Seer: A Foreworld SideQuest (The Foreworld Saga)

by Mark Teppo

  The Shield-Brethren had the wagons arranged in a neat formation, two by two, and, along with their own mounts, arranged the horses in a tidy picket line along a swath of tall grasses. Watching them work, Jacobi noted the efficiency of the operation: a pair of men could easily defend all four wagons with bows; the horses were all connected to the same length of rope, but each individual horse could quickly be set free.

  The ache in his leg subsiding, Jacobi wandered over to the cluster of wagons. The Shield-Brethren were unrolling their bedrolls—one beneath each wagon—and Jacobi was impressed by their devotion to the commission. The tall one, Saluador, must have read his surprise in his expression. “We don’t get paid if the cargo wanders off,” he said. “It’s hard to keep an eye on it while sleeping inside.” He thrust his chin toward the inn behind Jacobi.

  “That is very true,” Jacobi said. “But surely you don’t expect bandits here.”

  “I expect them everywhere,” Saluador said. “Because if I were a bandit, this would be where I’d steal your wagons.” He laughed at Jacobi’s expression, and several of the other Shield-Brethren joined in his merriment.

  “Don’t scare the man with the money,” Andreas said, coming up behind Jacobi. His tone belied his words, though, and Saluador threw him a mock salute. Having finished their preparations, he and the other Shield-Brethren set off for the inn, leaving Andreas and Jacobi with the wagons.

  “They follow orders, at least,” Andreas said. “Beyond that, you get what you pay for, I suppose.”

  “That would appear to be the case,” Jacobi said. His mood shifted as he realized he had been harboring a bit of a grudge with the lanky Shield-Brethren leader after their conversation the previous night. He had been taken in by Andreas’s jovial nature and had been caught off guard by the sudden negotiation. There was also the nagging suspicion that he had caved to exactly the amount Andreas had wanted, and given the efficiency of the Shield-Brethren and the seriousness with which they approached their commission, it was not an unwarranted amount. He should be more pleased with what he was getting for his money.

  But there was the issue of the remaining payment he had to make before reaching Estartyol, and therein lay the true source of his displeasure. Would he pay the toll, or would he hide behind the Shield-Brethren?

  Andreas seemed oblivious to Jacobi’s internal conflict. “After they’ve had a meal, several of the men are going up to Santa Maria de Montserrat to pay their respects to the Virgin,” he said. “Do you wish to join us?”

  Jacobi almost laughed, the sound dying in his throat with a strangled sigh. “No,” he said, then coughed. “It has been a long day. I will take my rest in the inn.”

  “As you wish,” Andreas said. He examined Jacobi’s face for a moment, trying to read something in the trader’s expression. “I will probably remain here,” he decided. “Someone should watch the wagons.”

  Jacobi made an agreeable noise. “I will have a plate of food sent out,” he offered, hoping such munificence would smooth over the current awkwardness.

  Andreas inclined his head. “That is kind of you, Master Jacobi.”

  Jacobi waved his hand. “It is the least I could do,” he scoffed. As he took his leave and walked toward the inn, he fought the urge to shake his head in frustration.

  I am being tested, he thought. She made this happen. What am I going to do?

  III

  There were several tiny cells attached to the back of the chapel of San Berenguer. Originally, there had been an external door—the arch was still visible from the outside—but it had been blocked up at some point so as to make the chapel more secure. There was only one way in or out now, which was part of the reason why the front door was never locked. The cells were narrow rooms, barely wide or deep enough for a person to lie flat, and their ceilings sloped down to the outside wall. There were six altogether, and each had a pair of narrow slits that allowed air and light; though, during the summer months, they tended to get rather stifling.

  Constansa slept in the leftmost cell, performed all of her prayers in the next one, and ate her meals and entertained guests in the third one. The other three, the cells to the right of the door from the chapel proper, remained empty and unused, though Gaucelis had slept in the first one on the right more than once. Especially when Constansa was in the grip of one of the many fevers that had assailed her during the winter months.

