The First Betrayal

by Patricia Bray

  He had thought about starting his collection anew, but the fickle weather had kept him far too busy for leisurely strolls along the shoreline. Perhaps once the spring had passed he would find time, although it was disheartening to think that he would have to start all over, for he dare not trust that he would remember each of the shells he had already found.

  Or perhaps he could begin a new study. A previous keeper had spent his years describing the birds that came to the island each spring and fall, but that was nearly a century ago, and it would be interesting to note if any changes had occurred in that time.

  As the morning wore on and the chill fog lingered, coating everything with a sheen of water, Josan turned over the possibilities in his mind. Anything to keep his mind focused and awake until the next time to wind the key, even as his body longed for sleep. He had come to no conclusions by the time the sun broke through the clouds, but that was of no matter. Time was the one thing he did not lack.

  The bell continued its measured peal as Josan climbed down the ladder that led from the platform to the topmost course. In days past he had used this course to store firkins of cabbage-seed oil, but since returning to the tower he had cleared enough space for a pallet, for those times when the weather was foul, or he was too weary to make the long climb down to the base of the tower and hike over the dunes to his new cabin.

  He walked round the half-circle course to the top of the ladder that led to the levels below, yet even as his hand touched the topmost rung he hesitated.

  In his cabin there was a mattress stuffed with the soft grasses of springtime, but this luxury seemed impossibly far away as he gazed down the shaft. His head swam and his legs shook with weariness as the lack of rest finally caught up with him, and with a sigh he turned away. Wrapping himself in his cloak, he lay down on the course, his back pressed against the curved stone wall. He would rest for a while, and when he felt stronger he would make his descent.

  He awoke suddenly, jerked into wakefulness though his body did not move. It, at least, remembered where he was and the dangers of his perch. He knew he had not been sleeping long, for his wits were still dull. He glimpsed blue sky through the narrow windows, and the sharply angled shadows indicated that it was not yet noon.

  He had slept for barely an hour, which explained his tiredness—though not what had awoken him. Listening carefully, he heard nothing except the distant cries of shorebirds and the sound of waves gently lapping at the rocks. Even the clockwork bell had fallen silent, as it had reached the end of its cycle. Perhaps it was not a noise but rather the sudden silence that had awoken him, he reasoned.

  He settled his head back down on his cloak and closed his eyes again. He would rest for a few moments longer, then it would be time to see about filling his empty stomach.

  But just as he made that resolve, he heard the unmistakable creak of a ladder rung. This time when he opened his eyes, he saw a man’s head rising above the wooden course.

  Josan blinked. The stranger’s face was level with his own. He knew at once that the man was not one of the villagers, for his dark brown hair showed the influence of the newcomers in his breeding.

  “Who are you?” Josan asked.

  The stranger did not answer.

  Josan flushed, realizing the folly of trying to hold a conversation while still lying down, and rolled so his hands were under him, preparing to rise.

  The movement saved his life as a silver object flew through the air, clattering off the stone wall behind him.

  A part of Josan was frozen in shock, convinced this was an absurd dream. There could be no other explanation. Why else would a stranger invade the tower and try to murder him? There was nothing for a thief to steal, for only another lighthouse could use the precious objects contained above. And Josan himself was a mere monk, who had lived a blameless life of scholarship.

  Yet even as his mind was paralyzed by the strangeness of his situation, there was another part of him that responded immediately to the threat the stranger presented. This part drove Josan to continue his roll until he reached the far end of the course, and with a flip that would have done any acrobat proud, Josan was on his feet.

  It was as if another fought in his place, relegating Josan to the status of a mere observer in his own body. But there was no time to wonder at the strangeness of it all, for the assassin had completed his climb and now stood on the opposite end of the half-circle course, facing Josan. There was nothing to be read in his face except calm concentration as he reached his right hand into a hidden pocket and with a flick of his wrist sent another silver object spinning through the air. Josan dodged it, and the others that followed.

  “Why are you doing this? I am no threat to you,” Josan said. He kept his eyes fixed on his opponent, trying to read any clue that would give away his intentions.

  He did not need to look away from the attacker to know that he was in mortal danger. This high in the tower, the wooden course was extremely narrow, barely two yards across. There was nothing to hide behind, and the stranger was between Josan and the ladder, which was his only route to escape.

  Josan threw himself to one side as several silver objects flew by. One of them grazed his right shoulder as it passed, before bouncing off the wall and falling down into the shaft.

  A triskel, his mind supplied, dredging out the name from the dim recesses of his damaged memories. A weapon of choice among assassins, who spent long hours mastering the techniques required to throw the spinning blade with lethal accuracy.

  Perhaps this was not a trained assassin after all. Contempt arose within him for one who would blunder so badly, and his right hand curled on itself as if he were the one holding a triskel. In that moment, he knew he could show this man how such a weapon should be used, and his gaze raked the platform to see if any had landed nearby. But the wooden floor was bare, save for one blade near the assassin’s feet, where Josan had been sleeping only moments before.

