Ward of the Philosopher (5 page)

Deacon frowned that he didn’t understand.

“Suffice it to say, the Demiurgos wanted to harm his sister. The Archon refused to permit it. He forged a sword of incomparable power and infused it with his own essence. The Sword of the Archon is, in a manner of speaking, his imprint or his double. It is not, however, his slave. The sword is, if you will permit me saying so, its own person.
 

“Together, sword and maker assailed the Demiurgos while he was in mid-clinch with Eingana. The three siblings plunged into the Void, and Ain preserved them so that they emerged the other side unscathed.
 

“Nothing, understand, can enter the Void and continue in existence, but these three did. You might question why Ain permitted this, and believe me, theologians have quibbled about this very point for centuries. Either he couldn’t bear losing his greatest creations, they say, or he had some far-reaching and unknowable purpose in afflicting our cosmos with their presence. If the latter, it casts all manner of aspersions on the loving Ain of the Liber, but that need not concern you.

“The fight between the Archon and the Demiurgos continued on our side of the Void, while Eingana fled among the stars. The Archon succeeded in flinging the Demiurgos back into the Void, this time without Ain’s protection. But rather than wink out of existence, the Demiurgos threw up the Abyss around himself with the sheer force of his will. He is preserved there to this day, trapped at the heart of the infernal realm in a tomb of ice.

“Meanwhile, Eingana had fallen pregnant following her brother’s unwanted attention. The child she bore was so malformed, it could not exit her womb, and so the Archon slit open her belly with his sword and delivered the aberration. It had the head of a dog and the body of a baboon. Needless to say, Eingana was horrified and abandoned the child, as did the all-caring Archon, who then came here to Urddynoor to guide the old faith in the ways of the Supernal Realm. After the Reckoning, he continued by steering the path of the fledgling Templum. As a sign of his protection, he entrusted his sword to the Keeper in Aeterna, who is tasked with averting the greatest of all evils that the Demiurgos sends against us out of spite for his brother.”

Deacon’s head spun with all that he was hearing. The Liber touched upon the war in Araboth, but it was quiet on the details.

Aristodeus gave him room to think, and then finally, Deacon returned to his earlier unspoken question:

“Why me?”

“You believe in fate?” Aristodeus said, once more rummaging through the folds of his robe and growing increasingly irritated.

“No.” Gralia said it was a sin to think such things.

“Neither do I,” Aristodeus said. “If it helps, consider yourself uniquely created by Nous for a task that no one else can do. Of course, my own view is that there is no substitute for innate aptitude coupled with hard work, discipline, and the guidance of an exceptional teacher. It will be made clear to you one day. For now, all you need do is listen, learn, and do as I instruct. The very worst that could happen is that you will be a great swordsman, a brilliant thinker, and a pious luminary. Is that so bad?”

“No,” Deacon said, unable to keep the weariness from his tone.

“You might sound a bit more enthusiastic.”

“I am.” But for Deacon, the half-lie set him teetering on the brink of a sin. All he really wanted was Jarl’s stories back, his mother fussing over him, and the chance to go to the schoolhouse with all the other children, even at the cost of a bloody nose from Brent Carvin once in a while.

Aristodeus sighed. “I expected a degree of gratitude, but then, what do I know? There is a gulf of years between us, young Shader. It may be that I need to modify my approach. Tell you what, let’s take a short break.” He patted down his robe. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen my pipe, have you?”

Deacon shook his head.
 

At least he didn’t voice the lie this time. In his mind, that made the sin less serious. He’d hidden the pipe earlier, knowing the philosopher would grow too irritable to teach until he’d found it.

“Must have left it indoors,” Aristodeus said. “Take an hour to yourself. When we resume, let’s go at it with a little more gusto, shall we?”

“Yes,
Magister
.”

The second Aristodeus disappeared inside the house, Deacon slipped through the garden gate and set off at a run through the woods.

An hour later, he found his father coming down from the hills that sheltered Friston from the sea. Jarl looked tired and haggard, every bit like a man who’d been away from home too long and badly needed a good meal, a hot bath, and bed.

“Deacon?” Jarl said, stumbling into a run to meet him. “Aren’t you supposed to be studying?”

