“Morning.” Ard tugged at the bottom of his vest. He hadn’t worn his gun belt and Rollers, of course. It would be quite inappropriate to wear such weapons into this holy edifice. Instead, he had a dagger in each boot and a short-barreled Singler snugged tightly inside his vest.
“What calls you to the Mooring, Wayfarist?” asked the Isless.
Ard didn’t bother to correct her. He was no more a Wayfarist than she was a Trothian Agrodite. “I’m here to meet with Isle Halavend,” he explained. “He’s expecting me in Cove Twenty-Three.”
The Isless gestured for him to follow her back down the stairs. Ard moved around the glass box with its illuminated egg.
“Isle Halavend is a wise Compass,” she said as they descended the long flight of stone steps. “He’s been with the Islehood a very long time. He will provide you with excellent guidance.”
“I’m sure he will,” Ard replied with a half grin.
It was much darker at the bottom of the stairs. A few Light Grit detonations provided a soft glow, but most of the illumination was from the colored skylights set high overhead.
Ard stepped off the bottom step and onto a floating wooden dock, where another young Isle was waiting for him, long wooden pole in hand.
Every Mooring was like this, although the one in Beripent was easily the largest. The building was flooded after construction, diverting seawater to flow gently along the floor of the Mooring. At its deepest, the water was probably only three or four feet. Ard could even see the bottom in spots where direct light glinted through the skylights to touch the glassy water.
“The Homeland calls him to Isle Halavend,” said the Isless to the young man. The other Isle nodded, leading Ard from the floating dock to a tethered raft. The Isle released the rope and dipped his pole into the water.
Pushing along the bottom, he directed the raft into the middle of the indoor canal. Built into the walls on both sides were small rooms—coves, as they were called. Each cove had a small floating dock to allow access to the wooden door.
“Have you been to the Mooring before?” asked the poling Isle.
Ard nodded. “It’s been a while.”
“The Homeland is grateful for your visit.”
They passed another raft returning to the main dock, an aging Isless poling a man and woman in common citizen clothing.
“How did you meet Isle Halavend?” Ard’s Isle asked. “Did the wind guide him to you?” It was common practice for the Isles to wander the city, approaching homes to invite Wayfarists to visit the Mooring for further spiritual guidance. In a way, wasn’t that what Isle Halavend had done?
“Something like that,” Ard answered, but his attention had turned to something in the middle of the waterway. It was a wrought iron fire pit, standing just above the water’s surface. Although Ard couldn’t see the pedestal holding it upright, he knew the large bowl must have been anchored into the Mooring floor.
“Have you seen it lit?” asked the Isle, when he noticed Ard’s attention on the fire pit.
“The Holy Torch?” he answered. “No.”
They were floating past it now, and Ard could see a few blackened logs resting in the bottom of the heavy bowl. It looked like it was designed for the ashes and embers to fall through the iron slats into the waterway.
“I would encourage you to join us next cycle during the Passing,” said the Isle. “Any additional prayers help to strengthen the Torch’s protective power.”
Ard remembered his parents going to see the Holy Torch when he was young. They described the waterway full of rafts, with every Holy Isle in attendance along with hundreds of Wayfarist citizens that came and went to offer a prayer of thanks to the Homeland.
It was hard to accept that some little fire in that iron brazier kept all mankind safe from Moonsickness. Halavend probably believed it. The young Isle poling his raft certainly believed it. Sparks, even Ard’s parents had always believed it unquestioningly.
There had to be something to it. There was a Holy Torch in every Mooring in the Greater Chain, and the Islehood had been lighting them for centuries—from the time the Landers first arrived on these islands. The Torch was a beacon to the Homeland. A lighthouse to attract its holy protection.
Espar, Strind, Dronodan, and Talumon had never been touched by Moonsickness. Even the little Trothian islets were protected, nestled safely between the larger islands of the Greater Chain.
Pekal was the only real danger. Poor souls who spent a Moon Passing on that mountainous island inevitably contracted the sickness. It made sense. There was no Mooring on Pekal. No Holy Torch. Centuries back, the Islehood had declared the island impure and unfit for such a sacred edifice.
