Lon's body was stretched like an animal's hide on a tanners' rack. His hands and feet were tied and his face was bound by the forehead strap. He was set to become a True Pattern feigor. His transformation occurred as strong winds filled the sails and the Prince's ship moved fast through choppy waves. Nobody knew if he lived or had died and none could imagine what played in his mind.
Lon's eyes were open and he was awake, but his thoughts were a thousand miles away, or more accurately one millennium earlier. Slow-moving images quite unlike anything he'd ever seen before filled his head, and he didn't know what to make of these false memories. Instead of seeing reality on deck, he saw objects for which he had no reference. Metal insects with bug-eyes crossed starry skies. Spiderwebs made of steel held bowls with spikes in the center. Feigors in bulky white clothes with clear glass bubbles around their heads floated over a cold grey world that was entirely without vegetation. The boulder-strewn realm had deep ridges and valleys of jagged rock. Lon floated over the sharp chasms until he came to the edge of a massive hole from which emanated a soft white glow. Have I died? Are these the Pinc and their skywagons? Is this my own journey to meet Kluth?
Lon saw geometric shapes on a black curtain. He watched as fiery circles became cylinders which kinked to form hexagonal rods which were compressed and then diagonally diced to make triangles. It was a visual poem, a ballad of creation and although he didn't understand the runes he felt sadness and remorse well-up inside of him. The music faded and only a single white circle remained. Lon sobbed and salty tears washed down his face.
He was in Kluth's workshop now and he watched as one feigor was formed. A male body rotated on a white marble dais with his arms and legs outstretched, and his hands and feet inside a ring. This was a perfectly proportioned person and Lon felt his own body being painfully adjusted to fit the pattern.
The stone circle buzzed around Lon and he could hear tiny voices babbling birdsong inside the object. Each pain he felt came with bursts of chatter in his ears. He drifted in and out of consciousness and sharp cuts were followed by surges of comfort and pleasure and then more blissful slumber. The cycle happened repeatedly.
Crack. Lon felt like he'd been hit in the face with a shovel, and then his mouth was soothed with warm comfort. Sharp pains surged in his arms and legs and then all appendages were bathed in pleasure and he returned to blissful sleep. In this way Lon experienced the surgery that occurred inside his body. First, he'd feel agony, and then he'd be doused in joy.
The lad imagined white hot blades slice through his brain; he suffered intense pain as the back of his eyes were cut and folded and cut and folded and from that time forward his optical perception came through a square membrane which appeared like an empty picture frame but one made of water or clear glass.
Lon blinked and stared. He opened and closed his eyes, but no sight came. Yet even in darkness the mind-box was always there, and it hurt. It was raw, fresh, and painful. Through the frame, he perceived more landscapes. He came to understand that he was connected to the ocean, the sky and the mountains and the moon overhead. He was also quite literally attached to a ghostly white sphere that pulsed deep underground. A single thread of wispy mist connected the red stone altar to the silver orb below.
That thread ended in his brain; it fueled a persistent symbol made of bubbling white fire that sat on the clear glass mantle and could not be blinked-away.
The shape was a circle below a line.
"Get a shroud for the body," a voice spoke in Common and for a moment Lon could see life on deck. His eyes became connected, but just for a flash; he got a glimpse of real life. It was a still-picture, a test for his eye-brain connection. In that instant he perceived a chilling vision.
Minister Horne stood below and stared-up at him, face to face. The young lad saw pure hatred in the priest's beady black eyes. If he wasn't dead already, he would be soon. Horne fumed with anger and spoke Crolean and Lon heard the clacking words in his ears.
The inquisitors, the sailors, and all the captives stared at the mutant sacrifice that'd survived and which had become True Pattern before their eyes. The melancholy audience sat in silence as though attending a macabre theater.
Lon was blind again. Darkness. Memories. He recalled the printed broadsheet posted in the supply yard he'd read before boarding the Annabelle. The billboard was a puff-piece written in Common for the captives and it shared information on Crolean conquests and acquisitions. Beyond the braggadocios accounts of battles and enduring victories were listed the names of freshly promoted heroes . The paper extended military honours to Grand High Minister Surilus Horne as overall commander of a voyage to the Port of Ligne. That's what the printed page had said; a Voyage to the Port of Ligne!
These typed words on the crude poster reminded the youth of more popular prints that were highly prized story-vehicles back home. Years ago, just after he'd learned how to read, he'd consumed all manner of printed material and now it all marshaled together on top of his memory. Thick pressed papers, yellow with age were shown to readers for a penny a page all over Tokal and none were more popular than deepcomber broadsheets.
