“That is a sad tale,” Theel said. “Is there a cure for him?”
“I don’t know,” Hoster stated. “Probably not. Either way, we have to pound the stones. There’s the king’s work to be earned.”
“Have you thought about mixing up a potion that might help him?” Theel asked.
Hoster shook his head sadly. “I know every potion that can be brewed through common methods,” he explained. “There is no recipe to cure the log in his brain. But he still believes. He never gives up.”
“Perhaps there is something admirable about his faith,” Theel suggested.
Hoster belched loudly. “No there isn’t. He’s a lumberhead.”
“Some of us struggle with belief,” Theel retorted. “He does not. He has no fear of faith.”
“There is nothing admirable about his delusions,” Hoster insisted. “That lumberhead sows stupid and reaps calamity.”
“That’s one way of seeing it.”
“Rasm sputtered and blubbered for the Keeper to fix that fat tongue of his.” Hoster took another drink. “But the Keeper told Rasm no one could help him but the Blessed Soul of Man.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” Hoster said. “Or God himself. But God is harder to find. I don’t figure we’ll see the Lord himself walking these roads, looking to help out blubbering jackholes with broken words. So Rasm has decided to settle for the Blessed Soul of Man.”
“This is why Rasm is looking for the Blessed Soul?”
Hoster nodded. “That is why. The Keeper told Rasm only the Blessed Soul could fix his tongue and restore his magic.”
“Why would the Keeper say that?” Theel wondered aloud.
“The pigeon-shitting was out of control,” Hoster said. “The Keeper’s patience was spent. It was his way of telling Rasm how hopeless he is, so far gone that only God in heaven could help him. Or God’s own anointed savior, the boy of the prophecy.”
“The Keeper was only speaking in anger,” Theel suggested. “But Rasm took him seriously?”
“Yes, he did. Bless his simple brain,” Hoster said. “We’re out here pounding the stones, scratching out a living by mixing potions and peddling booze. But Rasm thinks we’re looking for the Blessed Soul.”
“That is very sad,” Theel said.
“You speak truth,” Hoster said. “Rasm thinks the impossible is going to happen. He thinks some morning he’s going to go for a squat behind a bush and find the Blessed Soul hiding there. My poor, sweet, thick-headed boy.”
“What do you think of that?”
Hoster shrugged. “The boy is going to think what he wants. It don’t matter what I tell him.”
“Have you tried to convince him otherwise?”
Hoster sighed and shook his head. “No, I haven’t, and I don’t see why I should. Let him dream, I say. It gives him hope.”
“Do you believe?” Theel asked.
Hoster took another drink. “I believe I am plenty drunk.”
“Do you think the Blessed Soul will come to us as the prophecy states?” Theel asked.
“I don’t know when or where.” Hoster nodded. “But I believe he will come.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why do you have faith?” Theel asked. “Tell me.”
“Look, I’m not saying I expect the Blessed Soul to pop out of the bushes and jump into my cart,” Hoster stated. “No one knows when and where he’ll come. And even if it happens in my lifetime, I’m not fool enough to think he will reveal himself to a pair of jackholes like me and Rasm. But that don’t mean I can’t have faith.”
“What have you seen that gives you faith?” Theel asked.
“A great many things,” Hoster explained. “But seeing things isn’t the point. I don’t need to find the Blessed Soul. He’s already found me.”
“Tell me more.”
“Do you want to hear my life story?” Hoster asked. “Do you want to listen to the drunken spirit trader puke his guts out? I can do that for you. I may not be drunk enough yet, but I could be shortly. All it takes is a few more pulls of this awful stuff.”
“Is that all it takes?” Theel asked.
“That’s finished,” Hoster said, throwing the bottle over his shoulder. “Thank the heavens I keep extra pig swill for occasions such as this. Can’t stand the stuff.”
“Don’t sicken yourself for my sake,” Theel said.
