Just then a chorus of shouts could be heard from far away, and the man with the knife ran anxiously to a window to see what was happening. As he squinted into the distance the shouts seemed to grow louder, but then stopped all together. When the silence persisted for another minute, the man turned away from the window, a worried look on his face. He said something to the older man behind Jeina, and then ran out the door, calling loudly for something.
Jeina felt the older man brush by her, as he quickly shuffled to the door, and placed a plank of wood behind it to bar entry. He then pointed to the chair he had recently vacated, and said.
"You sit. Stay still."
The man who had left the dwelling must have raised some sort of alarm, for soon Jeina heard the bang of doors being thrown open all around her, and the sound of many footsteps rushing past. The shouting resumed, though this time it was closer, and accompanied by the unmistakable sound of clashing steel.
"Jeina, are you there?" came a shout from Fezi somewhere nearby, followed by another series of grunts and clanging steel.
"Fezi?" cried Jeina, surprised. "Fezi! I'm in here."
Within seconds there was a huge crash, and Jeina saw the plank which barred the door buckle and then snap in half. The door flew open, and just as the tall figure of Fezi stormed in to the hut, his weapon at the ready, Jeina felt something smash into her windpipe, and lock tight around her neck. She fell, dazed, as the older man who had remained in the hut drew a long knife from his belt and held it to her breast.
"Stop!" he barked, as Fezi drew closer. "I kill, if you do not."
"Let her go," growled Fezi. "The girl has done you no harm. Let her go and we will leave right now and never trouble you again."
"You kill my people!" cried the man. "You kill my son!" Jeina could feel the man's arm around her neck begin to shake.
"I have killed no one," said Fezi, glancing nervously out the door. "At worst your son may have a few broken bones. They will mend and he will live, now let Jeina go!"
"You lie!" shouted the old Curahshar, but even as he spoke Jeina saw that Fezi had been telling the truth. Several figures limped slowly into view of the firelight, and Jeina could see that though most were covered with blood and dirt, every single man held his weapon at the ready.
"Put down weapon, and we not kill you now," came the command from one of the men outside the hut.
"Tell him to let the girl go," said Fezi, "and I will surrender."
The man who had first captured Jeina appeared in the doorway, looking only slightly worse for his encounter with Fezi. At the sight of him, the grip around Jeina's neck loosened considerably. The son said a few words Jeina could not understand, and the man behind her quickly lowered his dagger, walked nervously past Fezi, and out of the room.
"Now you keep honor," said the son, looking at Fezi, who sighed, and then slowly placed his weapon on the ground. The Curahshar quickly snatched it up, and then slammed the door shut. Moments later his head appeared in the window.
"You stay in here. No escape. Many guards outside. Tomorrow is for judging." A tiny smile crossed his face as he held up a slender arrow for them to see. "No escape, or this go in."
Chapter 32: Nicolas
The Shore Lost was a small, plain craft; not much larger and no more grand than some of the fishing vessels Nicolas had often seen moored in Brightshore's harbor as a child. Even so, for the first time in his life Nicolas found himself staring out across a vast swath of ocean without the faintest hint of land in sight. At first he had been excited at the promise of a journey across the sea, but now with Creko's Isle having faded completely out of sight, doubts began to form in Nicolas' mind, and he found himself wondering perversely if he would ever see the shores of his homeland again.
