In an effort to distract themselves the monks played cards. They only played on a handful of occasions, but it proved more difficult a distraction than silently manning the pumps did. Conversations were sporadic and half-hearted.
Adel was constantly sick and never strayed far from a bucket. His voyages topside were to throw the contents of his bucket overboard, often to the jeers and insults of the crew.
Neri was in a foul mood. Odilo seemed the worse for ware, and Aeden couldn’t claim to feel much better.
The boredom led Aeden’s mind to wander astray. He engaged Neri several times and convinced him to teach him Adhari, the language of the deserts. It was slow and he mostly learned how to name things, but it was better than sitting in the idle boredom of inaction.
He learned the naming conventions of the A’sh. Neri’s full name before donning the robe of the Holy Order was Neri Qasim Sha’ril. Qasim was his family name and Sha’ril was the city he was born in. As with all brothers of the Holy Order, Neri had abandoned all but his given name to Salvare. Aeden found the more he learned Adhari the more the culture opened up to him, filling an overly curious mind with thousands of questions.
These questions served to frustrate Neri. Aeden continued to be bored. Adel remained sick and Odilo was quieter than usual. Therefore when the weather slowly changed and the days became longer and warmer the mood of the crew finally began to improve.
The sun made its first true appearance somewhere south of the Disputed Islands. Warm light filtered down below decks and splashed everything with a hint of color. The men topside were heard singing to pass the time. A colorful mix of accents stained their song in D’seart hues.
Aeden was manning the pumps and Odilo sat nearby. Aeden fiddled with the pump handle, debating whether to attempt to engage Odilo in conversation. The last few tries hadn’t gone over well. Odilo had mildly rebuffed him. Aeden didn’t wish to bother him and truthfully didn’t want to be ignored by the man he so respected.
“You ever thought you’d be on a ship headed to the desert kingdoms?” Aeden asked Odilo hesitantly.
Adel was sick by a bucket trying to stay as close to the middle of the carrack as possible. Neri was curled up toward the bow upon sacks of grain. Neither of them likely heard his question. Aeden, however, ignored them and glanced at Odilo through the corner of his eye. He was wondering what sort of response he would get today.
Odilo regarded Aeden for a moment. His scarred face looked thinner and paler, but had regained some of the merriment it had lost over the previous days.
“Not recently,” Odilo said.
Aeden stopped working the pump and looked up expectantly at Odilo. There was a moment of silence as Aeden waited with anticipation flittering about his gut like a trapped butterfly.
“It has taken me a few days to come to terms with our recent actions,” Odilo started again; “I understand there is great mystery in the works of Salvare. I understand there are agents that work against his will and at times deciphering his intent can be difficult.”
Aeden didn’t say anything. He simply nodded his head. He knew Odilo needed to talk. In fact, he hoped that he would continue to talk.
“You’re a good man Aeden, misguided perhaps, but you bear no ill-intent. I believe you to be an agent for good, an agent of Salvare,” again Odilo paused as if collecting his thoughts, “but I can see sadness in your heart.”
Aeden looked away momentarily. How had Odilo seen this?
“You hide it well, don’t worry, I doubt many others have seen it.”
“How do you know?” Aeden asked, worried of the response.
Could Odilo read his thoughts? Aeden had heard rumors that Imperial Inquisitors could read minds. Did Odilo know how his home had been destroyed? His family had been violently ripped from him? That everything he knew had been burned to ash?
Odilo was silent for a moment. The distant shouts of the seamen above filtered through the deck. “Half sail, square the rigging, steer into the wind.” Their words combined with the sounds of sloshing water and feet upon the deck.
“My family was taken from me at an early age by greedy men,” Odilo broke the relative silence.
At first it seemed as if that was all he would say. Aeden remained still so as to not disturb the gentle note of solitude that hung in the air between them. Had he pushed too far? Odilo took in a breath and began.
“I too have been tested by Salvare. I too have felt his wrath, have felt great anger deep in my belly, and I too have made poor decisions.”