  The young woman was not in the first cell on the left, and Gaucelis set the tray of food she was carrying down on the small table that was pushed up against the outside wall. Constansa was not in the next cell, either, and Gaucelis found her lying on her back in the last cell, staring up at the two slashes of light that broke through the rough canopy of the ceiling.

  She was a thin woman, perpetually undernourished, and she had a tendency to seem even tinier in her voluminous robe. She had high and prominent cheekbones, a narrow nose too long for her face, a high forehead, and pale green eyes that tended to wander. Her hair had been brown once, but in the past few years, it had lost its color. She had cut it herself late in the previous year, and most of the gaps and jagged spots had grown back. But it was still pale. Her hands were narrow, like her face, and her fingers were nimble. They moved constantly and the few times Gaucelis saw them still were when Constansa gripped a piece of charcoal or a brush. The only time she was still enough to listen to the voices inside her head.

  “Good morning, Constansa,” Gaucelis said, hovering in the doorway of the cell. “How are you this morning?”

  Constansa tilted her head. “Well, thank you,” she said quietly. Her hands were clasped over her stomach, but then she held up her left. “I appear to have had an accident.”

  “Yes,” Gaucelis said carefully. “I found you last night, asleep beside the altar. You must have caught your hand on a rough edge of stone. It is a shallow cut, and I have cleaned it for you. It should heal well.”

  “It is odd that I did not cry out,” Constansa said.

  “Yes, that same thought occurred to me too. Perhaps your sleep was troubled enough that you moved about, but you never woke up.”

  “Like a ghost,” Constansa exclaimed. She raised her head and looked at the cloth wrapped around her hand. “But ghosts cannot be harmed by stone, or anything real.”

  “It was merely an idea,” Gaucelis said with a shrug. “I brought some food. Are you hungry?”

  “Not yet,” Constansa said, sitting up. “Alice is frightened.”

  Gaucelis hesitated, reaching out to lightly touch the stone wall. In the wake of one of her exceptionally vivid dreams, Constansa might—on occasion—exhibit startling prescience and awareness of what others in the village were thinking, as if whatever divine mystery that overcame her lingered, like the way a room smelled of fresh flowers even after the flowers had been removed.

  “She is,” Gaucelis said finally. “So is Tibal.”

  “I am sorry to have caused them distress,” Constansa said. “Though, they have cause to be frightened. We all do.” She paused, playing with the cloth wrapped around her hand. “I asked Jacobi to do something for me,” she said.

  “What?” Gaucelis asked. “When?”

  “Shortly before he left,” Constansa said. She looked up, and Gaucelis was struck by how young and how innocent her face was. How desperately she wanted Gaucelis to not be angry with her. “I have never felt this before,” Constansa said, a desperate breathlessness in her voice. “I knew I was going to dream something terrible. It was as if I dreamed of my future, without knowing what my future was going to be. How can I dream of the dream of what might be?” She shook her head. “But I know Alice is frightened; I know that Tibal and that you are too.” She plucked at the cloth around her hand again. “I dreamed of this,” she whispered. “And…and I couldn’t…”

  “What did you do?” Gaucelis asked, her throat constricting.

  “I asked Jacobi to find the Rose Knights,” Constansa said.

  Andreas heard the trader’s dr
aft horses shuffle and nicker softly to one another when the Shield-Brethren returned from their pilgrimage to the Virgin of Montserrat. He remained still, lying on his back under one of the wagons. The moon had risen shortly after nightfall, round and fat, and its light kept many shadows at bay. The air was crisp, with a hint of winter’s bite still lingering, but he had wrapped himself in both his cloak and several blankets. He was comfortable and there was no reason to get up to talk with the others. There would be time enough over the next few days to hear all about their trip.

  The people of Catalonia had a much richer relationship with the Virgin Mary than other parts of Christendom, which made it easier for the Shield-Brethren to pay homage to their Virgin—the one who had been with them since the founders of the order had come north from Greece. Some of the Shield-Brethren did not bother to maintain the illusion, and simply spoke of Mary as their patron. Others remained true to the old ways, their hearts forever bound to a goddess who had been forgotten by nearly everyone else.

