The three pillars of the world are faith, wisdom, and justice. Is it any wonder that the world shakes on its foundations? Faith is so often misplaced and, perhaps as often, not-placed when it should be; wisdom is only clear in retrospect, if then; and justice . . .
Father, forgive not this sinner, for he doesn't deserve it.
You gave Your only begotten Son for the salvation of those who would accept it, and regardless of how much I wish that I could and have, I am reminded that I reject His Sacrifice every time I lay my hand on the damned Khan.
I haven't, and can't, repent of having taken such an evil thing to hand, to mix my soul with his, as I did so and do so believing it necessary to serve my King, my Order, and my brothers, and have seen the necessity many times over.
You are, You have said, a jealous God. Punish me as You see fit for loving them more than You, as I do; may my eternal screams be sweet music in Your Ears.
Absent the repentance that I can't give, there'd be no justice in forgiving me, and the world already shakes enough on its foundations as it is; I do not ask that You shake it even a little more for such as Joshua Grayling.
I don't ask that. But I do beg this of You: in Your infinite Mercy, please grant me the knowledge that I have, indeed, served my King, my Order, and my brothers.
When the Fallen One laughs at me for having thrown away Heaven for nothing, I beg the comfort of the knowing, as well as the faith, that he is, in this as in so much else, the Father of Lies.—Gray
There was much in life that Stavros Kechiroski didn't understand, but one of the things he did was keeping silent, and trying to avoid being noticed, while taking notice. If you just kept your mouth shut and your eyes open, you could learn a lot, and if you'd mastered the art of opening your mouth only occasionally and carefully—while making sure that it didn't look like you were being careful—you could learn even more.
And he had been very interested in watching these knights and the marines prepare to go ashore, even though that had meant rising earlier than any of the other hired-ons, save for the cook and his mate. The—well, other people, no need to think about precisely who they were—other people probably knew as much about their techniques as they needed to, but Stavros found it interesting, and his presence could easily be explained, were it necessary, as the product of him being unable to sleep.
The marine sergeant, Fotheringay, had had a quick discussion with the two the knights at the bow, then had gotten out of their way, and joined Stavros—in location, if not in any social sort of way—at the stern. Stavros didn't blame him—while Nissim al-Furat would have very much liked to have eavesdropped on any conversation between Cully and Gray, Stavros Kechiroski was the sort of man who would give such men a wide berth, if possible. They made him nervous.
Still, it was an easy morning, so far. Spiros was still asleep below, and given the prodigious amount of work that he and Stavros had already accomplished—and, more likely, the Abdullahs' preoccupation with more immediate matters—Stavros was left alone to dawdle over his morning porridge and tack.
Whether Fotheringay had already eaten aboard the Cooperman, or wasn't interested in such ordinary fare, he didn't so much as glance at the kettle, but set his gear down on the deck in front of a stanchion of the aft rail, then sat down on the deck itself, his legs over his gear, more likely to prevent any concern about it falling overboard than out of fear of theft, folded his arms over his massive chest, and leaned his head back against the rail, letting his eyes sag shut.
All told, it should be an interesting day. Too bad that there was no obvious need for a carpenter's mate on the shore party. When they returned—if they returned—no doubt Stavros would find out much of what had gone on, but there really was no substitute for seeing for oneself, after all. It would have been more than a little suspicious for him to have asked to join the marines, and more so to join the knights and their companions who were to go inland, but . . .
Well, there was nothing to be done about it. They were apparently going to use the Turks as porters, as well as guides. Still, if he saw one of them talking to the Abdullahs, it might be because they had decided that they'd need some extra porters, and being caught trying to sneak below would have a good chance at earning Stavros the job. Something to keep alert for.
Milos Abdullah came on deck, giving a quick stir to the porridge before he slipped the steel cover over the cooker. Breakfast was apparently over. When Spiros came up, he could eat either cold porridge and tack, or go hungry until the evening meal—something that only bothered Stavros because it would likely do nothing to improve the carpenter's temper.
The rest of the shore party gradually joined Cully and Gray. There were the two Turks, as Stavros had anticipated, and the wizard with his manservant, and—
What?