Odilo’s eyes remained downcast as if looking for words in the moist planks of the hold.
Aeden looked at him for a moment, wondering what to say. Eventually his curiosity won out.
“What happened?” he asked.
Odilo looked up and raised an eyebrow. He nodded his head as if to himself and smiled for a moment. Not his normal smile. There was no happiness or warmth upon his lips. Instead it was the smile of a man who’s conceded his fate to the gods.
“It was dark. There was no moon that night.” Odilo’s eyes took on the faraway look of recollection. “I awoke to the sound of a crackling fire and the smell of smoke. I stumbled outside to see the cause, only to find my village was afire. I struggled to shout, but my lungs filled with smoke. My eyes stung with the ashes of the fallen as armed men atop horses swept through the village, killing, burning, and raping.”
Aeden’s eyes dropped to the floor as images flooded his mind. Odilo continued.
“Those of us that were young enough were spared. My brothers were too old and were killed, but not me. I was taken prisoner. I was to become a slave to be sold in a market to the highest bidder. I was so full of anger those days. I believed in nothing but myself, trusted no one but myself.”
Odilo’s words faded to a whisper. Aeden had stopped pumping now. The only sound was the wind howling down the open hatch and the creaking of the wooden beams as they strained against the sea.
“I wasn’t going to be sold, so at my first opportunity I escaped. I ran as far as my little legs would take me, as fast as they could move. But it wasn’t fast enough. I was caught and punished,” Odilo unconsciously rubbed at his thigh as he spoke, “They broke my leg and threw me in a prison. It was there that I remained for years. I saw people come and go, except for one. One stayed as long as me. He was an older man with piercing gray eyes, a man from the Gwhelt. He taught me your language, taught me to channel my anger into something useful.”
Odilo suddenly stopped. Aeden was leaning so far forward he almost slipped off the small stool he was sitting on.
“But how then did you become a monk?” Aeden asked all sense of propriety lost to curiosity.
Odilo regarded him for a moment.
“You know this isn’t something I normally talk about,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Aeden suddenly blurted out, imagining how he’d feel if someone were to pry into his own life, although a part of him wished someone would. He needed a release for all his buried anger.
“No, there’s no need to apologize young brother. You’ve sacrificed much for us, for this mission. You clearly have a big heart, although I wonder if this is the role you were meant to play. The Church isn’t for everyone,” Odilo said glancing ever so briefly toward Neri.
“What do you mean?” Aeden asked, worry creeping into his voice.
Ever since he had left the S’Velt the Church had become his new home. His fellow monks had become his new family. Where would he go if it wasn’t for them? What would he do?
“I’m not suggesting you leave brother Aeden, however, I can’t help but feel you may have a different calling.” Odilo glanced about as if searching for the right words, “Not everyone is suited to the daily routine of monastic life. You have a strong spark of leadership and are quick to act when needed, but…”
Odilo looked at the ground for a moment and closed his eyes, rubbing absentmindedly at his scar.
“You had asked how I became a monk,”
Odilo started again in an effort to ease Aeden’s fears, distracting him with words.
Aeden nodded his head slowly. His mind was still on Odilo’s words. What would he do if he were not to become a monk? He hadn’t given it much thought. He found it easier to not think on the future, it was less painful.
“Then let me tell you,” Odilo began, “While in prison we were occasionally visited by monks from the Holy Order of Sancire. They would come in clean robes, unafraid of the filth of the prisons. They would give us bread and weak wine. They would pray for us, and they would place hands on the sick, even those that the guards didn’t dare beat.
“One monk in particular took an interest in me, I remember for he too had a scarred face. He taught me the prayers. He taught me how to read, and eventually he taught me how to find peace. He must have argued on my behalf, and likely paid a small sum, but one day I was free to leave. He told me I could go anywhere I wanted, but that if I chose I could go with him and become a novice at the Church.”
“What happened next?” Aeden asked eagerly.
“I chose to go with him.”
“What became of the monk who saved you?”
