Chapter 3

The collegium of the Learned Brethren in Karystos was home to over four hundred scholars and tens of thousands of scrolls, containing the accumulated knowledge of the ages. As head of the order, Brother Nikos presided over an empire of knowledge, guardian of secrets that were undreamt of outside the collegium’s walls. True, the brethren in Xandropol had a far larger library—and a collegium to match—but they were mere scholars. In Karystos, the brethren wielded power far beyond their walls. Nikos was a personal confidant of Empress Nerissa, something no other abbot could claim.

Ordinarily he reveled in his position, yet on this day his thoughts were troubled by a single scroll, and the scholar who had penned it. He had read the scroll once, when he had first received it, then locked it in his desk while he pondered his response. Three days had passed, and he was still no closer to an answer. All paths were fraught with potential peril, and he reluctantly decided to seek counsel. There was risk in sharing this information, but even more risk if he miscalculated his next move.

It took time for Brother Thanatos to respond to his summons, and when the elderly monk arrived in his office, his slack features and blinking eyes hinted that he had been roused from an afternoon nap. Leaning heavily on the arm of the novice who had escorted him, Thanatos limped into the study and was helped to sit in the high-backed chair set aside for visitors.

Nikos dismissed the novice and waited until the door closed behind him before speaking.

“Brother Thanatos, I thank you for coming so swiftly.”

“Not at all, I am happy to serve. My days are not as full as they once were,” Thanatos said with a half smile.

Thanatos was in his eighties, and had retired from teaching novices over a decade before. Still, his mind was sharp and his memories seemingly clear, and it was these two things that Nikos needed from him.

“What can a student of mathematical mysteries do for our esteemed leader?” Thanatos asked.

From another his tone would have been judged impertinent, but Thanatos was too old and set in his ways to remember to pay Nikos the proper deference. In his mind, the abbot was still the youth he had taught nearly forty years before.

“I need your opinion on one of your students,” Nikos said, reaching into the desk to pull out the troublesome scroll. “Tell me what you think of this letter from Brother Josan.”

“Brother Josan!” Thanatos exclaimed, as he eagerly reached for the scroll.

Nikos watched as he read the scroll, at first swiftly, his fingers fumbling as he unrolled it in his haste. The second time he read it more slowly, considering the import of each line. It was not a long missive, but Thanatos studied it as if it were a tome of his precious logic.

Nikos waited with seeming patience until Thanatos rolled up the scroll and handed it back to him.

“He seems well, if unhappy with his circumstances,” Thanatos said.

Besides himself, Thanatos was the only other person who knew that Josan had been sent to serve at the remote outpost of Prince Txomin’s lighthouse. And even Thanatos did not know the full story behind Josan’s exile. Only Brother Giles had been privy to that information, and he had died two years ago. As far as the rest of the monks were concerned, Josan was on pilgrimage, and his name was no longer spoken.

“The letter, does it sound the way you remember him?”

“His letters to me were written in a more pleasant frame of mind, but yes, I recognize his turn of phrase. And the logic of his argument to return here follows the classic form of five parts. Flawless.” Thanatos beamed, as if he were commending a pupil.

He wondered what Thanatos would say if he were to show him the letters from when Josan had first been exiled. Childish scribbles; he had barely been capable of holding a pen. Now he had recovered enough of his wits that he could argue in the tongue of scholars. But Nikos could not show Thanatos Josan’s earlier letters, any more than he could share with the monks the careful observations that Josan had made during his time as lighthouse keeper. Everything that Josan sent was carefully locked away, too dangerous to be seen by any except himself. It was vital that no attention be drawn to Txomin’s Lighthouse, nor to the man who lived there.

It was a shame that Brother Giles had not lived to see proof of his success. Both he and Nikos had been certain that Giles’s efforts had failed, leaving a witless child in the body of a man. But as time passed, Josan had reclaimed more and more of his former knowledge. The question was just how much did he remember? And what would he do with this knowledge?

“If you want my advice, I say that the time has come to bring him home. I know you told me that his wits were damaged, but the man who wrote this letter is a scholar of the first order. We need him here, not moldering away on some cursed rock pile,” Thanatos said.

“If only matters were that simple,” Nikos began. “But as I have told you before, it is not safe for Josan to return to Karystos.”

“Five years have passed; surely it no longer matters what he might have seen? He is a monk, hardly likely to be a threat to anyone.”

In this, Thanatos was being deliberately disingenuous. Knowledge was power, as both men knew, and a man with power was most definitely a threat. Still, he was not surprised that Thanatos was arguing in favor of the return of his favorite pupil.

“On the contrary, it matters a great deal. Josan would not be safe if he were to return.”

And neither would Nikos, though he kept this knowledge to himself.