“Got the day off,” Deacon lied, wincing at the sins mounting up. Next visit to Brinwood Priory was going to be a long one.

“So, you came to see your old pa?” Jarl’s face softened, and he ruffled Deacon’s hair.
 

It was rare for Jarl to look anything but stern, except at nighttime, when he read to Deacon or made up ghost stories around the hearth fire.

“I’ve… I’ve missed you, boy.”
 

He never called Deacon “son” and only rarely used his name. But at the same time, it was Jarl who encouraged Deacon to call his mother and father by their given names, which is something none of the other children were allowed to do. Gralia berated him about it from time to time, but all she got for her efforts was a huff and a grunt.

“Then make Aristodeus go away.”
 

The words came out more harshly than Deacon intended, and he realized then just how unhappy he’d become.

“Can’t do that,” Jarl said.

A horn sounded, and Jarl looked off up the hill he’d just come down.

“The alarum,” he said. “The Watch must have spotted something. Tell you what, why don’t you tag along?”

No sooner had they crested the rise, than a man came tearing across the coastal path that ran atop the Downs.

“Reavers, Jarl!” he yelled before he closed the distance. “Three ships in the Channel.”

Jarl glanced at Deacon, then they jogged toward the man.
 

“Gallic?” Jarl asked.
 

Most trouble came from the province of Gallia across the Maranorean Channel.

The man drew up panting before them. Deacon had never seen him before, but that didn’t mean a thing. Besides the families of some of the local children, he rarely got to see anyone; his mother wouldn’t allow it on account of the risk of corruption.

“Either that or the Isles,” the man said. “You want us to fire the beacons?”

Deacon let his gaze run along the line of hills receding into the distance. Atop the highest were set pyramids of wood that could be doused with oil and torched at the first hint of danger.

“Not yet,” Jarl said. “Let’s get a look at them first.”

REAVERS

A
top the clifftop of Craven Head, the wind skirled in hazardous gusts. Deacon blinked against the icy spray coming off the Channel and tried to focus on where his father was pointing. The sea tilted, the ground lurched, and he swayed out toward the edge. Behind his eyes, a corridor of flame opened up. His knees buckled. A yawning black funnel tugged at him, invited him into its depths.

Strong hands steadied him and led him back a pace. He glanced up at his father’s face, saw the concern in his eyes.
 

The hard-men of the Coastal Watch nodded and grumbled. Some of them unconsciously stroked the hafts of spears and axes. Others wrapped fingers around the hilts of scabbarded swords.

“See them now, boy?” Jarl said.
 

Dark smudges lay behind the ocean spray. Deacon squinted until he could make out the black sails of three ships plowing through the surf, white horses leaping away from their keels.

“Them’s reavers, right enough,” Jon Mori’s father said. He was a big man, as wide as he was tall. With his breastplate hitched up over his paunch, he looked like the comedy knights in the morality plays. “Carracks, if I ain’t very much mistook, but they ain’t from Gallia, of that you can be sure.”

“Where then, Konin?” Jarl said.

“That flag they’re flying’s ‘The Impaled Man’. Only scum that will sail under it are from Verusia.” Konin touched his forehead with two fingers in the Nousian manner.
 

It came as a surprise, seeing as Jon Mori said his father shat on Nousians; said they were milksops and cowards who hid weakness behind piety. It didn’t make any difference how often Deacon pointed out it was a weakness that had won the Templum most of the known world.

“Verusia?” Jarl said. There was hesitancy in his voice, as if he didn’t want to believe what he was hearing. “You sure? Bit out of the way for the Lich Lord’s minions to come pillaging, isn’t it?”

“I tell you, that’s their flag, Jarl,” Konin said. “I got a bad feeling about this. We should send word to the Templum.”

Jarl shook his head. “Templum don’t care about us. Maranore’s the arse-end of the Theocracy, far as they’re concerned. And, anyhow, who they gonna send? The nearest garrison’s Londdyr. Unless you sprout wings and fly there, it’d take days to get a message to them, and longer for them to make the march, even if they could be bothered.”

“So, what, then?” a gap-toothed old warrior said. “We evacuate?”

“That ain’t what I’m saying, Gurn.” Jarl switched his gaze to Deacon and said, “Boy, you best get home. Tell Aristodeus… Just tell him. If anyone knows what to do, he does.”