Although Jorj had not voiced any objections to the voyage once the promise of gold had been established, the man did not seem to be adjusting well to life at sea. He had sequestered himself within the confines of his cabin, and refused to spend any time on deck in the open air. Nicolas had assumed that this was due to his roots as a Curahshar, or a weak stomach and sea-illness, but now he suspected it was more than that. Jorj insisted that only Nicolas be allowed to enter his cabin, and relied upon him for his meals and news of the voyage. Why Jorj was so reluctant to interact with the rest of the crew, Nicolas did not understand. Though he himself had initially been intimidated by Mavonin and his men, after spending some time with them he had found them to be decent sorts. They worked him hard, to be sure, but they never singled him out for harsh treatment. Some had even made the effort to introduce themselves, and give Nicolas helpful pointers on how the ship was run. Nicolas had not yet spoken personally with Mavonin, but he had been in the company of the knight a few times and was already fascinated by the man. Nicolas knew little about the Bloodknights, and what he did know was mostly from old stories. They had once been an elite military wing of the Church, headquartered in the northwestern reaches of the Blood Marsh, and utterly dedicated to the service and protection of the faithful. Decades ago, however, the organization had a falling out with the Sumpadri and many of the knights had been excommunicated or stripped of their positions. Relations between the knights and the Rekon's elect had never recovered, and the ranks continued to dwindle over the years as to join the gröljums was to risk the displeasure of the Sumpadri. Nowadays, the organization was all but defunct, though their reputation for valor still lived on, buoyed by the many stories of their successes of old.
Sir Mavonin seemed to have traveled to every corner of Esmoria and was full of tales which he often shared with his crew as they nursed a cask of spirits in the evening. He had an easy way about him, as if nothing in the world had ever fazed him, which made his tales of navigating the icy waters of the frozen north, or fending off swarms of Hovacian Pirates somewhat believable, and all the more riveting.
What was more, Mavonin seemed to have accepted Nicolas and Rujo, at least for the time being, as part of his crew. In the few days since they had left Widow's Harbor, Nicolas had learned more about handling a ship than he ever had during his limited experiences on the fishing vessels around Brightshore. His days filled with hearty toil, and his nights with thrilling stories of adventure, Nicolas reflected that it was the first time he had truly enjoyed himself in a long, long while.
Rujo seemed to have taken to his new surroundings exceptionally well, and was showing some promise as a sailor. Though he was younger than most of the other sailors by almost a decade, Rujo's stout frame and surprising amount of strength meant he could hoist a sail by himself in good weather, or hold a downhaul taut enough to be tied when the wind picked up. Indeed, he tackled his duties with such ferocity, and listened to Mavonin's stories with such rapture, that Nicolas began to wonder if he could ever be persuaded to leave the boat again.
One afternoon, when Nicolas went down to Jorj's cabin to deliver the healer his food, he found Jorj paler and more agitated than usual. The man looked a worrisome apparition as he continually paced around the confines of the cabin, his eyes purple from fatigue, and his chin and pate covered in graying stubble.
"Are you sure you won't come up on deck for a bit of fresh air?" asked Nicolas. "The seas are fairly calm."
"Hmph," replied Jorj, looking at his salted cod with evident distaste. "As if sunshine and air could do me any good."
"Why not?" said Nicolas, "We've been at sea for days now, perhaps your stomach won't mind the waves so much, it would certainly be worth a…"
Nicolas stopped when he saw Jorj staring at him incredulously.
"Is that what you think?" asked Jorj. "That I suffer from sea-illness?"
"Of course…" began Nicolas, but he trailed off again when Jorj's look grew more stern.
"You haven't realized?" demanded Jorj. "You haven't noticed?"
"Noticed what?" asked a confused Nicolas, who was starting to think that maybe too many days spent in darkness and solitude had addled Jorj's brain.
"Mavonin!" exploded Jorj, hushi
ng the last syllable as he realized just how loudly he had said the name.
"I've noticed him, of course. You should listen to the stories he tells in the evening, the man has probably traveled half the world!"
"Not that," said Jorj, dismissively. He was quiet now, his tone almost conspiratorial. "Boy, have you forgotten all that has happened these past months? Did you think that your tremors would cease the moment you learned to withstand them?"
"I…ah," Nicolas realized that he hadn't felt the rush of the säel, nor even a tell-tale aura since he had boarded the ship.
"Of course you haven't!" snapped Jorj. "It is Mavonin. He is anesthma."
"What?" said Nicolas. "I don't even know what that is. It sounds like…"
"Yes," interrupted Jorj, "Senisthma. I assumed you would reach this conclusion on your own. After all, it follows the natural way of things you see everywhere else in life. Think of it as a continuum. On one end is you and I. On the other end…"
"Anesthma," finished Nicolas. "Very well, I get it. So that means that anesthma have no ability whatsoever to control säel."