“My tale begins years ago, when I was kicking around the Outlands, mixing brews for the soldiers of House Stormdell,” Hoster said, waving his arms theatrically. “Those were better times, I say, before Rasm was born.”
“What happened?” Theel asked.
“This is a very compelling tale, full of twists and turns and layers of new ants, so listen closely,” Hoster said.
“Layers of what?” Theel asked.
“New ants.”
“Nuance?”
“Shut up. Listen close, now,” Hoster whispered. “Here is my story.”
“I’m listening.”
“Okay. Listen close, now.”
“Yes?”
“Here it is,” Hoster said. “I met a priest. He convinced me.”
“That’s it?”
“A very compelling tale, is it not?” Hoster said.
“It may not be as compelling as you think,” Theel offered.
“It’s enough for me,” Hoster said. “But that isn’t all. I got other reasons to think I’m right.”
“Reasons other than the words of a very persuasive priest?” Theel asked.
“The Blessed Soul is real like a headache is real,” Hoster said. “I have a pain, so I know my head hurts. But you don’t know what I feel inside me. You don’t have a pain so you don’t understand.”
“Did the priest give you a headache?”
“No.” Hoster looked confused for a moment. “You’re not listening. The Blessed Soul is inside me. I can feel God’s promise in my heart.”
“What about the rest of us who don’t feel anything in our hearts?”
“You don’t display much faith for a Squire of the King’s Cross,” Hoster retorted. “Wasn’t this whole prophecy business cooked up by happy jackholes like you?”
“Yes, I am a squire. I was raised to believe in the prophecy,” Theel answered. “But my faith fails me. I cannot deny what my eyes and ears tell me.”
“Neither can I,” Hoster countered. “I may be a drunken fool, but I’ve seen and heard things too; things you haven’t. I believe the prophecy is true and the revelation of the Blessed Soul is coming.”
“How could a wandering drunk know these things?”
“Perhaps wandering drunks see more of the world than squires who spend their lives swinging practice swords behind castle walls,” Hoster said. “What of your father, the knight? Didn’t he tell you anything about the Blessed Soul?”
Theel stared at the ground. “Yes, he did. He said much. Perhaps too much.”
“Too much?” Hoster said. “I don’t understand.”
“He revealed the reasons he held faith; reasons I cannot accept,” Theel explained.
“Why not?”
“My heart wants to believe,” Theel said. “But I cannot. Not after what I’ve seen.”
“That is a shame,” Hoster said.
“I’m not challenging you out of disrespect. I mean to understand,” Theel explained. “I don’t pity men of faith. I envy them.”
“It’s plain as day you struggle with doubt of all kinds,” Hoster said. “I saw it on your face the day we met.”
“What other reasons do you have?”
“For what?”
“For your faith in the prophecy.”
“Oh, yeah,” Hoster said. “You know, I may need to crack another bottle of pig swill to find the courage to finish this tale.”
“I think it’s possible you’ve already had too much.”
“Go father your own children,” Hoster said, digging in his
cart. “I already have enough unwanted opinions in my life. Oh, here’s a big bottle of the worst poison there is!”
Theel smiled. “Does your drunkenness give you the courage to believe?”
“Oh shut up, you book-learned asswipe,” Hoster barked. “I’m not the only one, you know. Some very smart folks believe as I do.”
“Who do you mean?” Theel asked.
“I know the Keeper of the Craft believes in the prophecy,” Hoster answered, tossing back a swallow.
“How do you know that?” Theel asked. “Did Rasm say it in his sleep?”
“I spent some time in the Hall of Seven Swords when Rasm was spinning his magics with the Keeper,” Hoster said. “I mixed brews for some important folks, like wizards. Some of them were close to the Keeper. Some were close to the king himself. You’d be surprised how many leaks you can poke in a normally tight-lipped dandy if you grease him enough.”
“You fed wizards liquor to learn their secrets?”
Hoster smiled. “Yes I did.”
“You’re proud of that?”
Hoster nodded, still smiling. “I didn’t serve them anything I wouldn’t drink myself.”