The Holy Torch was the simplest explanation—that the Homeland’s power protected them—but it required faith. There were other, more scientific theories behind the cause of Moonsickness. Raek liked to talk about them, but Ard only ever listened with half an ear. Wayfarism denounced such theories, of course.
Ard wasn’t sure what to believe, and he didn’t waste a lot of time thinking about it. Ard had survived a Moon Passing every thirty days of his life and was yet to wake up blind, mute, and raging with violent madness.
Now past the empty brazier, the Isle dug his pole deep, crossing the canal until they bumped against a floating dock.
Ard stepped off the raft, thanking the Isle that had brought him. Should he tip the man for his service? Before Ard could dig an Ashlit from his pocket, the Isle had pushed his raft back into the open canal.
Ard stood on the dock for a moment. There was a bell mounted beside the cove door, but Ard decided to knock. After what seemed like a long pause, the wooden door cracked open. Isle Halavend’s face appeared, and he anxiously beckoned Ard to enter.
A Light Grit torch illuminated the cove, the bright detonation set into a cleft in the wall above a desk. The silver-haired Isle was wearing his sea-green robes today. He shut the door quickly, and Ard was surprised to find that Halavend was not alone.
A Trothian woman leaned against the wall where the open door had shielded her. She looked only a few years younger than Halavend.
She didn’t wear the common clothes of an island citizen like most of the Trothians who had taken up living in the Greater Chain. Instead, the woman’s arms and legs were wrapped in red cloth from the elbows and the knees down. She wore a long leather tunic tied with a decorated belt of clay beads. The woman’s hair was long and straight, cascading over her shoulders like an ink-black waterfall. Her skin was a royal shade of blue, well kept and glistening. But Ard had a hard time looking any Trothian in the eye for more than a moment. Hers were a pale steel gray, vibrating so rapidly that his own eyes began to water.
“Here’s an unlikely pair if ever I’ve seen one,” Ard said, glancing between the Trothian and the old man who had seated himself at the desk.
“You’re late,” snapped Isle Halavend, sliding a pair of spectacles onto his face.
“Do you ever get holy fish in that canal out there?” Ard asked, ignoring Halavend’s comment. “Maybe a shark or two? That would sure liven things up around here.”
Isle Halavend swiveled in his seat, his bespectacled face tense. “Ardor Benn! The Mooring is a sacred place. When you step onto that raft, you begin a symbolic journey to the Homeland. I asked you to meet me today for your employment, not for your mockery.”
Sparks! Was this the same old man from two nights ago? The man who had seemed to tremble at the very smell of the Staggering Bull?
“This is your thief?” the woman asked Halavend. Her accent was noticeable, but not as pronounced as many of the Trothians Ard had associated with.
“Thief? Flames, no!” Ard cried. “I’m something a bit more specialized.”
“Ardor is a ruse artist,” Halavend said. “A person who gets what he wants through elaborate trickery.”
“And he is the man for the job?” the Trothian asked.
“Perhaps regrettably,” answered Halavend. “But he has th
e skills required.”
“Perhaps regrettably?” Ard repeated. “That’s a very different tune from the one you were singing when you found me outside that tavern.”
“Don’t confuse my position, Ardor Benn,” said Halavend. “Just because I’m hiring you does not mean I’m comfortable going outside the law in this manner. If there were another way, Homeland knows I would take it.”
Isle Halavend gestured to a bench against the cove wall, and the Trothian woman seated herself. Ard preferred to stand near the door. Quicker escape, in case this was a setup.
“Who’s your new convert?” Ard asked Halavend. It was a ludicrous question. All Trothians were Agrodites. As far as Ard knew, they couldn’t denounce their religion, even if they wanted to. Certain things necessary for a Trothian’s health were intrinsically tied to Agrodite ritual.
Take the saltwater soak, for example. To participate in the ritual was considered Agrodite. But if a Trothian missed too many soaks, their blue skin started to flake off, like Remaught’s bodyguard. Supposedly very itchy, and somewhat painful. Hard to denounce a religion that kept your skin where it was supposed to be.
