The Temple Page 14
He was still wet when he left the cabin, struggling to fit into his boots. The ship was surprisingly clean, with no significant damage to speak of. Halas picked up a handful of weeds and tossed them over the side. Martarey stood nearby, rubbing his face and looking off toward the horizon. Halas nodded in greeting.
“How’s yer arm?” Martarey asked.
“It hurts, a little. You all right?”
“Yeah. Nearly drowned last night, down in the hold. We had to patch the hull in several places with hot tar and swollen rope. My bones are stiff. I tell you, I ain’t never see a storm quite like that, not in all my years. It’s bad fortune.”
Halas nodded again. It was rather awkward, but he wasn’t going to be the first to walk away. Martarey relieved him, limping toward some of the men. Halas leaned on the rail, looking off into the now calm waters. Prince Aeon was next to him when he turned. Halas jumped.
“My apologies,” the prince said. “I did not mean to sneak up on you.”
“No worries.”
It was a while before the prince said anything. Then, “Thank you…for helping save Tormod. I do not know what I would do without him. He is as a father to me, you know.”
“What of your own father?” Halas blurted.
Prince Aeon shook his head. “He was not often around.”
“And your mother? What of the queen?”
“Nor was she. I have not seen my mother in almost three years.”
“I’m sorry,” Halas said.
“Do not be. My father said that she would try to hurt me; it is why he sent me away. I told him that I would sneak off in the night, but he told Tormod to take me, and Tormod booked passage on this ship. Even my father does not know of my whereabouts. Both of them are worried that my mother’s men will come after me. I do not know why; I do not think she would do such a thing. She is my mother.” He shook his head again. “No more about me. Tell me about you. Who are your parents?”
“My mother died when I was a child. My father is Halbrick Duer.” Prince Aeon cocked his head to the side. “Is something wrong?”
“I know that name, though I do not know from where. Who is he?”
That is a very good question, Halas thought. “A farmer. My family owns a quarter-farm. Potatoes.”
“Oh. Perhaps I was mistaken, then.”
“Perhaps.” Neither one thought so.
Things were better. Word traveled fast on The Wandering Blade, and when the sailors heard that two of the draftees had been injured while trying to bring their comrades to safety, the men softened. Not a lot, but enough. Halas no longer had to watch his footing around the crew. He no longer felt their spit, no longer was pushed. No one tampered with his food. Only six members of the crew felt any continued hostility toward the three friends, and those were Absolon’s best boys. None of the draftees had ever learned their names, and the boys were certainly not forthcoming with any information. In light of the upcoming trial, the boys had been set free from the ship’s brig to sort out their defense. Whenever Halas saw one, the boy would scowl and glare until one or the other passed out of eyesight. It became a battle of wills, a question of who would back down first. Halas had no intention of losing that battle. Their trial was brief. Brennus held it on the deck at noon, three days after the storm.
Brennus stood at the captain’s wheel, his back to it. The Wandering Blade was anchored. Every man in the crew stood on deck. Beside Brennus were four others: Cloart, Flanagan, Absolon, and another sailor whose name Halas didn’t know. They were to be the judges. Between them and the crowd sat six of Absolon’s best boys. He had ten. The four who had not involved themselves in the violence sat off to the side, watching nervously. Garek and Tormod sat with the boys. Halas stood at the head of the crowd, Desmond on his left and Aeon on his right. Everyone wore his full uniform. Tormod and Aeon had no uniforms, so they were dressed in a drab grey.
“Let it be known,” said Brennus, “that Garek Duer and Tormod Farn are not on trial. This is the trial of six crewmen. They are the best boys of Absolon Bayard, Head Chef to The Wandering Blade. The names of the defendants are as follows: Bartholomew Hadric, Hector Solem, Ferris Solem, Daniel Alfred, Kayne Rom, and Olan Rom.”
Halas did a double take at the final name. He glanced at the boy in question, wondering if it had been Olan all along, following his friends in secret. But no, it wasn’t him. That didn’t make sense, in any case. Why would Olan attack Garek?
