by C. B. Currie
The Martyr and the Prophet
C.B. Currie
Copyright © 2015 C.B. Currie
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 9781523963881
ISBN-10: 1523963883
No part of this book may be copied, written reproduced or distributed without the author's permission. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real events or persons living or dead is a coincidence.
Cover art by Shunskis; cover design by janielescueta: for more great illustrators visit www.fiverr.com. Published at Amazon CreateSpace - available on Kindle and print-on-demand.
For further information go to the author’s webpage at www.cbcurrie.com or look for CB Currie on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/cb.currie
Contents
Contents
Prologue
PART ONE
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
PART TWO
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
PART THREE
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty nine
Thirty
PART FOUR
Thirty-one
Thirty two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Prologue
‘Play for me again, the Song of the Desert,’ the old man said as he lifted his tankard. He had been sitting there most of the evening, as he usually did, half of his lined face aglow by the fireside, cropped white beard flickering orange and yellow. Most of the patrons had gone now and it was usually around this time that the innkeeper hustled the stragglers out so that he could close up. But this night the storyteller had kept people well enough entertained and for the third night running there had been almost twice the usual number of customers, as people had come in to listen to his tales of faraway kingdoms and exotic beasts.
The innkeeper had grumbled on the first night that he'd wished the young bard could play as well as the old man could talk, but he was a fool and he had no idea what the bard did when his daughter visited him in the hayloft each night after the last candles had been blown out. He probably had no idea that a lot of customers had met her in that stable loft or in one of the establishment’s meager rooms since she'd flowered in recent years. The bard wondered if the old man had loved many women in his youth. His tales talked of their beauty, but never of their caress.
He was a curious one. He deftly deflected any questions about his past while weaving rich stories about the tapestry of the far world that he surely could only have seen with his own eyes. Great grey beasts the size of a barn, chattering little forest children who swung from the branches by long tails, men with skin the color of burnt oatcakes and of elf-women with jet black hair, cloud-white skin and almond eyes who spoke in voices so soft and gentle a man's heart would flutter at their mere whisper.
He told tales of slave galleons and battles at sea, of spices that burned men's tongues for hours and made their noses run and their brows sweat. There had been lands of scorching sands never touched by winter's hand; sages of unfathomed wisdom and thieves of the lowest cunning. There were even dragons, and though in the old man's telling they did not fly or breathe fire, they sounded no less fearsome, with great long jaws that could snap a grown man in two and devour a goat or a child whole.
But of his own heart the storyteller was silent. He seemed content, but sad. He took pleasure in company but his eyes spoke of loneliness. He could drink well enough as he entranced the crowd with his long tales, until finally it was time to retire for the night, but he never staggered or swayed after several cups and, despite his age and obvious frailty, walked upright and steadily to his room each night.
His days were spent in the chapel library, though he seemed not especially pious or devoted. The bard played his strings outside in the chapel square and sang his songs to passersby and they threw coins in his bowl or set fruit or bread down beside him. The old man came out before sunset each day and they walked together back to the tavern. When asked what he read, he replied only that it was history, and would say no more.
The bard himself was an unlettered youth, though he'd learned the art of the lute. The storyteller spoke often of music too. He recalled the gentle moan of the rebab and the dulcet chords of the oud. He occasionally sang a line or two in the lilting, wailing tones of the oasis people he spoke of, but never finished a song. If he knew any songs whole, he only used parts them for his stories and he never sang just for the sake of song itself. For that he always protested, his voice was far too tired.
There was no doubt the old fellow was eccentric. If there was any method to his odd behavior it was in the rhythm of his days. He would be up for breakfast shortly after dawn, but passed up prayers at the chapel when most good folk went, and instead talking to wanderers and travelers in the alehouses or around the stables. He dressed somewhat like a clergyman in loose dark robes, and the bard thought he was a monk when first they’d met. He shared stories eagerly enough but was also full of questions – where people came from, where they were going, who they’d met, what business they had, if they read and what they chose to read. It was as though he were compiling his own omnibus.
He would often buy his lunch from market stalls: a meat pie, some bread and cheese or fruit, a skinful of cider or ale. Sometimes he drank water from the spring in the chapel gardens, swearing it would not make anyone sick the way river water did, and at least he never fell ill. He also held that he was too old to care if the afterlife did take him and that he was sure that what waited was better than this world. He said they would all see one day.
Other than vague hints of the hereafter, his interest in Heaven stopped at the library doors. When he spoke to priests and clergy it was only ever of history and books and never of spiritual matters. After spending his afternoons scouring books, he would return to the tavern for supper, to eat, drink and talk with the travelers and patrons and to listen to stories and songs from minstrels and performers, before sharing some of his own.