“This is Lyndel,” Isle Halavend replied. “Her role in this is significant. I wanted her to meet you.” She bowed slightly, crossing her wrists before her chest in the traditional Agrodite way.
Ard nodded. “Pleasure.”
“Lyndel and I have been studying together for several cycles now,” Halavend explained. “The wind had blown me far from Beripent when our paths crossed. She is an Agrodite priestess.”
Priestess! Sparks. Every moment, this Halavend seemed more Settled than Wayfarist. King Pethredote’s Inclusionary Act allowed Trothians to become citizens of the Greater Chain, but the Prime Isle still wouldn’t let them near Wayfarism. The very fact that Halavend was harboring an Agrodite in his cove put them all in danger.
“So … are you lovers?” Ard asked.
“Homeland, no!” Halavend cried, his pale face flushing.
Ard held up his hands. “It’s all right if you are. No judgment here. I’m sure old people feel things, too.” They were both getting up there in years, but it wasn’t like a Trothian and a Lander could bear offspring, anyway.
“Lyndel came to me for help,” said Halavend, seeming anxious to change the subject.
“It is our language,” explained Lyndel. “The Trothian tongue can only be spoken. There is no way to write it. Wayfarism is set in books. The books keep it steady. Never changing.”
That wasn’t completely accurate. Wayfarism had splintered into several religions throughout Lander history. They were all Homelandic. All stemmed from the same original beliefs. Still, there were far more Wayfarists throughout the Greater Chain than any other religion.
“The Agrodite religion is of the oral tradition,” Halavend explained. “Songs, poems, and stories told from one generation to the next.”
“I asked Holy Isle Halavend to write the Agrodite teachings,” Lyndel said. “Let there be a record so my doctrine can be steady, too.”
“I thought it was against your religion to read and write,” Ard replied. “Now this old Isle’s teaching you the alphabet?”
“It’s not that simple,” Halavend said. “What do you know of Trothian vision?”
Ard made a quick glance at Lyndel’s blurry gray eyes. He knew Trothian eyesight was very different from his own. Suspicious Landers even claimed that Trothians could see through walls. Ard didn’t believe that.
“I know Trothians can see in the dark,” Ard answered. It was common knowledge not to sneak up on a Trothian bodyguard in the dead of night.
“The Trothian eye perceives only the energy of things,” explained Lyndel. “I see your face; its shape and form make you identifiable. It is difficult to explain the differences, since I have never seen the way you see.”
“Lyndel is incapable of seeing text on a page,” Isle Halavend added. “The energy of the paper overpowers such fine lettering.”
“Can’t you write bigger letters?” Ard asked.
“We have tested several theories,” said Isle Halavend. “They all work, but none are practical. Increasing the size of the text does make it visible to Lyndel’s eye, but I can fit only a few words on each page. Using a lower-energy background can help, but the most effective materials were shale and slate—cumbersome. Even then, we had to find a high-energy medium to use in place of ink.”
“That was most effective,” said Lyndel. “But Halavend was made uncomfortable by the best ink substitute.”
Ard raised an eyebrow. “What was it?”
“Blood,” answered Lyndel. “Needed to be fresh and warm. As it dried, the text was once again washed out from my sight.”
“So you’d have to kill a lot of animals to learn to read,” said Ard.
“That was never my intent,” answered Lyndel.
“Killing animals?”
“Learning to read,” she corrected. “I came to Halavend so he could write the Agrodite doctrine to preserve it for future generations.”
“Future generations that won’t be able to read it any better than you,” Ard pointed out.
“Our cultures are mixing. Now, more than ever,” said Lyndel. “Our races may not be capable of procreating together, but I predict that the future will bring more and more Muckmus willing to read our doctrine.”
Muckmus. It wasn’t necessarily a derogatory term, just a Trothian word used to describe anyone who wasn’t blue-skinned. Ard’s people preferred the term Landers.