“The charge of this trial is grievous assault of a crewman. Boys, do you understand the charge?”
Murmured agreements. Brennus continued. “Good. Because you serve so closely under Chef Absolon, my first act of this trial will be to dismiss him from the court. Absolon, do you agree?”
“I agree,” said Absolon. “Though it pains me to do so. Go easy, Brennus?”
“Step down, please,” Brennus said. Absolon nodded and took his place in the crowd. “In his stead, I appoint Crewman Pullman Knox to the court. Crewman Knox, do you accept?”
“I do,” said a man in the crowd.
“Come join us, please.”
The man made his way to the head of the crowd and moved to Brennus’ side. “Let’s begin. Garek Duer, please address the court.”
Garek rose and approached. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Sir. Captain.”
“Garek Duer, please give your account of the event.”
“Gladly. Someone made…a mess…on the aft deck, behind the passenger cabins. I went to clean it. I was alone. These six jumped me. They said they didn’t like me because I was a draftee. They said that if I cried out, they would throw me over the side. So it took me a while to cry out.”
Halas stiffened at his brother’s account of things. He felt so helpless about the whole situation. If only he’d known, he would have been able to help Garek. Garek was decent with his fists, and Halas was even better. Between the two of them, they could have easily handled Absolon’s boys.
“They hit me for a while,” Garek continued. He stared holes in his boots. “One of them did. I thought, uh, that I was going to die. I got so angry with them. I felt so humiliated. Then Tormod came, and I guess he worked them over like they had me.”
“I see. Thank you, Garek. You may be seated. Tormod, please address the court.”
Garek took his place. Tormod offered him a reassuring smile as he approached the stairs.
“Tormod Farn, were these the boys you found assaulting Garek Duer?”
Tormod nodded. “They were. Kayne and Olan Rom were on lookout. The Solem boys held Garek’s arms. Daniel Alfred had him by the hair, keeping his face exposed. Bartholomew did the hitting.”
“And what did you do when you saw this event transpiring?”
“I stopped it.”
“How did you stop it?”
“Violently. The Roms were closest, and in my way. I dealt with them quickly. The Solems, too. They dropped Garek and tried to attack me. Their mistake. Bartholomew Hadric went last.”
“Do you think your behavior was a little extreme, Tormod?”
“Not at all. I have no tolerance for those who torment and brutalize the helpless. You’re a man of honor, Captain. If you had seen what I did, you surely would have done the same.”
“Did anything else of note happen, Tormod?”
“No. I carried Garek to the infirmary and some of the crew helped the boys.”
“Very well. You may be seated.”
Tormod went back to his seat. Halas tried to catch his eyes, but could not. Garek refused to look up.
“I think it is fairly clear what happened here. Does the court agree?”
“Aye,” said Cloart.
“Aye,” said Flanagan.
“Aye,” said Knox.
“Aye,” said the final officer.
“Very well. Boys, stand and approach the court. You’ve been tried with the grievous assault of a crew member, and convicted of this charge. Normally, the penance for such a charge is lashings…”
“Be quiet!” Brennus commanded. The boy ceased his whining at once. “I would hardly call six on one a fair fight either, or even four on one. As for your little tantrum, I’ll ignore it. As I was saying, the normal sentence is fifteen lashings, but I must take your age into account. You will not receive the whip, but I will double your shifts and lower your allotted rations from three meals a day to two. When we reach Earlsfort, we will be in port for fourteen days. You will spend those days in the city jail. When we depart the city, you will be back on standard duty. Your pay will be docked by half. Does that seem fair to you?”
Bartholomew hung his head. The other boys said nothing. Bartholomew whispered, “Yes sir.”
And so they traveled down the Inigo River.
The sun smiled on them, and there were no more storms. Rain fell gently on occasion, but at nothing more than a drizzle. The winds were warm and relaxing. Brennus announced that they had reached a more easterly vantage, and were at the halfway point in their route.
