer and study,” Radley said. “I will not argue with ignorance. The reality is that if you had read the Canons and lived by them, Freckles may not have perished from your…torment and neglect.”
Myron said “ouuuuu…” while Clyve jumped out of his chair. He pointed wistfully at Radley and said, “I had nothing to do with Freckles dying, you idiot. Dogs die. People die. There’s nothing more to it. Listen, Radley. Your Canons are for fools. You’re wasting your time. You know what, I’ll show you what I think of your Canons.” And he abruptly made for the exterior door.
The move surprised Baldric. Before he knew it, Clyve was outside, running into the field and screaming, “Oh no, look at me, I’m falling into the sky because it says so in an old book with five-hundred-year-old piss stains on it.”
Myron laughed, but Radley and even Darian had looks of horror on their faces.
Baldric had to act fast.
“Clyve, come back here!” Baldric yelled as he vaulted through the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Darian jump out of his chair to follow.
Clyve wasn’t fast on his feet. He knew he would be caught, but he made a show of it anyway, darting this way and that, spouting out blasphemous remarks until Baldric took him at the knees and Darian piled on to keep him down. Baldric put him in a headlock and pulled him back along the grass toward the sunroom. Clyve was still laughing and spouting his rhetoric as he was dragged in. “Baldric, my savior! Without you I would be a blood stain on Matteo’s moon!”
Myron was finally trying to quell his delight, but he still snickered.
It wasn’t until they re-entered the sunroom that Clyve’s grin melted away and Myron’s laughing abruptly ended. It was for good reason; Father had entered the room. He was watching them return, his face flushed with anger.
Baldric’s face also felt hot. As eldest he had a responsibility for his brothers. He could also be made party to Father’s wrath.
Baldric reckoned that the reunion dinner wasn’t what mother was hoping for. It began in silence, with Father’s face still accumulating energy and everyone else waiting for the explosion. The five boys ate solemnly, mostly looking down. Clyve and Myron had the good sense to be quiet for a change. They knew if they exchanged a giggle, a smile, or even a stray look, the hurricane that was Bartholomew Bronté would be on top of them in an instant.
It wasn’t until several minutes into the meal that Father spoke.
“A disgrace.” He said it calmly at first, then pounded his hand on the table and roared, “A disgrace!”
Father wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. He was visibly trying to restrain himself. “Your behavior sickens me. Do you think all of this comes through capricious games, laughter, and blasphemy?” He gestured to the room around them.
Baldric looked down, but still kept his eyes up enough to see around the table. Something was gleaming in Clyve’s eyes. He was too intoxicated by Myron’s encouraging laughter. Baldric knew he was about to say something stupid.
And so he did. “Father, with all due respect, you have done well for us and our family, and for that I’m grateful. But why do we need to heed to this nonsense? I mean, does anyone here, besides poor brainwashed Radley, really think that the world is actually going to turn upside down today. It’s so patently ridiculous. You’re respected and wealthy, so why do you have to play along like a puppet?” Baldric was sure
Clyve thought his words were witty and diplomatic. In truth, it might not have been that bad, until he said “puppet.”
Father steamed. “In my house we follow my rules, and my rules are that we follow the tenets of the Thelonian faith. You must know that if I don’t have a surveyor help us moor the estate people will be less likely to buy our salt, leather and milk. This is something else, though, something more contemptuous and stupid. Your little stunt could have been seen by the Harpers or the Innisbrays. What do you think they will say about a Bronté running around outside on the Day of Ascendancy? Will they say my sons are careless—or perhaps that we are all naustics? There could be consequences for these actions, and serious ones, Clyve. Do you want them to damn us to the Fringe? Is that what you want?” He pointed in the direction of the estate of the Innisbrays, a longtime nemesis of his father. “This is how your enemies plant seeds, Clyve. Seeds that will grow into a bounty of lies and deceit that discredit our name.”
Unbelievably, Clyve still did not relent. “I’m sorry, Father. I just don’t believe—”
“Believe this!” Father boomed, becoming more and more insensed. “Believe that in my house those of my name follow my rules. So are you or are you not my son? I’m beginning to have difficulty believing it, nor am I sure you are deserving of it. You sit here at my table as my son, but you speak like an ignorant weasel and disgrace our name. Yes, I’m having trouble telling whether you came from my seed or if you were switched at birth with the house vermin.” He sighed for a moment, then continued, “As such, I’m removing half your trust. I don’t like giving crumbs to weasels.”