Stavros had been watching the activity toward the stern; not the sky; he didn't notice the huge raven until moments before it dropped onto the deck.
A raven? Here?
Fotheringay leaped to his feet. "What the bloody hell?"
Milos Abdullah took a step forward, but stopped himself. None of the other Abdullahs moved, save for Salim, the captain, who raised his hands, fingers spread wide, making push-back motions, as though anybody would approach.
Sigerson started to take a step forward, but his man gripped him by the arm and pulled him back. Understandable, and sensible—but the strange thing was the knights—they didn't do anything.
They just stood there, motionless.
"Help me, please," Black said.
Gray took a step toward him, but Black held up a hand.
"No—you can't do any good that way. Not here." Black's outstretched hand was covered with blood and cuts, and as he held it out, more appeared; Black only winced a little, and looked down at it with a remarkably detached sort of interest when the tips of the two outer fingers disappeared, as though sheared off, then formed the hand into a fist that dripped with blood.
Gray wasn't interested in Black's opinion—the first thing to do was to get him some help; Gray reached out to grab him by the collar and drag him away—but his hand went right through the collar, and Black, who was still kneeling on the deck before him.
"No." Black shook his head. "You've got to come with me—I can . . ." He swallowed once, hard. "I can open a way for you, you and that damned sword of yours, and perhaps, perhaps bring others along as well, but I—" He shuddered as a gash opened up along his forehead. "It has to be done now. Please."
"Me? Only me?"
"You, David, Niko, John of Redhook, of your Order; I can't reach many others, and they wouldn't do any good, in any case. I cry out to a few of my own kind, or near enough to my own kind—but She is too weak, and I think too frightened. Coyote will think on it until too late, wondering if I'm joking with him, and be happy that the joke appears to be on me; the One-Eyed's sleep will not be broken for this, any more than that of the rishis. Holowaka's wings are too weak, Huitaca is too drunk; Julana and Njirana are still in the Dream Time; the Litae offer to bind my wounds, but wouldn't do more than that even if they could." As Black spoke, more wounds blossomed all over him, as though he was being cut by swords every bit as invisible as his own form was intangible here.
"What did Bear say? Big John?"
Black laughed, although that sent him into a spasm of coughing; bloody phlegm issuing from his mouth as he did, drops and globs that disappeared as they hit the unmarked wood of the deck. "John of Redhook asks the same about Bear, as Bear does about you." Black wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, smearing blood on his face. "Can't any of you decide for yourself?"
They were close to the source of the swords; Gray could feel it. This was probably just some diversion—a wizard who could make a live sword, after all, should be capable of creating an illusion.
What harm, though, could an illusion do?
He turned to ask Bear, but . . .
He was alone on the deck. The heavily reefed sails still fluttered on the Marienios's masts. Back at the stern, the wheel was still moving, both back and forth, as though turned by invisible hands.
But there was nobody there.
"No, you'll have to decide for yourself. I . . . can't."
Gray shook his head. "My duty is not to you, Black."
"Duty, no—but can you have, for once, just a little faith? Can't you accept that by saving me, you might just save yourself?"
"You've chosen to present yourself, at least to me, much like me, Black. Perhaps your soul is as . . . wrong as mine. I'd not be distracted from my duty to save my own life—I won't for yours."
"Then—"
"Then: no."
"Help me, Bear," Wolf said. "Please."
Bear tried to scoop him up in his arms, but his arms went right through.
"No, no—that won't work." Wolf's voice seemed to hold almost as much frustration as pain. "Come with me; help me. I swear on all that's holy that it will be worth your while, for yourself, for your Order."
Bear sighed. "I've heard many an oath sworn in my time," he said. "That's not the way to manipulate me."
Yes, Bear took oaths seriously, and was hardly the only one who did, in or out of the Order—but all that you could know when someone promised something was that those were the words he could speak.
"I'm not—" Wolf's words were strangled in his throat by a scream as half of his right ear disappeared; he clapped what was left of his right hand to it. "I'm not trying to manipulate you, Bear—I'm begging for your help."
He started to look around—where was Gray? Where were all the others? It was just like it had been at the castle on Pantelleria—and it was all he could do, here and now, to think about the others.