With less time spent worrying about the crew, Halas’ thoughts turned more and more to home. Halbrick. Conroy. Cailin.
The forest.
As much as he pondered over the forest, no answers occurred to him. Father is probably in there right now. Halas felt a sharp pang of worry settle into his gut. He wondered what could drive a man into such darkness. All his life, Halas’ father had always moved with a sense of purpose, and Halas assumed it was this purpose that kept him on the wrong side of the Treeline. But what purpose? What possible reason could Halbrick have for going into such a dangerous place, and going alone, nonetheless?
Nothing sprang to the forefront of his mind. Conroy was involved. Halas thought of the man’s gracious offer to take Halbrick in over the winter, and he knew it was a lie. Halbrick likely hadn’t left the forest, if even he was still alive.
A true puzzle, and Halas had never been one for puzzles, especially ones with so very many pieces. How did everything fit together? The draft? The mysterious letters Conroy had tried to decipher? Were those connected? Halas wanted to believe that the draft was just that—a draft, but he could not. Conroy himself had said it was a rarely used practice, and for obvious reasons. Really, what were the chances of it happening just as Halas was getting what Halbrick may have deemed ‘too involved?’
Thinking never led Halas down any pleasant roads. He swore, swatting his forehead and resting his palm there. Conroy was a friend, and his father was, well, his father. Neither would send Halas away in such a crude manner.
Or would they? Halbrick had behaved similarly before. Halas remembered when he was a boy of only seven or eight, and Halbrick had decided he was ready to learn to use a bow. Garek had wanted to try as well, but he was too young. He very well may have just shot himself, rather than the straw man Halbrick had erected in the yard. He denied the boy, but Garek persisted, until eventually Halbrick sent him into Cordalis with several detricots and some friends. Halas’ father often sent his boys on errands when he thought they needed to be clear of the farm for one reason or anther. Perhaps this was simply a more extreme scenario. And then there was Conroy, who shunned Halas so totally when Halbrick had first gone missing.
He supposed there were really two options. Option one: Halbrick and Conroy decided Halas was becoming a bother and needed him out of the way. Option two: they thought he might be in danger. Nothing in their behavior throughout Halas’ life gave him any reason to suspect the former, but his own imagination claimed that idea as the most likely and simply ran with it, logic be damned. Halas spent many sleepless nights pondering that particular gem, but as much as he thought about his father, Cailin dominated his mind twice as often. He’d sit at the rail as the sun fell, watching it, wishing she were in his arms. He imagined her to be at their knoll, curled up against a stump and watching with him. The idea gave him comfort; she’d not forgotten their love.
He supposed that was the root of his problem with being away from her: that she might drift away. His heart burned with a want, a need for her touch, but he also thought that maybe, just maybe, she would find someone else. Memory of Halas would fade, and then some other boy would wander along and sweep her off her feet. Perhaps even one of Halas’ friends: Gale, or Olan, or Rufus. Cailin was beautiful and amazing; she would certainly never hurt for suitors.
No hurt that Halas had suffered so far compared to that thought. Cailin, who Halas loved and cherished above all else, may very well forget about him. More than that, she would forget about him and make off with someone else.
That’s not to say he didn’t trust her; he did, more even than he loved her. But who was to say what was happening in Cordalis? As the days went on and The Wandering Blade sailed along, these thoughts became more and more graphic in their detail. Visions of Cailin waiting patiently at their knoll turned to much darker fantasies. He saw her with Olan—more often than not it was Olan—lying in the grass, two sweat-covered bodies rolling about. Her legs wrapped around his, his hands in her hair, their lips entwined, their bodies writhing in pleasure. Halas did all he could to quell these visages, but it was no use. He may as well have tried to stop the wind from blowing.