This was how the bard had made his acquaintance, when he had arrived at another tavern in another town one evening some weeks ago, to perform for bed and board. The old man had taken a liking to him and in truth the old man was likeable too and seemed never to tire of the youth’s traveling tales: the towns and manors he had performed at, the women he boasted of and the close brushes with the law or the lawless that troubled all people who took to the roads. They were kindred spirits, the bard could tell, and made especially so for their shared love of song. For company and protection they had travelled together, for the bard at least possessed a sword, and this was the third town since they’d met. They made a good team in fact, as the old man’s tales drew as many patrons as the bard’s music, or at least, kept them in taverns long enough to buy another tankard or two each.
So accepting the request, and allowing that it had been some hours since last he played the song, the bard stood once more and reached for his lute. It was an o
ld tune that he knew from his childhood, passed down from caravan to campfire to alehouse for so many years that most everyone in his trade seemed to know it. It was melancholy and not especially a favorite at the start of the evening but men could often be seen staring silently into their cups when it was played late at night. For all his mysteries, the old man was just like anyone else in that respect. Watching those sprightly, yet longing old eyes, the bard took up the strings and began to play.
PART ONE
The Knight
One
Beland smoothed his white woolen tunic and adjusted the wide leather belt. There was a little knuckle sticking out in the mail coat just above the belt and he couldn’t seem to push it in. It would have to do for now. The Knights of the Chalice usually wore their chain mail beneath their tunics even in peacetime, in order to be used to the weight. He had been wearing his for more than twenty years, and had made sure it was spit-shined wherever it protruded beneath the tunic. These days it felt heavier.
He had polished the silvered belt buckle twice and shone his boots as well. He stroked his close-cropped graying beard and waited for the steward to return. He did not have to wait long before the heavy oaken door opened and the slighter man, dressed as he was in a white tunic, red symbol of the Chalice over the breast, stepped out and ushered him in. Straight-backed, Beland marched into the Inquisitor’s chambers.
The Knight-Inquisitor was a quiet man, tall, lean, dark haired, of an age with Beland, though they had seldom shared words. Miecal was not known for his verbosity, speaking always in clipped sentences and, it was said, only when he felt there was something worth saying. He stood, patting the creases out of his own vestment, and gestured for Beland to sit at the large desk between them.
It was his first time in the Inquisitor’s chambers and he found the stone-walled office to be as sparse as he had expected of a man so thrifty with words. A wooden carving of the Lifetree stood on a shelf between two arched arrow-slit windows. Fat candles burned in holders at either corner of the desk. The hearth stood quiet, despite the cooling season, though it had been laid with kindling to be fired later. There was a closed door leading to an antechamber in the wall to the right.
‘Well met,’ the Inquisitor greeted him. ‘How have you been keeping?’
‘Well enough,’ Beland answered, though Miecal’s distant face betrayed he was a man who had little interest in the obligatory pleasantries.
‘I’m told your service these twenty-five years has been exemplary, Knight-Warden,’ Miecal offered.
‘Thank you,’ Beland responded formally.
‘A dozen campaigns, as far afield as the borders of Quresh and the Holy City,’ the Inquisitor continued, ‘charitable deeds, guarding the marches and administering Chapel justice in the realms. You’ve been a guiding light to younger knights and novices and a loyal servant of the Prophet. It is almost a shame that you come to me in such circumstances.’
Beland nodded silently, waiting for the words.
‘Do you know why you’ve been summoned?’ Miecal asked. In response Beland could only avert his gaze momentarily.
‘We take our vows seriously in the order, brother Beland. I have no doubt you took your oath as seriously all those years ago.’
The knight nodded.
‘You’ve been visiting the priory at Havenside these past few years have you not?’
‘Yes.’ Beland answered stiffly.
‘And keeping company with a young novice introduced to you by a Father Haendric in residence there?’
‘Father Haendric, yes.’
‘This novice is a boy of, seventeen?’
‘Nineteen’ Beland answered.
‘And what is your relationship to the youth?’
‘He is my son, sir,’ the knight responded stiffly.
Miecal was not surprised, but then it was the Inquisitor’s job to find such information before accusing a knight, so there really was no question the truth was already known. It had been foolish of Beland to think he could have kept such a secret once he had resolved to continue meeting the boy.
‘And the mother is?’ Miecal pressed, surprisingly gently.
‘Dead, sir. She died when he was younger, sent him off to the priory when she became too sick to care for him.’
‘And when did you learn of this?’
Beland stifled a sigh of resignation. ‘A letter came to me four years ago, from Father Haendric explaining what he had been told. The boy, it said, did not know the details. He had already been at the priory some years by then.’