Deepcombers' sheets were half-century old adventure stories printed using photo-luminescent ink. The substance had the blood of a rare marine animal in the mix which made the font glow-in-the-dark so the papers could be read by moonlit. That wasn't a selling feature so much as a mark of authenticity.
The Deepcombers were professional soldiers of fortune who used Warden's Keys to enter Oub through the Great Door. Once inside they fought to stay alive and plunder the vast preserve. Their stories and sketches were shared afterwards on these coarse paper sheets filled with text and woodcut prints. Their tales were mostly true, Lon believed; he'd never doubted their escapades or questioned their achievements, despite their incredulous claims.
Each broadsheet told the story of one descent and the fate of six specialists. The heroes would pool their resources and combine their skills to survive underground. Told in series over the length of their careers, each page chronicled one crew's raid and the mayhem they'd made in the land of monsters beyond the wall. The adventurers battled the terrors they encountered below with steel blades and Varget.
The deepcombers' quest was to plumb the monsters' nests for weapons, gems, gold and silver objects mined and refined in the depths of their dark realm. Then the explorers would ascend to safety and recover their health in luxury spas. They'd grow rich as the plunder they'd raised was sold at auction with the world's wealthiest sovereigns among the buyers. It was dangerous work and not every company returned, but the rewards were spectacular. Just one Tokgorin axe could fetch over five hundred gold pieces and such a sum would buy three houses in Dundae. Why were these items so coveted? Supply and demand. The metal blades made in Oub were incredibly sharp, especially the half-moon axes. They could sever feigor armour with one blow, and so every warlord in the world above desperately wanted tokgor weapons forged below.
Nothing that dangerous is sustainable and the heroes themselves were shooting stars. One by one the key companies were killed or disappeared. They were all gone now. Fifty years later none of the Warden Keys' whereabouts were known. The broadsheets never described how the heroes died as there were no survivors to relay the tale and no scribes could hear their cries. When a deepcomber squad disappeared underground they left no trace. No commemorative papers were issued and their demise went unnoticed, except at the auctions where prices rose ever higher.
Lon was most familiar with Blue Key Company and his personal hero was Gladragos. They were, by all accounts the most successful band. These keepers of the Sapphire Warden's Key had their own press and their broadsheets were called Blue Key News. The paper itself was tinted blue. He recalled an evening two years ago when he'd paid a penny to stare at a single sheet pinned to the side of a cookhouse in Dundae. He'd waited in a long line. The thick sheet of paper was torn and faded; it was likely sixty years old at the time and he remembered how it was hard to read.
That story was about the six members of the sapphire crew and their voyage down to the fourth plane of Oub which they described as being laid out like a cathedral with marble staircases up and down. It was there they found a crystal meadows. No other company dared venture any deeper. The lad remembered all the hostile creatures they'd encountered and the beasts came alive in his mind. Gladragos used Varget to defeat all these diabolical opponents. He could make ice storms and lightning fly from his hands. In several stories he reduced opponents to ashes with deadly fireballs. Gladragos spoke and fire appeared in the air.
Each printed sheet the lad recalled was probably still in circulation somewhere; the prints had a very long lifespan. Each copy could be traded hundreds of times as they wormed their way across each land. Each page increased in value the farther it got from the Port of Ligne. The papers were always rolled, never folded. They were stored in wood or copper tubes. Such cylinders were precious gifts on the other side of the world. But for some unknown reason the tales stopped being produced about forty years ago. The key companies disappeared and the print industry dissolved decades before Lon was born.
"Land ho!' the lookout cried.
"Hooray," the entire boat cheered the news. Their ovation penetrated the sea drover's thoughts and he listened for more scraps of reality but instead of hearing words he felt emotions. He felt waves of joy come forth on the wind around his body.
He smelled the cooked chicken being served and experienced yet more jubilation. He bathed in other people's happiness. He didn't hunger for food or suffer any thirst. What an incredible reward; he imagined being made of wind and drawing sustenance from other people's mirth. That must be how Kluth's Angels live. Am I still alive?
The circle under the line pulsed white. Is this nipple that feeds me now? Will I ever be feigor again? The white silvery thread brought soothing comfort and life-sustaining nourishment into his body through his arms and his legs and it was comported directly into his brain through the leather strap around his forehead. He felt a hot point on his forehead above and between his blind eyes; it was right where Hastegus had his silver moon tattoo.
