David Farland - Sons of the Oak

Streben gave a sneer so full of rage that Stalker couldn’t resist. He slapped the sneer off his nephew’s face.

Streben spent the rest of the day swabbing decks.

Throughout the afternoon, Fallion kept his eye to the horizon behind, catching glimpses of the black ship. It was losing ground, but kept following.

Worrying about it would drive Fallion mad, he knew. He had to keep busy. He could wear himself out for a few hours a day in weapons practice, but he needed something more.

As he and Rhianna wandered the ship, they chanced upon Captain Stalker coming out of his cabin, and Fallion caught a glimpse inside. The place was a pigsty, papers stacked and falling all over his small desk, spilling onto the floor, goods in boxes waiting to be stowed, floors that hadn’t been scrubbed in months.

Fallion let the captain close the door, then bowed deeply and said, “Sir, I wanted to offer my thanks for your help this afternoon, for restraining that man.”

“My nephew, Streben?” the captain said with a sly smile. “No thanks are needed. ’E’s an ass, and asses need to be whipped. I’ll see that ’e stays in line.”

“Sir,” Fallion said, “I was wondering if I could be your cabin boy, fetch things, clean your room.” The captain drew back, hesitating, and Fallion offered quickly, “I’d want no pay… only, I’d like to learn how to run a ship, to navigate.”

“You know your numbers?”

“Some,” Fallion said, not wanting to boast. “I can multiply and divide.” The truth was that Hearthmaster Waggit had been teaching him geometry, enough so that he could calculate how far a siege engine could hurl its payload. Once you knew how to triangulate, it wouldn’t take long to learn to navigate.

Stalker smiled thoughtfully, though Fallion could hardly see the flash of teeth beneath his black moustache. “Is it a life at sea that you’re contemplating?” he asked. But secretly he was wondering how to put the boy off. It was a decent offer, and normally he’d have considered it. But he had too many secrets to keep concealed.

“Perhaps,” Fallion said. He didn’t really want a life at sea, but he was thinking that someday he’d need to know how to run a navy. “It intrigues me.”

Children Fallion’s age were easily intrigued, Stalker knew. They could be intrigued by pulling the stuffing from a rag doll or peeling carrots.

“A generous offer, lad,” the captain said. “Let me think about it for a day or two…”

Stalker had no intention of letting Fallion work in his cabin. Yet he grudgingly found that he admired the boy enough to want to let him down easily.

They said their good nights, and each went their separate ways.

Rhianna took the lead, walking slowly, hesitantly. Fallion kept close by, in case she stumbled. Her wounds were healing quickly, at least on the surface, but she could tell by her pain how deep they went.

I might never be healed, she realized. She’d heard the healers whispering to Borenson after the surgery. They had said that she’d probably never have babies.

At her age, that didn’t seem like much of a loss.

But the hurt went deeper. The horror of what had happened would stay with her forever.

So she took her steps gingerly, convalescing.

Humfrey the ferrin had wakened from his daylong nap, and as evening neared, he scrambled ahead of them with his little spear, peering behind barrels, inspecting nooks, seeking for rats or mice to eat, or treasures to collect.

As they moved about the ship, Rhianna noted that Streben watched Fallion constantly, glowering, and they could not avoid him. The young man was on his knees, swabbing decks, and the children had to step past him with each circuit of the ship.

To make matters worse, Humfrey was attracted to the rag that Streben used to wash with, and each time they neared, Humfrey would leap at the rag and hiss, playfully poking his spear at it, certain that Streben was swabbing the deck for the ferrin’s entertainment.

And several times when Fallion drew near, Streben would glance around to make sure that no adults could see, and then hiss softly through his teeth, as if warning Fallion to stop walking on “his” deck.

Fallion tried to ignore him. There was nothing else that he could do. They would be sharing the same ship for months, eating in the same galley.

Still, Rhianna knew by instinct that it was dangerous to antagonize a man like Streben. She would grab Fallion’s hand and hold it whenever he got too close, trying to urge him away. She warned him once, “Don’t go near him. He’d kill you if he could.”

“I don’t think so,” Fallion said. “He knows what would happen.”

But Rhianna wasn’t so sure. She’d heard Iome and the others talking about Asgaroth, the locus, and Rhianna felt sure that he was lurking near. No matter where they went, Asgaroth could follow, lodging himself in the mind of the nearest foul person. And what better hovel would a locus find than in the mind of someone like Streben? And how easy would it be to drive such a fool to madness?

They were walking past some barrels where an old man was smoking a reed pipe with a stem as long as his arm, a bald man with skin as white as tallow and eyes the color of sea foam. Several children, including Borenson’s own brood, had gathered round to watch him smoke, for in Mystarria the habit was all but unknown. Rhianna had never seen anyone smoke except when they were injured and needed opium for pain. But this fellow seemed to smoke for enjoyment, and the smoke from his pipe had a sweet, intoxicating scent.

Right now, he was blowing smoke rings. In the failing light of the evening, the bowl of his pipe burned hot orange as he inhaled, and then the smoke ring came out between his lips a deep blue-white.

As Rhianna passed, she noticed, not for the first time, that the old man watched Fallion with keen intensity, and each time that he saw Fallion, he nodded in greeting, as if to an old friend.

But this time he set aside his pipe and said, “Listen to girl. Beware Streben. There much of shadow in him.”

Fallion stopped and stared at the fellow. “What do you mean?”

“Inside, every man part light, part shadow. In Streben, is great shadow, trying to snuff out light.” He tapped Fallion’s chest with his pipe and said, “But in you great light, struggle to burn through all darkness. Streben sense this. Hate you. He kill you, if can.”

What does he mean? Rhianna wondered. Can he see into the heart of a man?

The smoker peered at Fallion a moment, as if considering a further argument. “Streben has nothing to be proud of. No honor, no courage, no wealth. He hollow. He look inside self, find nothing good. So he imagine to self, rebellion is strength. Rebellion is courage. He not see that rebellion foolish. He kind of man who kill you to make himself feel strong, even if he know must suffer for it.” Smoker drew a quick puff of smoke, then leaned close. “Maybe he think punishment worth it. Captain his uncle. Maybe he hope not get punished.”

The smoker let some smoke out through his nose, and Fallion peered into the man’s eyes, eyes that Rhianna could see were bright, too bright, as they reflected light from a sun that had nearly drifted below the horizon.

Fallion asked, “Are you a flameweaver?”

The smoker laughed. He inhaled from his pipe, blew out a puff of smoke that shaped itself into a wispy gray dove, then flapped up into the air. He turned his pipe and offered Fallion a puff.

“Are you a flameweaver?” Smoker asked, mocking.