"No," replied Jorj, his head shaking energetically in the negative. "It is worse. Anesthma are a void for the säel. They sap it, or more accurately, deflect it, from the life that surrounds them. With Mavonin on the ship, even here below the deck, I can still feel only the barest trickle inside of me. When he stands next to me, or touches me…" Jorj shuddered. "It is like…darkness—complete and utter darkness."
"Are there many of these anesthma?" asked Nicolas.
"Are there many like Mavonin? No. He is one of the most potent anesthma I have come across. But there are many men and women who are, to some degree, anesthma."
"More than those who are…like us?"
"Of course, boy," replied Jorj. "Use your head. There are far, far more anesthma in this world than senisthma, for two main reasons. The first you should know all too well. Those born senisthma will either die or go mad if they do not learn how to control the säel which they attract. The second…" Jorj trailed off, shaking his head.
"What, what is the second reason?" asked Nicolas.
"Well," said Jorj hesitantly, "according to Pojin's notes, long ago senisthma were more common. It was not then such a rarity that only a few were aware of the phenomenon. As I understand it, there was even an academy across the seas to the east of the Blood Marsh's northern borders, on an Island called Varkos. When a young man, or even occasionally a woman of high enough birth, was suspected of being senisthma, he or she was sent to the academy to learn proper control. It saved the lives of many children who would otherwise have perished, and produced quite a number of powerful senisthma."
"But, I've never heard of such a place," said Nicolas. "I'd never even heard of senisthma."
"The academy fell more than six-hundred years ago," said Jorj. "Most of the senisthma were killed."
"What? Why?"
"Why do you think, boy?" said Jorj, rolling his eyes. "As more and more senisthma lived to adulthood, they began to use their gifts to great effect. The power they amassed made them many enemies. Some were jealous, but most were just afraid. The single most vocal and persistent foe of the senisthma was the Church. I'm sure you can guess why. One senisthma grew so arrogant in his power that he sought to establish a religion of his own. It was only a cult, at first, but the Church saw it growing at an alarming rate. Somewhere along the line one of the Alpadris had the bright idea of putting a pretty price on the head of the 'false prophet.' When someone successfully collected, a new trade was born. Huge rewards were advertised for the deaths of high profile senisthma, who, as it turns out, can bleed to death just like any other man."
"Couldn't you…you know, compel the mind of someone who wanted to kill you? Persuade him not to, or make him forget?" wondered Nicolas.
"Perhaps," said Jorj. "One man might be persuaded. But, there are few senisthma who can compel the minds of an entire mob. And more importantly, though it wasn't realized at the time, there turned out to be a class of people who were uniquely suited to killing senisthma."
"Anesthma!" realized Nicolas.
"Yes, for once you are right, boy. Many anesthma became renowned assassins, famous for their ability to hunt and kill 'false prophets.' There was one such hunter who developed such a reputation during this period that Pojin saw fit to mention him in his notes. You might recognize the name—Mehlor."
"The Kings of the Blood Marsh?" asked Nicolas.
"Yes. The roots of their great popularity with the people of the Marsh can be traced back to the many senisthma, one of their ancestors exterminated when doing so was considered an act of heroism to most. You see, eventually the practice of killing senisthma became motivated less by revenge and jealously, and more by a blind hatred which perpetuated itself for generations. Even those senisthma who kept to themselves, or disavowed their own gifts, were sought out and eradicated. The academy fell, and eventually even the very idea of a senisthma was ground into the dust of time."
"Then how come you and I…" started Nicolas. "I mean, you said that such traits were passed on by blood."
"Only by blood," agreed Jorj, "but though for centuries all the great realms of Esmoria sought to rid themselves of senisthma, there remain places and people who were ignorant, or tolerant, of such things. Distant reaches of the land, where the name of Rekon may yet be unknown. Surely you can tell, boy, that I am not full-blooded Curahshar."
"It's hard to say…" said Nicolas.
"Bah, like most people you see dark skin and you assume I am merely Curahshar."