Cailin had very nearly come of age. If Halas’ estimation of the date was correct, there were but thirteen days until her twentieth birthday. Anything could happen. Her mother could take up match making, or her boorish father could take the more direct route and sell her outright. Why not? He was more monster than man, it seemed, more than capable of selling his own daughter for pennies. Halas envisioned Cailin being carted off to a rich family somewhere in the hills. He would return to Cordalis and she would simply be gone.
Nothing more to it. And there was nothing Halas could do.
Four months.
The days continued as normal. Halas went about his daily routine with a growing disgust. He despised farming for the very reason he despised being on the ship: monotony. Each day he would rise, wake Garek (Des was already at work in the kitchen), and go down to the galley for breakfast. It was his meals that differed the most each morning; one meal he would be served eggs, the next it was oatmeal. Mostly it was oatmeal; if they had more of anything than spódhla, it was oatmeal, whole barrels of the stuff. The eggs were a rare occasion, as The Wandering Blade was down to just five hens.
After breakfast Halas set to work cleaning (swabbing, the sailors called it) the deck. Sometimes he whistled as he worked, though with each day this lessened. After swabbing it was time to clean the kitchen, which he’d finish doing just in time for lunch. Lunch was spódhla.
He loved his afternoons as he hated his mornings. After lunch, Halas, officially off duty, would visit Tormod and Prince Aeon. Garek and Des would accompany him more often than not. Aeon smiled more and more around the three draftees, and soon they were chatting like old friends. Prince Aeon told Halas of life in the palace, fencing and riding and hunting game. He was a very adept hunter, he’d tell Halas, and Halas could listen eagerly to these stories all afternoon. Each word was a new adventure, better than the books because Aeon’s stories were real. The prince did not often leave the castle and had no siblings, so he was kept entertained by his governess, Tessa, whom he’d been with since the crib. Halas wished he had had a governess; Aeon’s sounded like a very fun woman. When Aeon was a baby, she would put him on her shoulders and run around his bedroom, laughing and making horse noises. Aeon confided in Halas that he missed Tessa more than anything.
In turn, Halas would talk with Aeon about the joys and pleasures of farming. He tried to embellish these tales, to make them more interesting than they were. Aeon smiled politely and nodded with each telling. After nearly a week of this, Halas burst into laughter.
“What’s the matter?” Aeon inquired.
> “Perhaps we should stick to your stories, my lord. I fear mine are very dull.”
“No, that’s not…”
Halas waved his protests away. “I see it in your eyes, Prince Aeon. You are uninterested. It’s all right; I hate it as well. You have your lances, I have my potatoes.”
Aeon laughed. “Very well then. Let me tell you of the time I first attended my father’s court.”
They traveled down the river for several weeks unmolested. A few times Halas could actually see land, in the form of towering cliffs, miles and miles away. Halas learned to welcome these sights, however faint they might be. He yearned for land more than he yearned for Cailin or his father. To be able to set his feet on solid ground would be to make everything right in his life. He wanted the world to be steady. On the ship, everything rocked gently to and fro, back and forth, left to right. It was constant, and occasionally still made Halas’ stomach churn. Garek was often sick, and it earned him only scorn from the crew.
On one of these occasions, Halas stood behind him, patting his back. Garek leaned over the side. The ship heaved from side to side in a harsh gale. It wasn’t nearly equal to the storm of their second month, but it certainly was no romp. The rain battered their backs and the wind made sure footing impossible. Halas clutched the rail tightly with one hand as he comforted Garek with the other. His mop was clenched firmly in his armpit. He decided that using the tool would be fruitless this day.
Captain Brennus approached. “Captain on deck!” someone yelled, and everyone currently unoccupied turned to face him. Brennus waved his hand appreciatively.
“I have good news!” the captain said. “We are well on our way to the end of November, and if my calculations are correct, that puts us at Earlsfort within this next fortnight.” At this, the men cheered, Halas and Garek not least among them. Halas realized just how much he needed to set foot on dry land. He needed off the ship. Two weeks seemed like an eternity, but he would have to bear it. He smiled at Garek.