The Hero's Lot (35 page)

And he would be required to present the truth to the Judica.

The college of benefices would already have censured him by now for leaving in the midst of deliberations. They would hardly welcome news that challenged their most cherished beliefs and traditions. Aurae's appearance would cost Martin dearly.

Yet Martin watched Karele with an anticipatory hunger that frightened him, even while it washed him from head to toe. With everything that was in him he wanted Aurae to appear, thirsted for it like a man in a desert. Tears of longing welled in his eyes.

But nothing happened.

Karele knelt now, both knees on the ochre stone floor of the chamber, his head bowed, hands raised in an attitude of beseeching. The council members leaned forward, their faces moving from anticipation to vague embarrassment as time slipped by and Aurae did not appear. Martin's chest heaved, acquiescing to his body's demand for air. His breath stirred the air, and his heart thrummed in expectation before the chamber stilled again.

Garet shifted his weight in preparation to rise from his seat.

No.
They had to wait. Everything Karele had done and said had borne witness. A plea that captured all the longing of his call to be a priest, of his deepest desire to know Deas, came as a wordless cry from his lips, and he sank to his knees to mimic Karele's supplicant posture.

 34 
Breath of Wind

A
WHISPER OF AIR
brushed his cheek, flowed past him and grew, ruffling Cruk's hair. It circled the chamber, growing in intensity to ripple Luis's clothes and flow from one council member to the next. It wheeled around the wall, lifting motes of dust to wink and sparkle in the lamplight before spinning and concentrating on Karele. It coalesced upon the healer. Tendrils emerged from the vortex and he rose to his feet. Then it encompassed him, enveloped him in swirling currents.

Beginning with Garet and the Basqu, the council rose to their feet and bowed. “Karele is head of the solis.”

Martin sank back on his haunches, smiled through tears that blurred his vision and turned the room into a waterfall of color. He blinked in an effort to see. The wind increased, lifting the hair from his forehead. With the coarse weave of his cloak he scrubbed his eyes. He needed to see.

Breath left him. The vortex of wind surrounded him now. Tendrils of substance appeared in the wind like tentative suggestions of fog or mist, yet they moved of their own volition, first following the circular wind, now up and down and against
it. He reached out, tentative, to touch a tendril that somehow faced him, stationary within the tiny maelstrom.

Warmth and chills ran over his skin, lifting the hair on his arms. Then, without warning, the wind ceased and the chamber returned to stillness, as if it had never been.

Martin wiped his eyes, found Karele and the rest of the council staring at him in shock, as if he'd become strange in their sight.

The Basqu man cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, Marya. I think you were saying something about not trusting churchmen.”

She sniffed at his jibe, but the look she turned on Martin held surprise and a fading hint of reverence. “My objections are unimportant. For whatever reason, Aurae has chosen the priest as well.” She shook her head, the motion of her black hair echoing the departed wind. “I dislike such tidings.”

Garet nodded. “As do I. However, it may be that we stand on the edge of our gloaming. Representatives from the church and the kingdom know we are here, and if the kingdom's theology proves true, the barrier will fall with Rodran's death.” He looked down the curved table at the rest of the council members. “We must choose our path.”

The Soede snorted. “Choose? What is there to choose? We must align with the kingdom—else the light of the world will be buried beneath a tide of ghostwalkers and theurgists.”

“I think the issue is deeper than that,” the Talian woman said. “No one questions whether we will fight on the side of light or of dark.” She leaned back and tapped a long, tapered fingernail on the table. The click against the stone sounded loud in the silence. “The real question is, will we submit to kingdom authority or marshal and command our own troops?”

The Soede's brows rose. Garet gave a thoughtful nod. Martin stepped forward, trying to smooth his features to hide unexpected nervousness. If the shadow lands fought how and where they chose, the kingdom would never be able to coordinate a successful defense. “If I may speak?”

Garet nodded. “Speak, solis.”

It took Martin a moment to realize that the leader of the
council addressed him. He cleared his throat. “The kingdom possesses fine generals. There are currently five captains within the watch who have mastered the art of war. If we were to offer them a coordinated army under one command, we would have a much better chance of winning.”

The Soede sniffed. “I fought in the Steppes War, priest. I saw how the conscripts drew duty in the vanguard. Tell me what assurances you can provide that the army of Haven will be treated better than draftees.”

Every member of the council leaned forward, awaiting his answer. This, then, was their biggest concern: how to protect their people. His throat clenched. He squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. All of his years in the priesthood and the Judica had prepared him for this. “You have the best assurance of all, my lords and ladies. If you do not receive fair and equitable treatment, your forces can quit the field. You are a sovereign country.”

“I doubt the church will see us that way,” Marya said. “To them we are nothing more than a seldom-remembered penal colony. Once they learn of our numbers, they will see us as a cheap source of manpower and goods.” She pointed. “Mark my words, solis, news of our prosperity will awaken a hue and cry among the nobles and the church to assert control over Haven.”

Garet and the rest of the council nodded, waiting in expectation for Martin's reply. He licked lips gone suddenly dry. This was not some debate over obscure theology. The freedom and autonomy of the shadow lands—or Haven—was at stake. His stentorian cadences were of little use here. Only the truth would suffice. He caught himself.
The truth?