Odilo paused a moment catching Aeden’s eye, evaluating him.
“He grew to a position of great power, becoming the Deacon of Somerset, although that was years ago. It seems he’s risen to greater levels of power since then, and I’m not sure if he would recognize me now, even if we crossed paths.” Odilo had a strange look upon his face.
“Can I ask another question?” Aeden said.
Odilo looked at the younger brother and suddenly smiled.
“What is it you wish to know?”
Aeden hesitated before blurting out, “What’s behind the red door in the crypt?”
Odilo laughed out loud. It was a robust laugh filled with the pent up energy of a dozen weary nights. Neri stirred in his sleep on the far side of the hold. Adel glanced over holding the bucket desperately in between his legs.
“I don’t know,” he finally said.
Chapter 48
“From the breath of competition exhales anger, frustration, and triumph.” Book of Khein 6:12
By the second week the Seventh Sage had cut a wide swath about the Disputed Islands and traveled south toward the Gulf of Galdor. It was off the coast of Sawara when the wind died and the sea became uncommonly still.
The monks had been allowed on deck as there was little to do. The air was thick with humidity and as warm as a Sumor day. The ocean was as still as glass. There wasn’t a cloud in the light blue sky. But the attention of the crew wasn’t on the scenery about the floating carrack, but instead rested intently upon the main galley.
Men hung off the railing of the poop deck and forecastle angling for a better vantage point. Hooting, betting, and hollering dominated the stagnant air. Thick accents washed off the flaccid square-rigged sails. Shouts of encouragement echoed grandly from the sterncastle to the bowsprit.
It was an odd sight aboard the Seventh Sage. Normally the men worked in two separate shifts rarely awake at the same time. Today, however, was different. They crowded the bow and stern with eager anticipation. And in the center of it all were two men eyeing each other wearily.
They were both stripped to the waist and barefoot. One was thickly muscled, with deeply tanned skin. He moved with the grace of experience and age. The other was tall, younger, and startling pale, with a spate of white hair growing where he had once been shaved bald.
“Come on Aeden!” Adel shouted in a manner unbecoming a monk of the Holy Order.
Aeden glanced up and smiled. It was his fifth bout and he was having a blast. The warmth of the sun melted away his concerns. The movement and competition had drawn him in like a fly to honey. Before he knew it he had been challenged and had gladly accepted.
Now he faced the ship’s reigning champion, Hamal Badi Agir. He was not only the reigning champion, but was also the boatswain. The man was responsible for stowing supplies, operation of the bilge pump, and he was the man who metered out punishment when sailors failed to follow orders.
Aeden instantly recognized the man had skill. He had likely trained and fought elsewhere before becoming a crewman aboard the Seventh Sage. It was times like these that Aeden’s mind struggled to wander, much like a spirited horse with a fresh bit in its mouth.
Hamal darted in, feinting with a jab and then came in low for a takedown. Aeden had anticipated this for he had watched him do it three times before with other members of the crew. He brought up his knee to strike him in the face. Hamal was too quick and swatted it to the side and shoved Aeden back.
Aeden struck the center mast, his breath temporarily stolen from him. He stood there a moment panting under the unrelenting sun. His own sweat stung at his eyes. He blinked repeatedly as he stepped to the side.
It had been too long since he had trained and competed. He had grown soft among the monks he realized. Realization of such things always befell him at the most inopportune times.
“You fight like a woman!” Hamal taunted him, his thick accent drooling over each syllable.
The spectators cheered out Hamal’s name. It was taken up by both ends of the ship and turned into an echoing chant, “Hamal, Hamal, Hamal!”
Aeden glanced up briefly looking for support. In that moment Hamal launched forward. A fist caught Aeden flat-footed on the side of the head. He staggered and reformed his defenses. His face quickly grew numb.
“Be gentle with her, you’ve spilt her moon’s blood!” Another crewmember squawked.