"Why do you all do that?" Wolf let out a groan. "You're all the same, you are. No, no, you're not, but—please. I . . . if you wait much longer, Bear, you may as well not help at all. I don't know what they're going to do with me—I don't even know who they are, but . . . Gray won't. He doesn't trust me, and—"
"Trust is earned; trust is given; trust is not taken by demand, nor is it created by begging."
It was not Bear's to judge if the Wise had been justified in holding himself separate from the rest of the world. And, in truth, it had done less of that than some others, and despite the Wise's appearance when Bear had been on Pantelleria, it could have been that he was, like She was, too old and tired to do more.
"Can you not spare some for me?" Wolf pleaded. "I can promise you much, and—"
"No." Bear shook his head. "You've nothing to promise me at all. I serve my Lord, my King, and my brothers. I've no room left in me to serve you, Wolf."
"Cully—"
Cully shook his head. "You choose foolishly when you appeared as Her, and perhaps even more foolishly to mimic Bedivere."
The false Bedivere sprouted another arrow, right next to the first; the fingers of his one working hand pulled weakly, impotently, futilely at it.
It was, of course, the eyes that bothered Cully.
"What do you want of me?" Cully asked. "How can you even reach out to me, here?"
"I think you know." The false Bedivere shook his head. "Most would say that that wizard broke your bond to Jenn, and there's surely some truth to that. But it's still there, remnants of it are, traces that nothing short of death can break—just as your bond to Her is, and to the others. Deny it if you will, but it's what has made it possible for me to beg you." The Wise shook his head sadly. "But Gray and Bear have said no, and you'll be no different. Not that you'd be enough, a man with just an ordinary sword."
Cully nodded. "That is, indeed what I am, an ordinary man, with no claim to virtue or nobility beyond other men—less than many." He let his shoulders relax. "But not enough? What does that matter to the likes of me?"
Niko wouldn't be fooled, not by this lying image that proclaimed itself to be Grandfather. It had fooled Niko before—but it wouldn't this time, not again. Niko didn't like to be fooled.
"Help me, Niko," the lying image said. "Please. I . . . make no promises, no guarantees, no offers. I tell you, in truth, that if you come to my aid, whatever you seek ashore will likely long be fled by the time you could return. I don't tell you if it's there, or not, and not just because you'd not believe me, but because I don't know. I don't think that you and your one sword could defeat all of them—there's far more of them than of you."
He spoke calmly, as though he were Grandfather, discussing how to set the nets on a flat sea. He went on: "It could be that the ones who killed your family are not even ashore, and that if you help me now, you'll never avenge them, even if you live out the day."
"Then what are you asking?"
Grandfather—no, the lying image of Grandfather—swallowed once, hard.
"I ask the help of Sir Niko Cristofolous, Knight of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon, the Order that lives by 'service, honor, faith, and obedience; justice tempered only by mercy; mercy tempered only by justice.' I ask for rescue, for aid—I ask for mercy, Sir Niko."
Niko clasped his hand to Nadide's hilt, and felt her warm presence.
I don't trust this one, Niko.
Nor do I, Nadide-precious. It lied to me before, and it's probably lying now, about many things. But I do trust that it's in pain, in desperation—like my sisters were in their last moments, like you were. It begs for mercy, Nadide.
Service, honor, faith, and obedience. Justice tempered only by mercy; mercy tempered only by justice.
He could almost feel her smile. Then there's no question, is there?
Not for you and me, little one. Not here, and not now.
Niko drew Nadide, her redness flaring in his mind, the scabbard held properly in his left hand, just as he had been taught.
Not taught enough, of course—but he, at least, knew how to hold himself.
"Then let it be so," he said, quietly.
At those words, the sea went all dark before him, dark as the blackest of night, and a single, huge swell rose up before the bow of the ship.
Sir Niko Christofolous ran for the bow, ignoring Cully's cry of "Niko, no!" from behind him as he leaped to the rail. Nadide was warm in his hand, and his mind, and his soul; he wasn't alone.
And, then without pause or hesitation, he jumped into the darkness.