A whisper in his mind, like the sighing of trees, urged him to speak to the point. “Friends,” he said, “what you say is true. The kingdom is as it ever has been—a collection of men, good and bad, compassionate and ambitious. There will be men who will see the unexpected bounty of Haven as nothing more than ripe fruit for the plucking. There are powerful men who crave yet more power. The Weir family continues as the strongest hand in the
nobility after the king, and they have influence in the venerated halls of the cathedral as well.

“But there are also good men, men who will see what you have accomplished here as a miracle and a treasure, men like Archbenefice Canon and Primus Enoch Sten.” His voice caught. “I know these men. They would treasure and strive to protect your people as their own.”

Garet nodded, his eyes moist. “As would you, Solis Martin. Yet kingdom politics may turn with the swiftness of the tide. What can be done to safeguard our people?”

Martin took a deep breath. If the powers of the kingdom objected to what he was about to suggest, he might well end up in the shadow lands himself.
Ha. If
they objected? By Deas in heaven, he should save himself the time and begin looking for a place to live here and now.

“My friends, I think there is a way, though my superiors will dislike the fact that I have suggested it to you.” He paused, out of respect, to make eye contact with each of them. “I will ask the king to declare a writ of recognition for Haven. His declaration will make you a sovereign nation.”

Raucous laughter burst from the Basqu. “Dislike? You have turned mountains into anthills, Solis Martin. The kingdom's numerous exiles have brought us extensive tales of the kingdom over the years. We are not ignorant of the power Duke Weir exercises. The man may just kill you outright.” He turned to Marya. “What say you now?”

“I say that if the church had more such men, she would be a light to illuminate the world.”

The mercurial councilwoman looked upon Martin with fierce admiration and something he hadn't seen from a woman in over twenty years. It made him uncomfortable, and he felt his ears grow warm.

Garet clapped, calling the attention of the council. “I propose that we send Solis Karele and Solis Martin on their way with all the speed and aid they require. In addition, I propose that the writ of recognition be delivered by the king. If the kingdom
grants recognition to Haven, then we shall fight under their banner. How say you?”

Martin lifted his hands in protest. “Rodran would never survive the journey.”

Garet nodded. “Then he must send his niece. Agreed?”

Martin scanned the council. “I will communicate your terms.”

One by one, each member of the council laid their right hand upon the stone table. Garet nodded. “It is decided. Solis Martin, our blessings and prayers go with you.” The members of the council filed out of their seats and moved out in front of the arc of their table. As each member passed Karele they laid their hands upon his head and kissed him. Then they repeated the gesture with Martin.

Marya's warm hands cupped his face, but instead of kissing each cheek, she pressed her lips against his. “If you ever tire of the priesthood, Solis Martin, I think you would make a fine husband.”

Laughter, not unkind, filled the chamber at Marya's words. Even Cruk joined in, and after a moment, during which tension spilled from him like water through a sieve, Martin's gales rebounded from the wall.

The next day they stepped from a flat-bottomed riverboat onto the dock in order to transfer to a ship that would take them to Basquon. Unlike the ports in Erinon or Port City, the docks at the southern tip of Haven did not boast much seafaring capability. In fact, only one small pier jutted out into the hidden harbor that provided access to the strait. Two ships, one on each side, waited with furled sails.

As their party drew closer to the vessels, Martin's stomach roiled at the thought of daring the straits in the craft before him. Both ships appeared seaworthy enough, except that, to all appearances, neither had been to sea in years. A handful of men with fishing lines hung about the docks, regarding the three-masted cogs as fixtures in the landscape rather than means of transportation.

Cruk strode forward shaking his head, muttering under his breath. With tentative steps he crossed the gangplank, feeling each as if he expected the wood to break beneath him and dump him in the gray waters of the harbor. He stepped onto the ship with visible relief.

The deck of the ship was dry. Cruk fingered one of the ropes and snorted. “I wonder how many years it's been since they put to sea.”

Luis made a slow turn. “Where is everybody?”

Cruk shook his head. “On permanent leave, most likely. If anyone's on board this dried-up tub, he'll be in the captain's quarters.” He moved toward the hatch and broad stairs that led down to the next deck. When they reached the captain's quarters, Martin was surprised to find the door's wood polished and gleaming, casting the rest of the dusty interior in stark contrast.

“At least we know somebody's onboard this hulk,” Cruk said.

“Go easy, friend,” Karele said. “You forget that Haven is first and foremost banishment for those who have been excommunicated. Those who have been sent here are under a death penalty if they return to the kingdom.”

“Why did they build ships, then, if they couldn't use them?” Luis asked.

Karele shrugged. “Many who are exiled find it difficult to adjust to a different life. It is likely a few shipwrights and sailors gathered to re-create the life they could no longer have.”

This simple assessment conveyed to Martin the despair of excommunication more than anything else. “I think it's a beautiful ship.” He stepped forward to rap on the door. Muffled voices, a man's and a woman's, came from the interior, the thick oak not quite masking the surprise in their tones. A moment later, the door cracked open to reveal a squat, middle-aged man holding a short sword with rust on it.

His eyes bugged at the sight of Cruk.

“What might you fellows be wantin' of old Amos Tek?”

Cruk's brows rose at the name, but Karele stepped in front of
the watchman. “I am Solis Karele. Are you the captain of this ship?”