Deacon nodded and started back from the edge. Before he’d gotten out of earshot, someone asked, “What have we got that the dead want, Jarl? I mean, it ain’t like any of us has anything worth looting, and even if we did, what would they do with it?”

Deacon paused just long enough to catch his father’s answer.

“If what the Gallians say about Verusia is true, they ain’t here for plunder; they’re here for our men, women, and children—fodder for the Lich Lord. So, let’s get busy, lads. Light the beacons.”

Deacon had never been afraid for his father before. Jarl was a brute of a man, and noble with it. He’d stand toe to toe with anyone and likely get the better of them. But something like dread had crept into his voice, and it seeped beneath Deacon’s skin like an infection.

He ran along the clifftop a ways then followed the dirt trail down into a gully overlooking a secluded bay. Waves lashed the shore in violent breakers hundreds of feet below. Riding them toward the beach was a fourth ship.
 

Deacon’s heart lurched, and he took a faltering step back up the trail, meaning to tell his father; but when he looked again, the ship had gone.

He shuddered. There had been a black sail, so ragged it could have been woven from cobwebs. He could still almost see it, a phantom against the squall; but the harder he looked, the more he grew convinced it was a trick of the light amplified by his fear.
 

It’s not what he was supposed to feel. Fear was weakness. He had a message to deliver, one his father had entrusted to him. Aristodeus would know what to do, Jarl had said. It was the first time his father had acknowledged the philosopher’s worth. Deacon could tell the two of them didn’t get along, and for Jarl to admit he needed Aristodeus’s help was as surprising as it was unsettling. The Coastal Watch had been formed to deter reavers, and until today, no one had doubted their ability to keep the people of the Downs safe. It was mention of Verusia that had gotten Jarl worried. All Deacon knew was that Verusia bordered Gallia, the lands across the Maranorean Channel. No one spoke of it much, and whenever they did, it was in hushed tones and with a touch of the forehead, even for those who did not love Nous.

When he reached home and pushed through the garden gate, he paused to say a quick prayer at the grave he and Gralia had dug for Nub, then entered through the kitchen door.

Aristodeus looked up from the dining table, the stem of his pipe wedged in the corner of his mouth, pungent smoke pluming from the bowl. Any ire he’d felt at losing the pipe had apparently vanished now it was back in his possession.

Gralia crossed the room so quickly, Deacon flinched, as if she were going to hit him. He knew he was being stupid: she’d never laid a finger on him, and neither had Jarl.

She took him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye.

“Where have you been? And didn’t you hear the alarum? Aristodeus has been worried sick.”

Deacon glanced at the philosopher. He didn’t look worried, leaning back in his chair, blowing smoke rings.

“There’s reavers in the Channel, Mother.”

Gralia turned to Aristodeus.
 

The philosopher stood and moved to the hearth to tap out his pipe. “The beacons have been lit?” he said over his shoulder.

“Father’s orders,” Deacon said.

“How many reavers?”

“Three ships. From Verusia, they said.”

Gralia touched her forehead. Her lips began to move in silent petitions to Nous. She released Deacon’s shoulders and fished her prayer cord from her skirt.

“I thought there was a fourth ship coming in alone,” Deacon said, “but I was just seeing things.”

“Were you now?” Aristodeus collected his sword from where it leaned beside the hearth. “What else?”

“Never you mind,” Gralia said. “Jarl’s lads will see them off.”

“Ordinarily, I’d agree with you,” Aristodeus said. “A fourth ship, you say, young Shader, but you couldn’t be sure?”

“It was like a ghost,
Magister
. I reckon it was my mind playing tricks again, like when I was ill.”

Aristodeus shook his head.

“Father told me to find you, tell you what was happening. He said you’d know what to do.”

“You see, Gralia,” Aristodeus said, “Jarl doesn’t hate me. He’s just envious of the time I spend with the boy. Go on, young Shader, grab your sword, and you can show me where you saw this mysterious fourth ship.”

“No,” Gralia said. “It’s too dangerous, and he’s just a boy.”

“He’ll be with me,” Aristodeus said. “Do you really think he’ll be any safer here if the reavers make shore? Go on now, boy, time’s a wasting.”