“What did you learn from those you…greased?”
“Oh, you are a sly one!” Hoster said, poking his finger into Theel’s face. “Trying to trick me into spilling my guts, eh? That won’t happen. This stupid, drunken spirit trader isn’t quite stupid enough, or drunk enough, to fall for your tricks!”
“What tricks?”
“You are trying to squeeze privileged information from me,” Hoster said. “It is a tale sacred to the foundations of our fair Seven Kingdoms. You can’t pry a word of it from me so don’t even try.”
“What happened?”
“Okay, damn it. You broke my will to resist,” Hoster said. “Listen closely, because I’m only going to say this once. You know what a knight’s quest is?”
“Of course I do,” Theel stated.
“What?” Hoster asked.
“I know what a knight’s quest is,” Theel repeated.
“I find it odd that you don’t know,” Hoster said. “Seems you should know what a knight’s quest is since you are currently pursuing a knight’s quest for your Warrior Baptism.”
“I know what it is.”
“Since you are such an ignorant person, I will inform you,” Hoster said. “A knight’s quest is a special mission assigned by the king that a knight must perform on pain of death. He must succeed or die trying.”
“That’s very interesting,” Theel said. “What does this have to do with—”
“Shut up and listen,” Hoster whispered loudly. “The king wanted to send one of his soldiers on a knight’s quest. The problem is, all the best knights are off in the east fighting the Iatan, so the Keeper of the Craft picked a squire instead.”
“What are you telling me?”
“The Keeper of the Craft sent a squire to look for the Blessed Soul.”
Hoster grinned with every one of his teeth. He looked at Theel with the pride of someone who had just conveyed a very juicy morsel of gossip. But Theel didn’t say anything, only stared back at the spirit trader.
“This isn’t just any squire they found laying in a ditch,” Hoster whispered. “He has some fruity mystical powers of some kind. They say he can see things that aren’t really there. He can see the past and the future. The Keeper wants him to use this ability to learn the truth of the prophecy. This squire—whoever he is—is supposed to find out when the Blessed Soul is coming, and where he will appear.”
Theel was stone-faced. “You pried this information from a drunken wizard?”
“Old Hoster knows his business. That wizard was pounding the scatter hammer!” the spirit trader said triumphantly. “He told me the Keeper has sent a squire on a knight’s quest to find the Blessed Soul. Do you know what that means?”
“I don’t,” Theel said. “Tell me.”
“It means the Keeper of the Craft believes the prophecy is real, and so did the king,” Hoster said. “They are more knowledgeable men than I, that is for certain. And if learned men such as they believe, then this old, drunken spirit trader has no reason to doubt.”
“I suppose not.”
“But don’t tell anyone, because it’s a secret,” Hoster slurred. “No one is supposed to know about this squire and his quest, or his abilities. Curse your bones if you breathe a word of it to another soul.”
“I promise I won’t say a word.”
“About what?” Hoster asked.
“The squire,” Theel answered. “The Blessed Soul.”
Hoster rocked back and forth, blinking his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.”
“Wait a moment. I’m thinking about something important here.” Hoster’s features showed he was working out a complex theory. “The Keeper sent a squire to search for the Blessed Soul.”
“Yes?”
“So he’s a squire, and you’re a squire,” Hoster said.
“And?”
“He’s on a knight’s quest, and you are on a knight’s quest,” Hoster added.
“So?”
“He’s not you, is he?” Hoster asked. “Is he you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you him?” Hoster looked at Theel with suspicion. “You been seeing any fancy mystical visions of late? Do you see a fat, drunken spirit trader stumbling upon enormous wealth and retiring to live on an island with two dozen naked women, without Rasm?”
“No, I don’t see that.”
“Do you know what I did yesterday? Do you know what I’ll do tomorrow?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I don’t believe you,” Hoster stated. “What’s the first thing I said this morning when I woke up?”
“You called Rasm a lumberhead,” Theel guessed.