‘Does he know now?’
‘We have never discussed it.’
The inquisitor stood again and paced two steps to the window. He sucked in the air, reminding Beland of its seasonal crispness, and for a moment the knight wished he could just walk out of these chambers, ride hard into the autumn countryside and forget the whole conversation. But Beland was never one to shirk duty and while this time was arguably the most serious, he had stood to discipline before in his career.
‘I have met many knights and novices who have broken their vows over the years,’ Miecal sighed, ‘and it always pains me. Our vows are sacred, given under the Faith and bound by Heaven and Earth.’
There was no response to that so Beland remained silent.
‘You’re not the first to have fathered a bastard,’ the inquisitor continued, turning back to the shamed knight, ‘but I must confess you’re the first I’ve seen to have embraced his sin. Most would keep their youthful indiscretions quiet. For some it is not even youthful, if you would recall Commander Hartlyn in Bastion.’
Beland nodded. He had heard of the disgraced commander, who was said to have kept a harem of whores, fathered a litter of whelps and had been stripped of his rank and retired to a monastery many years earlier. Since then the city’s chapter house had been captained by a lesser knight, and one of his own friends, and subsequent commanders had kept their residence at Juniper Keep, away from temptation.
‘But you, Beland, you have sought to know your son, to finance his learning and have taken time to lead him in the light of the Prophet’s words.’
‘Father Haendric has done more, I dare say,’ Beland offered.
‘Tell me about the boy.’
Beland shifted, cleared his throat. ‘His name is Vanis. He can read and write now, play the lute and harp. Haendric says he will make a fine brother of his order someday. I’m told next summer they’ll have him copying manuscripts.’
The inquisitor nodded. Pride was a sin and Beland hoped he had betrayed none in his voice.
Miecal scraped his chair back on the stone floor and slowly sat down. ‘If you’d been a novice, a younger knight even, the prescription would be dismissal. You’d have to make your way as a watchman, a sellsword or a monk: whatever becomes of disgraced knights.’ The inquisitor then almost chuckled at the thought, as though a stiff-backed man like Beland could ever have been anything but a holy knight.
‘But in good conscience, and under the circumstances, you have given your order and the kingdom too many years of good service. What you must do is make a penance.’
Penance. Beland had not wished to introduce the topic himself but it seemed the only recourse at this point if he were to remain in the order. Beland straightened up some more. He was about to receive orders.
‘You are to be demoted.’ Miecal told him flatly. ‘You will wear the colors of a knight penitent and serve a holy mission until such a time as your deeds are considered atoned for. As you know a penitent spends much of his time on the road, not in a warm barracks, so prepare for a journey of some months. The provost will see that you’re equipped and carry enough coin for the first leg.’
‘Where will I be going, sir?’
‘You will go to the priory at Havenside,’ the inquisitor said. ‘He has a consignment of rare scrolls and books for the capital and needs it protected well.’
‘Indeed, sir.’ So far the punishment did not sound too harsh at all.
>
‘You’re to lead the escort. We usually send lay brothers as guards but we need someone to watch over them. These are for the bishop’s eyes only. There will be further instructions when you arrive.’
Beland had not been to Castlereach in many years and generally disliked the city. But he did like the road and welcomed another visit to Havenside, even under such circumstances. He was also used to going where he was told and doing as he was ordered.
‘This will be the last time you visit Havenside for the boy. You must say goodbye to your son, Vanis, and never speak to him of his father. The prior tells me Haendric will keep his peace as well. It is hard enough to attract recruits these days and we must think of the Order’s good name. We do not share our sins, brother knight, we atone for them.’
Beland’s felt something hollow in the pit of his stomach. It was the discussion he had been avoiding these past several years. But then the boy must suspect something by now, so perhaps it was high time, for the sake of the Order, and his own soul.
‘You will take further directions from Prior Algwyn,’ Miecal continued. ‘He will tell you how to proceed from there. I suspect you will be some weeks away so get your business in order at the keep.’
‘I will begin immediately.’
‘You can leave tomorrow. Perhaps we can save your career yet, but first you must atone. Visit the stores and get a change of vestments.’
A knight-penitent. Beland descended the stairs that slowly wound down around the Inquisitor’s tower. The Order of the Chalice served the Faith and the realm on earth as chaste, holy warriors. But knight was still a man and all men shared the same weaknesses: drink, women, pride, avarice. When a knight forgot his vows, strayed from the path or disgraced his order he could expect no less. Murderers and rapists were executed; thieves were banished. Lesser miscreants were sent on penance, dressed not in the clean white tunic with the red chalice over the breast worn by fully fledged brother knights, but in a coarse brown vestment that marked them as penitents.