Seagulls passed over the ship. Birds! But all Lon could see was a velvety blackness. He hoped for a vision of the island but nothing came. Is it because I don't have the special eye on my forehead? Is that why I can't see anything? Soon it would be night and the wind would stop. The contract would be complete. What would happen then?
A vision of Annabelle's crowded top deck appeared in the sea drover's mind. It was captured from his own eyes but maybe not in real time. He saw cooks ladle stew into the captives' bowls. The slaves were happy. Life was displayed in still frames about two seconds apart as though his mind couldn't handle motion sequences yet and needed these placards.
Lon spotted the Prince's physician. He'd come close with his hand poised above the pocket on his breast. It was a surgeon's scalpel he concealed against his chest. The sea drover was both worried and excited by the medic's presence. He comes to sever my bonds? Or cut my throat?
The lad felt the doctor's hand on his head and his fingers in his hair. He heard a tinkling whoosh like icicles swept from a windy roof and the crescendo grew even more complex when the medic used his slender blade.
The physician held-up a tuft of pure white hair. White hair? Lon didn't have time to think about that. He felt pain and anger burned his consciousness. The relic wobbled on its mount. His vision became sustained and he swayed as he felt the relic's disdain for the Crols; they'd violated the sanctity of the ring and invalidated its cosmic contract.
Barrrong. The artifact groaned like a metal gong. The doctor froze in terror and then held up the hair as if to explain; he knew he'd crossed the line and done real harm when he'd heard the ancient object's loud alarm. Barrooonng. Everyone heard it. The captain's voice came next.
"Gaspar?" Blue jacketed officers crowded the next frame. "No!" The captain lamented that he was too late to stop the surgeon's theft and he peered over his shoulder. He gazed back and looked really scared. What frightened him? Lon smelled hot fumes before he blacked out.
The sacrifice awoke with smoke in his nose and it made him sneeze and cough. The sea was rough and sailors hustled pails into black clouds amidship. Lon could see they'd formed a bucket-line to battle a blaze in the hold. His coming back-to-life seemed to terrify the Crols all over again. Or maybe he'd just surprised them with his persistence. Minister Horne and Clyde of Barobell both stood close and seemed to marvel at his continued existence.
The fire aboard ship had convinced the expedition's commander that now was the very best time for the sea drover to die. He untied a knife from his weapons belt but his young attendant bravely stayed his hand. Why? Horne glared at his valet in disbelief and Lon half-expected the priest would send his wealthy servant for a swim.
Clyde of Barobell retracted his hand with an apologetic nod and clacked in their native tongue. "Transfer," he'd said and Lon heard the word in Common repeated across the deck. He clacked in Crol and pointed at the skiff now stowed above the rail. It was the same craft the captives had rowed to tow the transport for five days. The word was translated and the idea was accepted right away by the captain and his officers.
"Transfer," the old mariner nodded and clacked yes. He must have seen the solution as a remedy to save both the Prince's antiquity and his beloved Annabelle.
Minister Horne frowned. He did not like the idea. But then he raised his hands and relented. He didn't care so long as they made it there. Lon watched the haughty young priest rest his eyes on the island in consolation; he'd finally arrived at his mythical destination.
Annabelle's captain took charge and motioned to rig a mast on the landing craft. He spoke Crolean-clack and his sailors snapped to the task. He summoned the gray mustached brute and gave him a special request and before the officer could protest he walked off to confer with the blacksmith and coordinate the rigging challenge. It would require great skill and special equipment to shift the heavy stone to the shore craft in such a rough sea.
The wind gusts grew more intense and the storm blew loose straw and tunics across the deck. It was as though the boat itself jettisoned these bad memories and many captives cheered as their filth was blown clear of their beds.
Crols braved the gale to convert the rowboat into a ketch. They wedged a special u-shaped block over the center bench. The sturdy platform sported a mast pole which was further winched and reinforced with clamps. The block had a fifteen-foot tall mast and a bleached white muslin sail, still in its canvas bag from the provision yard was passed down with the boat.