“Then let him go to Xandropol instead. Brother Xavier would welcome another mathematician. It is not fair that Josan should waste his talents in that place.”

Nikos shook his head. “With all respect to our brothers in Xandropol, I do not trust them in a matter so delicate. For his own sake, Josan must remain where he is.”

“Then why did you ask for my advice? If you’ve already made up your mind…” Thanatos grumbled.

“I need your knowledge of his character,” Nikos said. He had known Josan merely as one face among the other novices, listening to the praise of his teachers, but his duties had kept him too busy to pay personal attention to a mere novice. Later, they had met only infrequently as Josan had traveled, bringing back riches of knowledge for the order. He did not know Josan well enough to predict what he would do next, which was why he had been forced to confide in Brother Thanatos.

But Nikos was caught in a dilemma. The reasons he had given Josan for remaining on the island were no longer valid, yet he could not afford to commit the true reasons to parchment. The risk that it would fall into unfriendly hands was too great.

“If I write Josan and tell him that he must remain on the island, will he obey? If he decides to leave, will he inform us or will he simply run away?” he asked.

“He’s a good lad,” Thanatos said, as if they were speaking of a youth and not a man approaching his thirtieth summer. “He will not like it, but he’ll do what you tell him to.”

“I hope you are right. For his sake, as well as ours,” Nikos said.

Brother Thanatos could be sentimental about the fate of one monk, but Nikos could not afford such indulgence. He had a far greater duty to the brethren, and the preservation of the collegium. Five years ago, Josan had been a broken tool in his hands, unfit for any purpose, a danger to both himself and those who sheltered him. It would have been wiser to let him die, but Nikos had exiled Josan instead on the slender chance that he might one day be able to return. But that day had not yet come, and one monk could not be allowed to jeopardize all they had worked for. If Josan could not be trusted to obey orders, then he would have to be dealt with. And this time, there would be no second chance.

 

Three weeks after the great storm, Josan shivered on the lighthouse platform, a blanket wrapped around his heavy robe as the first full moon of winter rose in the sky, signifying the final watch of the year. When dawn came, he blew out the lamps, then began the long climb down to the base of the tower. Supplies were low, but he had saved a handful of tea leaves for this day. He sipped the bitter drink slowly, savoring both its warmth and the clarity it brought to his tired mind.

By the time he had finished his breakfast and climbed back to the top of the tower, the lamps had cooled enough so they could be touched. Carefully he removed each glass globe, giving it a final cleaning and polish before wrapping it in linen and storing it in a straw-filled crate. The reservoirs of oil were emptied back into a cask, while the silvered mirrors and metal frames were wrapped in oiled leather to protect them against the damp winter winds.

His hands moved without conscious direction, though that had not always been the case. When he had first come to the island, he had been so clumsy that he could barely walk. Whenever he had tried to move quickly, he had tripped over his own feet, and objects had slipped from his grasp. It had been weeks before Renzo had trusted the new lighthouse keeper enough to allow him to care for the most fragile objects.

Gradually Josan had gained control over his body until he no longer felt as if he were living within a stranger’s skin. Gaining control over his fragmented thoughts had been harder, but here, too, patience and discipline had been the key.

Remembering the frustration of those early days, he now took pleasure in the deft movements of his hands as he carefully packed each object away. He observed that the globes were showing their age, for despite the care of the monks who had tended them, each globe had a network of fine scratches. If they were not replaced, in time the damage would render the globes opaque, dimming the light and weakening the strength of the beacon.

Fortunately, the silvered reflecting mirrors had fared better, and were still unmarred despite decades of use. The royal treasury could replace the fragile glass globes if it chose, but the magically crafted mirrors were another matter. And without the mirrors, the lighthouse would be useless. By the time a ship saw the beam cast by an ordinary mirror, it would already be among the shoals. Only these specially crafted mirrors could reflect a beam far enough to serve as a warning, and he doubted very much that there were any left in Ikaria with the skill to manufacture a new set.

Morning turned to afternoon by the time he was satisfied that all was in order. At last he closed the wooden shutters, nailing the makeshift boards in place. He had done his best to repair the damage caused by the great storm, but he lacked the tools needed to craft wood into the correct shape and fit it onto the heavy hinges. Instead Josan had salvaged the last pieces of wood from the broken shutters, reinforcing them with staves taken from the empty oil barrels. Crude they might be, but they would serve to keep both birds and the winter weather out of the tower until he returned in the spring.

Descending to the base of the lighthouse tower, he picked up a waterproof pack that held his clothes, a writing quill, a half-filled bottle of ink, and the two books that chronicled his experiences since he had come to the island. The rest of the logbooks were too heavy to carry, so instead they were stored safely on the lowest course, along with the other tools of his trade. As he left the tower, he barred the door shut to prevent any animals from trying to turn the lighthouse into their winter den.