"That's not what I meant," protested Nicolas. "The ink and the scars on your face—"
"Are the marks of my father's tribe," finished Jorj, "but that is a tale for another day. For now it will suffice for you to know that my father is of the Tiantol, the barbarian tribes that roam the frozen waters of the white sea. His are a superstitious people, and unlike those of the mainland they accept the säel and its powers as a part of life."
"But how did your mother and father meet?" asked Nicolas, astounded at the thought of Jorj being descended from northern barbarians.
"In good weather the Tiantol can raid as far south as the bay of Amhara. They are a fierce and hard people, and it is their custom to slaughter every man they encounter, rape every woman, and haul off every piece of gold or silver they can amass."
"Oh," said Nicolas, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to touch on unpleasant memories."
"I have no memory of it," said Jorj, flatly. "You," he continued, changing the subject, "you are somewhat more of a mystery. Creko's Isle has long been Church land, and as I said, the Church was one of the most vehement supporters of the eradication movement."
"Maybe they just missed a few," said Nicolas, shrugging his shoulders.
"Maybe," said Jorj, unconvinced.
Nicolas thought for a moment. What Jorj had said made sense. It did seem natural if there could be senisthma, then there would be anesthma as well. But, given that most of what Jorj had just told him happened hundreds of years ago, it did not explain why Jorj should act so strangely.
"So, you cannot use the säel for a while," ventured Nicolas. "Where is the harm in that? Mavonin and his men have treated us well, and he has said you will be paid handsomely for your work. They do not seem out to kill us."
Jorj looked annoyed, as if Nicolas had once again said something utterly inane, and he seemed about to reprimand Nicolas, but reconsidered, saying instead, "You are too young, too new to your power to understand. But someday you will know what it is like when your greatest quality, what is at once your shield, your sword, and your blanket at night is suddenly ripped away, leaving you naked and helpless. That is how I felt back at Widow's Harbor—caught in between two companies of armed men, stilled and unexpectedly stripped of my own advantages. I had no choice but to comply with Mavonin, for what am I without the säel?"
Jorj was right, Nicolas could not know what that was like. He hadn't even noticed the absence of
säel flowing through him. But he thought he could understand how unsettling it would be to be stilled, even temporarily, once one had grown accustomed to the energy being there.
"I can see why that would disturb you," offered Nicolas. "But I am sure, now that you have agreed to help, that Sir Mavonin means you no harm."
"I would prefer to know for certain. As I usually would," replied Jorj. "And I prefer to stay here in the shadows, where I can feel at least a trickle of säel inside me, rather than put myself near the man who would drain it from me entirely. And furthermore," Jorj's eyes widened with worry and he dropped his voice again to a low whisper, "there is the fact that I can't…that I won't be able to…" but Jorj would not finish the sentence. He seemed to shrug off his worry, and said to Nicolas, "That's enough, Boy. Let us dwell no more on this unpleasant subject. Go, enjoy your fresh air, but even though you may not feel the säel now, do not forget what you are. You cannot hide from it forever, for it certainly will not hide from you."
Knowing that Jorj would become irate if he persisted with the subject, Nicolas exited the cabin to head for the decks, leaving the still-pale Jorj slouched in the darkened corner of his room, picking away fretfully at the plate of food before him.
Once on deck, Nicolas was greeted by a gentle breeze, and the warm rays of a bright mid-afternoon sun. When the spray from a wave rolling against the hull of the boat fell lightly upon his skin, he felt like he was once again at the lighthouse, staring out into the ocean. How anyone could prefer the dim, stale recesses of a cabin to this, senisthma or no, at that moment he could not fathom.
As he made his way along the deck, he saw the figure of Mavonin, leaning over the aft rail, watching the wake disappear into the horizon. Thinking about what Jorj had just told him, Nicolas quietly made his way closer to the knight, stopping only a short distance away. He closed his eyes and tried as he had before to reach out around him and feel for the presence of others. As the moments passed, all around him seemed calm and empty, but then something seemed to flicker on the edge of his perception.
The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1) Page 33