Horne's rich young attendant prepared to join the shore party. With two sailors' help he pulled a heavy sea-chest from the hold. The wealthy noble opened his awkward luggage on deck and changed in front of everyone. He shamelessly removed all his clothes and all his golden jewelry. The voyager donned heavy pants to which he fixed a waist belt like the minister's own but without all the weapons. Over top he donned a red silk gambeson with whalebone buttons. In a curious moment that only Lon witnessed, the handsome courtier packed a leather satchel with books and provisions. Minister Horne spotted the sack and seized it. The expedition's young commander threw his servant's survival pack back into his sea chest and slammed the lid. He took a saber from another sailor and reissued that instead. Lon could not hear their words he spoke, but the meaning was plain to the eye. When the priest pointed at him and then at the island, he specified the exact place where he should die.
Annabelle's captain and crew worked with speed and precision to complete the altar's eviction. Nimble sailors secured new spars to act as a crane arm. This jib overhead would let them swing the ring over the side of the ship. A dexterous rigger hoisted a block and tackle and when everything was complete the captain called for a hook and watched with satisfaction as his blacksmith's mate prepared the special iron claw. The crudely forged metal fastener had a thin mouth specially made to grab and hold other links in the chain.
The sea captain made his preparations in front of the altar. Lon watched him stare up at crew and wave his arms to direct their work. He heard him ask the ship's boy, aged eight (named Harvey Hemlock who was the youngest true pattern feigor on the vessel, and who would later publish an account) to carry the heavy line all the way up to the top of the mast. He'd thread the links through a chain saddle and remain aloft to watch. Sailors shifted cargo to counterweight the heavy load. Lon sensed how the captain's efficiency reassured everyone and many watched him because they found comfort in his leadership.
The veteran mariner hurled a fist-sized hunk of iron and heavy chain links through the altar's threshold. Baroong. The ring alarmed again. The moment the hook and line passed through the aperture the metal became red hot. The relic also became a furnace and Lon felt the heat. Another sailor behind him caught the fastener and it sounded like he burnt his hands because he yelped in pain. He huffed and puffed and played hot potato before he lobed it over the top and back again.
Even though the hook and chain did not touch the sacrifice, the relic smoldered, and more fires smoked in the hold. Barooong. The captain ignored the alarm as the clasp was hooked back into an iron line. Clang clang clang. The ship's fire bell chimed as the chain was snugged and the sailors heaved. Metal loops bundled up beside the keystone headpiece without ever touching Lon, yet he felt pain as the altar's sanctity was defiled. He could feel the rope ties on his wrists and his ankles smolder. The burns were of no concern for his skin was soothed.
The captain shouted orders and more buckets of sea water were carried forth by terrified sailors who flung their loads at the artifact and then hurried back for more. With every splash Lon got a bath and the red hot ring made gusts of steam that billowed across the deck.
The captives under the mast sought any sign that Lon was still alive while the Crols ignored him completely. They acted like he wasn't even there as they rallied to hoist the heavy heirloom from its mount. Every grunt moved the piece higher until it could be swung over the side. Lon studied the same ladder rungs he dreaded and had almost died upon this morning as he floated in midair above the surging sea.
The wind grew more violent. A gale whipped the water and both vessels rocked back and forth. The tempest blew the altar on the chain like a giant pendulum. One soldier made to slow the motion with his outstretched hand but he was quickly shooed away by a superior. Minister Horne and his courageous valet approached the side-ladder.
Only then did the aged sea captain seem to notice that Clyde of Barobell had changed his clothes and planned to join the shore party. He did not approve of the decision. As the young noble approached the side ladder, the old navigator moved to block his path. He shook his head no and spoke apologetically. He would not allow the valued youth to risk himself so recklessly.
Minister Horne ordered the captain to step aside. He raised his lump-of-stone, now dull and gray and smiled when he saw how it still terrified others. He pointed to Lon and clacked his desire. The captain nodded and shuffled to let Clyde pass.
Lon saw the wealthy valet smile as he came to the side. He wanted to go. The young courtier snugged his red silk jacket and clumsily straddled the rail and then over-cautiously descended into the shore craft which did not yet have its canvas sail.
The gray-haired officer with the big mustache followed him down. Lon understood their plan was to beach the boat on the nearby island where the relic could be recovered. They all hoped to save the Annabelle from sudden fires. They'd simply park the curio and return with the fleet. Someone from this smaller crew would try to execute him once the bargain was complete.
The Altar of the Aquatic still smoldered as it was lowered into the shore boat that'd been rigged with a tall mast pole. The sailors let out the chain line. The sea drover took one last look at his fellow captives, Hastegus, Jarl and Tharus who'd stood on their feet to watch him descend. To his surprise and enormous satisfaction he saw them all cheer and wave goodbye.