“As much as I like standing here talking about religion,” Ard said, “I have a feeling it doesn’t have anything to do with why you called me to the Mooring.”
“On the contrary,” said Halavend. “Religion has everything to do with it. Lyndel has a brilliant mind, and her beliefs are fascinating. By comparing our doctrines, we discovered something. A piece of evidence toward a theory never before considered. The further we researched, the more solid it became, until we were absolutely sure of its gravity. But it was a dangerous road to tread, disproving a significant piece of Wayfarist dogma, and realizing that the truth was actually in an all-new doctrine. Something that changes the very way we view our world.”
“New doctrine,” muttered Ard. “Sounds like something you should talk to the Prime Isle about.”
“I attempted to tell Prime Isle Chauster last cycle,” Halavend said. “He would not hear what I had to say. The facts that I presented go against common Wayfarist beliefs. I hid the fact that my findings had been reached through a collaboration with an Agrodite priestess. Still, the Prime Isle insisted I abandon my pursuit of these studies, lest I get barred from the Islehood, tried for heresy, and executed for my crime.”
Ard knew the feeling. He had been strong-armed and threatened by authority before.
“What’s so important about this new doctrine?” Ard asked.
“That is not something I’m willing to discuss with you today,” replied the Isle. “But I assure you there is nothing more critical than following through with it.”
“If it’s so important, why not sidestep the Prime Isle altogether?” Ard asked. “Make your new doctrine known to the common citizen.” You could start with telling me, Ard thought.
“It may come to that someday.” Isle Halavend shot a worried glance at Lyndel. “But we cannot risk that kind of chaos at this point. This information would incite panic—the kind that could start a war. I’m prepared to die for this cause, but Lyndel and I still have critical work left to do. We do not have the support of the Prime Isle. Without his backing, we do not have the support of the king. Neither the law nor the Islehood will do anything for us. Which is precisely what led me to you, Ardor Benn.”
Ard thought of the white letter chalked onto the alley wall. It was strange to think that he’d already accepted the job once, though he had no idea what he had agreed to do.
The old Isle looked up, his blue eyes trained on Ard. His voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m
hiring you to steal the king’s crown.”
What? Ard studied Isle Halavend’s wrinkled face. The old man hadn’t proven himself to have much sense of humor. Was he serious?
“You want me to run a ruse on the king?” Ard said. “On King Pethredote—the crusader monarch.” Halavend nodded once. “To steal his crown?”
“Not just his crown,” continued the Isle. “We need you to take the entire regalia.”
Ard scratched his head. Everyone in the Greater Chain knew about the king’s Royal Regalia. Both crown and coat were golden amber, crafted from the eggshell of old Grotenisk himself.
“And I agreed to this?” Ard exclaimed. “Two nights ago when you cornered me in that alleyway? I thought this was a good idea?” Flames! A job like this was suicide! Mobsters and lords were his area of expertise. He’d never attempted something of this scale.
“Unfortunately, your job will not end with the theft of the regalia,” said Halavend. “More will be required of you.”
“More?” Ard cried. “Of course! Because stealing from the king is never enough.”
“Are you familiar with Visitant Grit?” asked Isle Halavend.
“I wasn’t raised under a rock,” answered Ard. What child in the Greater Chain hadn’t fantasized about detonating that Grit and summoning a Paladin Visitant? The Grit was created from the eggshell of a dragon. Once consumed and passed through the beast’s digestive tract, it could be Harvested from the fired Slagstone and refined to powder. Visitant Grit, usable only by the worthy.
The king and his Regulation had exclusive control over all things relating to dragons. When a dragon skin was shed, the husk was removed by the Harvesters and delivered to the king so the scales could be refined into Ashings. When an entire dragon corpse was found, it, too, was extracted, the teeth and talons later removed for use in the coinery and Grit factories. But the fertilized shell of a dragon egg … that was controlled by the Islehood.
“You want me to steal the Royal Regalia just so we can process it into Visitant Grit?” Ard clarified. “That seems like the hardest way of doing it. Why don’t we use a piece of shell from the Islehood storehouse?”
The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn Page 6