  Did that make the Shield-Brethren heretics or liars? It was a difficult question to answer, and Andreas simply preferred not to think about it too much. It didn’t matter whom he prayed to, did it? What mattered were his actions and his intent. The rest was beyond him.

  He heard the men talk quietly, and as he watched, two shadows split off toward the dark shape of the inn. The other two crawled under other wagons and were noisy in their preparations for sleep. He lay quietly, his fingers idly tracing the raised pattern on the silver brooch he wore on his cloak. He had had it made in Venice, after returning from crusading in the Holy Land, when he had decided to let his feet guide him. He didn’t wear a tabard with the colors and the sigil of the Shield-Brethren. His only concession to his order was the brooch.

  He had passed the trial and taken the vows. He did not need to trumpet these facts to everyone he met. They were his secrets. His strength.

  He rolled over, settling against the ground. Trying to get comfortable. Did she speak to them? he wondered, trying to clear his mind for sleep. There were stories about members of the order being granted visions, illuminating visits from the Virgin. Those who kept their spirits pure and focused would be blessed with guidance, and Andreas knew several members of the order who thought they had been granted such visions. But he remained skeptical, giving little credence to these claims. They felt too much like the delusions of frightened men, and such fear was unbecoming of a Shield-Brethren knight.

  I will ask them about the Virgin in the morning, he thought. As much as he wanted to put aside such nonsense, he knew it mattered to them. I am their leader, he reminded himself; therefore it matters to me too.

  He sighed and closed his eyes.

  IV

  They followed the Llobregat for the next two days, dancing with the river like young lovers. The weather remained pleasant, high clouds billowing overhead in the afternoon—occasionally releasing rain but never for very long—and so they made camp in the most convenient places they could find when the sun started to graze the western horizon. They saw one or two other caravans—Jacobi recognized one of the traders traveling in the other direction—a few farmers, traveling monks, and other itinerants, but very little that caused the Shield-Brethren any concern.

  As the days were slow—hour after hour of sitting idly on the wagon bench, trying to find a good position that wouldn’t cause his leg to cramp—Jacobi found himself striking up conversations with each of the Shield-Brethren.

  It was easy to talk with Saluador. In fact, by midday after they had left Montserrat, he began to worry that he might not be able to get Saluador to stop talking. Andreas came to his rescue, though, sending the tall Spaniard ahead to ride point for a few hours, a decision that seemed to make everyone relax a bit.

  Lugo was the youngest of the group, and Jacobi learned that he had recently returned from the Shield-Brethren’s mountain fortress far to the east, where he had undergone a secret initiation ritual. The lad was reticent to say more, and Jacobi did not pry. He remembered—all too well—the Inquisition’s predilection for damning by association. It wasn’t enough to seek out Cathars; Cathars’ sympathizers were subject to scrutiny as well. He had been scrutinized once; he wasn’t in a rush to have it happen again.

  Though, if it did, it wouldn’t be because of his association with the Shield-Brethren…

  Harald, like Andreas, hailed from the Low Countries; though, judging by the young man’s dark hair, one of his parents was from somewhere east and south. Italy, perhaps. Harald was the quiet one, stoic when not being addressed and curt with his answers when Jacobi posed a few innocent questions. The knight seemed distressed by Jacobi’s interest, and after a few tries, the trader gave up. Harald the Silent, he had dubbed the man.

  The last one was named Guillén, and he was broad through the chest and neck. The others were stocky as well, but Guillén looked as if he could pull one of the wagons by himself. Which could be useful should they encounter bandits.

  Jacobi put his hands together and silently sent a prayer to the Virgin Mary. Let there be no bandits, he begged. Let the remainder of this trip be as dull as this afternoon.

  “Praying for rain, eh?” Guillén asked. “Inquire if there might be a breeze in our future as well.”