Hoster’s eyes widened. “How did you know that? Truly you are clairvoyant!”
“Now I know you’ve had too much liquor,” Theel said.
“Too much? I have not yet begun!” Hoster blubbered. “I am the true champion of taverns across these Seven Kingdoms, both greater and lesser!”
“Yes, you are,” Theel said. “I think it’s time you bedded down for the night.”
“Listen to me, you damned fool! I’m not done talking yet,” Hoster protested. “The Keeper knows the time is coming. He saw it in the stars, years ago. Something about the constellations. That’s why he sent this squire with the magic nose to sniff around for the Blessed Soul.”
“I know,” Theel said.
“No, you don’t,” Hoster said. “It’s a secret only drunken wizards and spirit traders know.”
“I think you need to put your bottle down and find some slumber.”
“Slumber is for the weak-minded, and those with undisciplined stomachs,” Hoster declared. “You will soon learn I am capable of amazing feats of drunkenness!”
“I’ve learned that already,” Theel said. “Let me help you back to the fire.”
“I don’t need your help. Actually, I think I do. Get your hands off me. You know my son, Rasm? He’s a lumberhead. He’s got a real log in his brain. Where the hell are my mules? Holy scatter balls. What time is it? I’m drunk.”
Hoster slowly began to fall backward, his knees and back straight as a board, like the trunk of a falling tree. But Theel grabbed him by the tunic, took the bottle from his hand, and lifted the old spirit trader onto his shoulders.
“I’ll take the next watch,” Theel grunted as he carried Hoster toward the fire.
“You are very strong,” the spirit trader blubbered. “You know how I know that? It’s because I am a…I have a…fat ass.”
Theel laughed. “Don’t judge yourself so harshly.”
“Do you mind if I puke on you?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“I said that in jest,” Hoster slurred. “I don’t vomit. I have an iron-forged stomach, earned through years of nightly ritual
istic training.”
“It’s good to see your efforts have born fruit.”
“My son is an idiot.”
“He’s not the only one.”
“I love him,” Hoster blubbered. “I’d die for him. Don’t tell him I said that.”
“I won’t,” Theel promised.
“Do you mind if I puke on you anyway?”
Theel sighed. “If you must.”
Reunion
Theel expected a quiet camp the following morning, with the sounds of the wind in the trees, some birds chirping, and maybe the snores of a spirit trader sleeping away the previous night’s drunkenness. He was surprised to learn he was the last one to waken. When he sat up, he could see Hoster already had the camp cleaned, the cart loaded, and was in the process of hitching his mules.
Theel smelled stewed meat and pipe smoke. He looked to his left and saw his sister standing nearby. Yenia was awake, healthy, and smiling. She also had Theel’s pipe between her teeth.
“Golden Fetch,” she said, her eyes bright and mischievous as smoke curled between her lips.
“Yenia!”
“We’ve all broken our fasts,” she said, holding a wooden plate. “I saved you some stew.”
Theel climbed to his feet and wrapped his sister in his arms, lifting her off her feet.
“You are alive,” he gasped. “You are well!”
“I am,” Yenia grunted into his chest. “Don’t make me spill my pipe. Or your breakfast.”
“Apologies,” Theel said, setting her down. “What are you doing in my leaf pouch?”
Yenia smiled again. “Stealing from you.”
Theel couldn’t stop himself from smiling at his sister. Yenia looked so healthy and happy. It was only four days ago she was nearly dead from fever. It was only four days ago they were both nearly dead from the knives and spears and arrows of their enemies. But they survived it, against all odds. After so much trouble at the start of their journey, it appeared the winds of fortune had finally shifted in the siblings’ favor.
“We made it, sister.” Theel couldn’t stifle the exuberance in his voice. “We made it!”
Yenia nodded. “We escaped from the city. We escaped from the Kiles. We escaped from the Iatan. I told you to have faith. I told you the Lord would deliver us from our trials.”
Warrior Baptism Chapter 3 Page 8