  As the assassin’s right hand dropped down to the long dagger tucked into his belt, Josan knew that he had to act.

  “Please, I beg of you, this must be some mistake,” he said, allowing his voice to quaver as if he were terrified.

  The assassin smiled scornfully, and as he withdrew his dagger, Josan did the one thing he did not expect. He charged.

  It took only three quick steps to cross the distance that separated them, and at the end Josan lashed out with a swift kick that knocked the dagger loose. He lunged for it, his fingertips brushing against the blade, but he was not quick enough to catch it, and he cursed as he watched it vanish into the darkness below.

  He turned, rolling his head as a fist clipped him across the chin. Josan repaid the favor with a flurry of open-palmed strikes that forced his startled opponent to retreat a few paces. The assassin turned his head for a moment to gauge the space behind him, and Josan struck, his blow catching his opponent solidly in the ribs.

  He should be frightened. He should be terrified. He was a member of the Learned Brethren, one who had dedicated his life to scholarship, not to the arts of war. And surely there could be no worse place for a deadly fight than this tiny half circle, where any misstep meant a lethal fall.

  Yet Josan felt neither fear nor terror. Instead he was calm, his breath steady, his body poised as he stood lightly on the balls of his feet before advancing to trade another series of blows. Neither was able to completely block the other’s blows, and this time Josan was the one forced to retreat. Yet his new bruises were worth the pain, for he had confirmed his earlier suspicions. His attacker might carry the triskels of a mercenary, but his fighting style suggested military training. When Josan had essayed the middle portion of the tiger attack, the assassin had responded with the traditional blocks as if they were at drill rather than fighting for their lives.

  The intruder was used to fighting in the high style, and to watching an opponent’s hands. A kick had caught the assassin off guard once. It was time to try it again.

  Josan knew he h
ad been lucky so far. But his luck would not hold forever, and all it would take was one careless step, one moment of being off-balance, and his opponent would need to do no more than give him a gentle push to his death.

  Josan clenched his hands into fists and raised them in front of him, as if preparing to attack. As the assassin drew back his right hand for a blow, Josan whirled suddenly on his right foot, his robes flying around him as he extended his left leg upward. It caught the assassin just under the chin and there was a sickening crack as his neck broke.

  As Josan completed his turn, he watched the assassin’s suddenly limp body fall backward over the edge of the wooden course, disappearing down the shaft. After a long moment there was a dull thud as the body struck the floor at the base of the tower.

  A wave of dizziness swept over him. Josan stepped back from the edge, his hands stretched behind him until he felt the safety of the stone wall. Back pressed against the wall, he slowly slid down until he was seated, his eyes still fixed on the ladder and the emptiness beyond.

  The encounter had lasted only a few moments, yet he gasped for breath, his blood pounding in his ears as if he had just run a great race. Only now that the danger was past did panic threaten to overwhelm him.

  I could have been killed, Josan thought. He came here to murder me.

  It was a fantastic thought. What could have brought an assassin to this desolate spot, in the farthest reaches of the empire? And why would such a man wish to kill a peaceful monk? Josan was no one of importance. He had no enemies, and if the killer had borne a grudge against the brethren or the servants of the empire, surely there were far more accessible targets. People whose deaths would mean something.

  Was it possible that he had been a thief after all? Yet that made no sense either. True the lenses and magically crafted mirrors were objects of value, but they could only be used in another lighthouse.

  Or perhaps it was sabotage that the intruder had planned. To destroy the instruments that made the lighthouse function and thus imperil the ships that counted on the lighthouse to warn them of danger.

  Each supposition was more fantastic than the last, but the mystery of why he was attacked paled beside the far greater mystery of his improbable survival.

  Josan knew he should have died. There had been nothing in his training to prepare him for a life-and-death struggle against a skilled foe. From his earliest childhood he had devoted himself to the pursuit of knowledge for the enrichment of the order. He had learned to speak seven different languages, to read ancient scripts whose speakers had long since died out, and to use secret mathematical formulas to calculate the positions of the stars.

  There were gaps in his memories from his illness, but nothing had ever led him to suspect that those gaps contained anything other than a life of peaceful study. He remembered nothing that would explain how he had recognized a weapon used by assassins. Nor where his body had learned to strike and defend itself from attack at a level that was purely instinctive.

  He had fought as a man possessed by a warrior spirit. Courage and luck had played their part in his survival, but he knew that in the end he had prevailed because he was the more skilled of the two.

  He shivered, the drying sweat suddenly chill on his flesh as he wondered what other hidden skills this body might have. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. A part of him desperately hoped that this was all some fantastic dream and that at any moment he would awaken. But deep inside he knew better. This was no dream, and he was not the man he had thought himself to be.

  It was a long time before he could persuade himself to move. It was fear that kept him still. Fear of the new truths he might discover about himself. As long as he stayed still he could maintain the illusion that he was a simple monk with a blameless past. But once he climbed down from his refuge he would have to face the tangible evidence that he was more than that. He was a man who knew how to kill and a man that others sought to kill in turn.