The red hot feel of anger began to seep into Aeden’s veins. The dull throbbing of pain drummed away into silence. He had been waiting for Hamal to tire. That was the wrong strategy. He seemed to feed off the sunlight while Aeden wilted under its scrutiny. The humid air sucked at his lungs and sapped his strength. He felt lazy when he should have felt lively.
“It’s when you’re tired, cold, and hungry, that you must dig the deepest, train the hardest, and overcome your adversary.” The words of his teacher drifted through his mind, lending strength to his tired legs. Although he couldn’t help but wish for it to be a little cooler.
Hamal thrust forward again. Aeden side stepped the attack and back handed Hamal in the face. He then stepped diagonally into him and placed one hand on his forearm while his other hand struck with the speed of a striking cobra.
A spurt of blood erupted from Hamal’s crushed nose. He yelped as he staggered back. Aeden’s eyes held the fierce look of death. He was already moving forward, the momentum of his attack only just beginning.
“Aeden!” a strong voice called out through the haze of anger, pain, and blood-crazed onlookers.
Aeden froze with his fist in midair. He had thrown another punch without realizing. A punch he had trained a thousand times before. One he had practiced on stone to harden his fists. One that would have killed Hamal had Odilo not called out to him.
The weight of the humidity settled upon his sticky skin. Slowly the throbbing pain returned. His head pounded awkwardly as he gazed at the sprawled figure of Hamal. Hamal lay on the deck looking up at him half in fear, half in awe. Aeden then glanced at those leaning over the railing of the forecastle deck. A dozen sun-tanned faces looked down upon him. Some had the gleam of bloodlust still in their eyes. Others looked away as if shamed by his penetrating gaze.
None of their looks registered. Aeden was caught in a world of moral confusion. Was he really willing to bash this man’s face in over a friendly competition? He had to believe he was better than that.
Aeden extended his hand. It hung there silently in the afternoon air for everyone to see. Hamal spat upon it and pushed himself up. He eyed Aeden darkly for a moment before he stalked off. The crowd grew quiet and Aeden continued standing there. The sun glared away brightly, glittering off the emerald green waters off the Gulf of Galdor. It remained indifferent to the struggles of the mortals below.
Chapter 49
“Knowledge is the seed f
rom which sprouts power.” Caliph of Q’Bala
“You showed much courage today,” the captain said hours later, clasping a firm hand onto Aeden’s shoulder.
Aeden remained quiet. Despite having done well or perhaps because of his success, most of the crew had increased their distance. Many eyed him warily. Others turned their backs to him as he walked the deck. He was therefore quite surprised when the captain had invited him to the sterncastle.
“Strange weather, I can’t remember a time that we went for so long without wind, it isn’t natural. Soon wood worms will begin boring into the hull and we’ll have our hands full tarring the leaks and manning the bilge.”
Aeden nodded in silence, waiting for the captain to reveal his wishes. There had to be a reason he was asked up to the sterncastle. Did he want him and the other monks to man the bilge pumps even more then they had been? It didn’t seem fair with so many idle crew members. The shorter man carried on, unconcerned with Aeden’s mental wanderings.
“Pray to your god for wind, for ours hasn’t been listening. The longer we sit in these waters the greater our risk. We have goods to offload. These men have wives to see, children that need to be fed. As I assume you too have a family waiting for you.”
Aeden cringed. He did his best to hide his expression, but he couldn’t help imagine the last time he saw his father. His twisted, burnt body lay beside Sagas, the sword of the kovor and every kovor before him.
“Do you not see your family?” the captain asked in a low and serious tone, bordering on offense.
“I pray for my family, for they have passed into the afterlife,” Aeden said stiffly.
“It is said that tragedy at such a young age is a gift from Ghut and marks one for greatness.” The captain regarded him for a moment, scrutinizing him as if he could discern Ghut’s mark with a careful visual inspection.
“I don’t feel marked for greatness,” Aeden said quietly, unsure of how to respond.
“The greatest of us rarely feel as entitled as those who’ve been handed everything.”
Tears of a Heart Page 30