  Jacobi dropped his hands, idly rubbing the tight muscles in his left thigh. “I am sure a light rain would be accompanied by a pleasing zephyr,” he said. “I suppose you insist on wearing your maille for reasons not dissimilar to those Saluador spoke of the other night regarding the defense of the wagons.”

  “We do.” Guillén nodded. “It does me no good packed away in my bags. But I might as well have left it at our chapter house. My horse would have thanked me. I take it your previous escorts were not as prudent in their dress?”

  They never had any reason to be, Jacobi thought, keeping the words to himself. “No, they did not,” he said.

  “Andreas says our destination is a village in the mountains,” Guillén said. “Some little village we’ve never heard of?”

  “That is correct,” Jacobi said.

  “I have been across these mountains a few times,” Guillén said. “I have family that live along the Loire.” He laughed. “My uncle—he fancies himself a winemaker.”

  “You wouldn’t know of this village,” Jacobi said, anticipating the true focus of Guillén’s thoughts.

  Guillén sucked on a tooth as he let his gaze run over the covered wagon. “There are a lot of little villages in the mountains,” he said. “A couple of houses, some garden plots, maybe a flock of sheep or two. Sometimes there is even a church.”

  “That sounds about right,” Jacobi said.

  “Sometimes the church is older than the surrounding houses,” Guillén said. “Sometimes the people who live there do so because they prefer the god in the temple rather than the Christian God.”

  “I suppose some do.”

  “The last time I visited my uncle, I saw many armored men on the roads around Toulouse. They were in the midst of a crusade—in France, if you can imagine! The Languedoc was suffering from a plague of heretics. Many whom, I suspect, would have fled into the mountains between Toulouse and Catalonia were they able. They might take refuge in tiny valleys, in fact, finding sanctuary in old churches that had been forgotten.”

  “Do you think I am taking you to such a place?” Jacobi inquired, attempting to affect an offended tone of voice.

  Guillén laughed. “Of course you are,” he said. “That much has been obvious since you hired us. I’m just wondering what sort of heretics live there.” He leaned forward in his saddle. “Do they worship tree spirits or something darker?”

  “They are all God-fearing folk,” Jacobi retorted.

  “Even the foulest demon fears God,” Guillén pointed out.

  “I am offended at your suggestion,” Jacobi snapped.

  Guillén raised a hand in supplication. “I meant no offense,” he said. “I am but a mere soldier. Truly, it is not my place to q
uestion one person’s—or an entire village’s—relationship with God.”

  “What of yours?” Jacobi said, biting back. “What is your relationship with God?”

  “Mine?” Guillén touched his chest. “The same as yours, Master Jacobi. Are we all not part of the same Church? Is our order not sanctified by the Pope in Rome?”

  “Are you like them, then?”

  “Who?”

  “The knights you met in Toulouse. Are you just like them in that you maintain the True Faith?” He knew he was asking too many questions, that he was pushing the knight unnecessarily, and it would undoubtedly cause more grief than it would assuage any feelings he had on the subject.

  “We are not tools of the Inquisition,” Guillén said sharply.

  “Nor do I serve Hell,” Jacobi replied.

  Guillén regarded him for a long moment; Jacobi noticed that the man’s hand was resting lightly on the hilt of the knife in his belt.

  “Estartyol,” he said suddenly. “The village is called Estartyol. There is a tiny lake nearby.”

  “Well,” Guillén said finally, offering Jacobi a tight smile. He moved his hand off his knife. “I look forward to meeting these villagers,” he said. “Perhaps one of them could take me fishing on this lake.” He shook his reins and his horse picked up its pace.

  Jacobi watched him ride away, once more caught in the web of his confusion and frustration. The more time he spent with these men, the more he feared that, in doing what Constansa had asked of him, he had put his soul in jeopardy. Perhaps he should have made the pilgrimage to the Virgin of Montserrat and thrown himself upon her mercy instead of continuing to believe the words of the witch-woman of Estartyol.