Traveler is Aiden. He watches us. He knows all the things his children do.”
“The Traveler is Urec,” someone grumbled.
“That is not what I believe,” Ciarlo said, as if that ended the matter. “He performed a miracle—healed my leg, took away my pain. An amazing demonstration of his powers.”
“If the Traveler is your friend, then ask him to free us,” another man said. “Now that’s a demonstration I’d like to see.”
“We are all here for a reason,” Ciarlo said. “Maybe my reason is to tell you the things I know. And maybe the reason you’re here is to listen. You were taught fanciful stories by the priestesses. Now let me tell you about Aiden’s voyage.” He rowed mechanically, but closed his eyes and traveled in his imagination, seeing the historical events as if he had been there himself. When he described how Aiden’s Arkship was beached on a high hill in Ishalem, he wasn’t surprised to hear grumbles and refutations, since Urabans had always insisted that the wreck was Urec ’s ship, not Aiden’s.
But Ciarlo continued preaching without pause, talking about Aiden’s grandson Sapier, who had sailed with a crew of disreputable men who cast him overboard with nothing but driftwood and a fishhook. Blessed by Ondun, Sapier had hooked a sea serpent, which towed him all the way back home. During his ordeal, Sapier had received revelations about Aiden’s teachings.
In the midst of his talk, a fiery line stung like acid across his bent back, and Ciarlo heard the crack of a whip. “I’ll have none of that garbage aboard my ship!” Captain Belluc’s wide face was dark as he descended from the hatch into the slave hold. His earring glinted. He lashed his whip again.
Ciarlo braced himself against the pain, wondering how the captain could have heard him from above. The slaves chained next to him tried to squirm out of the way to avoid the lash, but one of them caught the tip nevertheless.
The oarmaster stopped drumming to let the confrontation play out, more interested than intimidated. With a sniff, the captain issued his pronouncement. “Since you have so much extra energy to talk, you won’t need your rations today. You’ll go without your bowl of food.”
Ciarlo didn’t argue, simply endured. Flustered that the Aidenist prisoner did not plead for mercy, the Moray ’s captain glowered at them all, then climbed back up the wooden ladder to the main deck.
Later, after sunset, Belluc led a perfunctory prayer from Urec’s Log for his passengers as the galley drifted in calm waters. The oarmaster shuffled forward with a heavy kettle, ladling out bowls of watery stew made from fish heads and guts.
Ciarlo went without, per the captain’s orders. His stomach was tight with hunger, but he didn’t complain. One of the nearby slaves looked at him with sad eyes and extended his own bowl so that Ciarlo could take a sip.
The oarmaster hurried back, yelling, and knocked the bowl from the other slave’s hands. “You go without, too! Captain’s orders!”
The kindly slave turned away from Ciarlo with an air of crushing disappointment. Ciarlo closed his eyes, breathed evenly, and recited his own prayers to Aiden.
* * *
Riding aboard the Moray allowed Asaddan to see parts of the land he had not yet visited on the Middlesea coast. He sat back on a wooden crate and watched as the dusk shadows cloaked the shore. Off in the distance, he could see the twinkling lights of lamps and cookfires in a coastal town.
If only Shipkhan Ruad had remained in Ishalem just another week or two, they could have passed through the new canal and voyaged together into the Middlesea, but that was not to be. Since he wanted to see other parts of Uraba, he didn’t mind riding aboard this slave galley as it made slow progress toward Olabar, stopping at village after village.
Though the soldan-shah had given him a wardrobe of silken clothes, Asaddan preferred his traditional buffalo-skin vest that left his arms
“The Traveler is Urec,” someone grumbled.
“That is not what I believe,” Ciarlo said, as if that ended the matter. “He performed a miracle—healed my leg, took away my pain. An amazing demonstration of his powers.”
“If the Traveler is your friend, then ask him to free us,” another man said. “Now that’s a demonstration I’d like to see.”
“We are all here for a reason,” Ciarlo said. “Maybe my reason is to tell you the things I know. And maybe the reason you’re here is to listen. You were taught fanciful stories by the priestesses. Now let me tell you about Aiden’s voyage.” He rowed mechanically, but closed his eyes and traveled in his imagination, seeing the historical events as if he had been there himself. When he described how Aiden’s Arkship was beached on a high hill in Ishalem, he wasn’t surprised to hear grumbles and refutations, since Urabans had always insisted that the wreck was Urec ’s ship, not Aiden’s.
But Ciarlo continued preaching without pause, talking about Aiden’s grandson Sapier, who had sailed with a crew of disreputable men who cast him overboard with nothing but driftwood and a fishhook. Blessed by Ondun, Sapier had hooked a sea serpent, which towed him all the way back home. During his ordeal, Sapier had received revelations about Aiden’s teachings.
In the midst of his talk, a fiery line stung like acid across his bent back, and Ciarlo heard the crack of a whip. “I’ll have none of that garbage aboard my ship!” Captain Belluc’s wide face was dark as he descended from the hatch into the slave hold. His earring glinted. He lashed his whip again.
Ciarlo braced himself against the pain, wondering how the captain could have heard him from above. The slaves chained next to him tried to squirm out of the way to avoid the lash, but one of them caught the tip nevertheless.
The oarmaster stopped drumming to let the confrontation play out, more interested than intimidated. With a sniff, the captain issued his pronouncement. “Since you have so much extra energy to talk, you won’t need your rations today. You’ll go without your bowl of food.”
Ciarlo didn’t argue, simply endured. Flustered that the Aidenist prisoner did not plead for mercy, the Moray ’s captain glowered at them all, then climbed back up the wooden ladder to the main deck.
Later, after sunset, Belluc led a perfunctory prayer from Urec’s Log for his passengers as the galley drifted in calm waters. The oarmaster shuffled forward with a heavy kettle, ladling out bowls of watery stew made from fish heads and guts.
Ciarlo went without, per the captain’s orders. His stomach was tight with hunger, but he didn’t complain. One of the nearby slaves looked at him with sad eyes and extended his own bowl so that Ciarlo could take a sip.
The oarmaster hurried back, yelling, and knocked the bowl from the other slave’s hands. “You go without, too! Captain’s orders!”
The kindly slave turned away from Ciarlo with an air of crushing disappointment. Ciarlo closed his eyes, breathed evenly, and recited his own prayers to Aiden.
* * *
Riding aboard the Moray allowed Asaddan to see parts of the land he had not yet visited on the Middlesea coast. He sat back on a wooden crate and watched as the dusk shadows cloaked the shore. Off in the distance, he could see the twinkling lights of lamps and cookfires in a coastal town.
If only Shipkhan Ruad had remained in Ishalem just another week or two, they could have passed through the new canal and voyaged together into the Middlesea, but that was not to be. Since he wanted to see other parts of Uraba, he didn’t mind riding aboard this slave galley as it made slow progress toward Olabar, stopping at village after village.
Though the soldan-shah had given him a wardrobe of silken clothes, Asaddan preferred his traditional buffalo-skin vest that left his arms
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