  At last, his thirst forced him to move. Carefully he descended the ladder that linked the three courses until he reached the stone staircase that wound down to the base of the tower. His right hand trailed against the wall, taking comfort from the smoothly dressed stones, as if it were his first descent. At last he reached the base where the assassin lay crumpled on the floor, his left leg resting on the bottom step.

  Josan stepped over the body and went to the storeroom. Uncovering the wooden cask, he drank two ladles of water, then filled the small bowl he used for washing. Carefully he scrubbed his hands, driven by a compulsion that he did not understand. There was no visible stain on them; indeed, no blood had been shed. Yet as he washed his hands, he studied them as if they belonged to a stranger. There on the base of his left hand was the round white burn scar from his first days at the lighthouse, when he had carelessly touched one of the globes before it had cooled. His right hand had the calluses of a laborer on his palm and those of a scribe on his forefinger and thumb.

  He had thought that he had known all that these hands could do. But he had never imagined that they knew how to hold weapons, or how to strike a blow that would kill a man. This was more than an unexpected talent for drawing. And while the order valued all learning, try as he may he could think of no reason why one of the brethren should have mastered such skills. His blood chilled as he realized that perhaps this was the true reason for his exile. Perhaps the fever had robbed him not just of his intellect but had also stolen the memories of the crimes he had committed.

  It was an impossible puzzle, and the only ones who could answer his questions were far from here. The answers he sought lay with the members of his order and with whatever had brought this man to kill him.

  Had it been a personal grudge? Or had he come to the lighthouse to do another’s bidding?

  Wiping his hands dry on a scrap of linen, Josan left the storeroom. He crouched beside the corpse, studying the man’s face, but the features revealed no more in death than they had in life. The man was clearly of mixed blood, so he could have come from anywhere in the southern part of the empire. If he had spoken, Josan might have been able to place him by his accent, but the stranger had died without uttering a word.

  Pushing aside his distaste, Josan straightened the man’s limbs and began searching for a clue as to where he had come from. It took some time for him to find the hidden pockets in the man’s tunic, but all were empty. There was no belt pouch, but around his waist was fastened a linen belt that was divided into individual pockets. Each pocket held two coins, one of round gold with the seal of the empire, the other the hexagonal silver currency of Seddon.

  This told him nothing, and he dropped the belt on the ground with disgust.

  Why had this man tried to kill him? Had he journeyed alone or were there others waiting for him? Had he sailed up the coast on a ship that even now lay anchored in some quiet cove? Or had he taken the overland route, convincing one of the villagers to ferry him across the sound? Surely there must be some trace of his passing, some sign of whence he had come.

  The sandals on his feet were but lightly worn, a sign that he had neither ridden nor walked here along the road. Unless, of course, he had left his boots behind with his pack, hidden somewhere in the dunes. For all Josan knew the man had been watching him for hours or even days, waiting for the right moment to make his attack.

  He might even have cohorts still out there, perhaps hidden somewhere in the dune thicket, watching. Waiting.

  At that moment Josan heard a voice call out. He leapt to his feet, his right hand instinctively grasping at his waist as if in search of a weapon. But of course there was no weapon. Nor was there any means to bar the door from the inside. His gaze darted around, and he caught sight of the long dagger, which the assassin had dropped during their struggle. He picked it up, the cold hilt giving him a comfortable feeling of reassurance in his palm. Carefully he stepped around the body, taking a position slightly to the right of the door, where he would not be immediate
ly visible. Anyone coming in from the bright sun to the dimness of the tower would be dazzled for a moment, and he could use that time to strike.

  “Hello,” a man called out, from just outside the tower. Josan’s muscles sagged with relief as he recognized Marco’s voice.

  The door swung outward, and Marco stepped inside, blinking a bit as his eyes adjusted. Renzo followed behind him.

  Josan stepped forward.

  “Greetings to you both, and glad I am to see you,” he said.

  Even in the dim light he could see the blood run from Renzo’s face as he saw the lifeless corpse on the floor. He paused, frozen, his eyes glancing back between Josan and the body, as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing. The canvas sack he was carrying slipped through his fingers to land on the floor with a dull thud.

  Marco was quicker to react. “What have you done?” he demanded.

  “This is not how it seems,” Josan said.

  “You murdered this man? And now you threaten us?” Marco’s voice rose in disbelief.

  Only then did Josan realize that he still held the dagger in his hand. Quickly he set it down.

  “I did not know who approached, and thought only to defend myself,” Josan said. “The dagger is his.”

  “What happened here?” Renzo asked.

  Josan hesitated, wondering how he could explain something that even he did not understand.

  “I was asleep on the topmost course when suddenly I awoke to see this man. I asked him what he wanted, but he did not answer. Instead he attacked, and we struggled. In the end he fell down the shaft. I had only just come down when I heard your hail.”