The sun was already low in the sky by the time he reached the sheltered cove on the northwestern side of the island and the small boat drawn up on the sandy beach. The villagers had returned to the mainland a fortnight before, but by custom they sent someone to fetch the lighthouse keeper on the first day of winter.

Young Piero rose to his feet as Josan approached, his thin face breaking into a relieved smile. “I was beginning to fear that you weren’t coming today,” he said.

Josan shook his head. “Took longer to close up the lighthouse this year. Come spring I will need your father to lend me one of his carpenters to craft proper shutters.”

“I’ll tell him,” Piero said. “And the new inlet, has it grown? I thought to take a look at it myself, if there was time, but the day is rapidly fading.”

“The inlet is no wider than it was on that second day, perhaps fifty feet across, and the water is calm, more like the sound than the sea. But it’s too deep to wade.”

Josan shivered as he remembered the uncomfortable crossing. This time he’d placed his robes and sandals in the waterproof sack before venturing into the icy-cold water, so he’d have dry clothing to don on the other side. But the chill had sucked the air from his lungs, and it had taken a long time for him to warm up again.

“Some changes on the mainland as well,” Piero said. “The storm brought flooding, and we lost the granary down by the commons, but your place is still there. Terza spent the last two days getting it ready for you.”

Josan grimaced, and Piero laughed softly at his expression. Josan was the elder by at least a half dozen years, and had the advantages of one who had been educated by the finest minds in the empire. But when it came to the ways of young women, it was Piero who was the master, while Josan constantly displayed his ignorance.

Piero watched him for a moment, then softened. “You need not worry about Terza. When Marco returned from escorting the noble lady to Skalla, he brought Terza a fine necklace of glass beads, and she invited him to share her hearth.”

“I am pleased for them both,” Josan said.

Indeed he had been concerned over Terza, and how he could deflect her attentions without giving insult to her and thus insulting the villagers who provided him with both food and shelter. By law, they could not deny him what he needed to survive, but they could make his life extremely difficult if they chose.

Terza was not the only woman of the village who flirted with him, but she was by far the boldest. Some might have felt flattered by her interest, but Josan knew that she would have behaved the same toward any young man who had come from the heart of civilization. She had not realized that the man she had set her sights on was damaged.

He shook himself to clear such dark thoughts from his mind.

“Come now, let us make our way. You’ll never warm up standing here.” Piero had mistaken his gesture for a sign that he was chilled, and Josan saw no reason to correct him.

He loaded his belongings into the center of the small rowboat, then helped Piero drag the boat into the water. The waters of the protected sound were calmer than those of the open ocean on the other side of the island, but Josan’s late arrival meant they were fighting the tide. After a few minutes pulling at his oars, Josan was sweating freely. Still, with two sets of oars pulling, they made fair progress and in less than an hour they had crossed the sound, arriving just as the sun slipped below the trees.

The sandy beach where they came ashore was larger than Josan had recalled, and he wondered if this was another legacy of the storm. They pulled the rowboat ashore, dragging it far above the tide mark and storing the oars carefully under the plank seats. It was too heavy for two men to lift, so tomorrow Piero and others would return to place it on the boat rack, then cover the rack with tarps to protect the boats from the winter storms.

By the time they finished, dusk had fallen, but the rising moon provided enough light for them to make out the rocky path that wound up the bank of the hillside. Josan followed Piero as he strode along confidently, showing no hesitation even when trees shaded the path. Skirting the edges of the village, he led Josan to the keeper’s cottage, which was set some distance apart from the rest of the village, then bade him good night.

Yawning with tiredness, Josan opened the door to the cottage, blinking a bit as the light spilled out through the doorway. The scents of fresh bread and fish chowder greeted him, warming his spirits as much as the brightly burning fire. Terza had even thought to stack fresh kindling by the fire. Placing his pack on the table by the brightly burning lantern, he shrugged off his robe and filled a bowl with the rich chowder. It took two bowls to satisfy his hunger, then, without even bothering to unpack, he kicked off his sandals and crawled onto the cot, where a cedar-scented woolen blanket covered a feather mattress.

He would have to find a way to repay Terza for her kindness, he thought, as he slipped into sleep.

But despite his weariness and the fine mattress he slept fitfully, for his body was still accustomed to the schedule of working during the night and sleeping during the day. Long before dawn he found himself awake, so he stirred up the fire and lit the fish-oil lamp. Opening his journal, he recounted what he had seen the day before and the changes wrought by the storm.

When dawn came, he reheated what was left of the chowder, then washed his face and hands and combed his hair. Changing into the better of his two winter robes, he made his way to the village and called upon Old Piero. He gave Piero the scrolls to be sent to the order, then listened as Piero recounted the latest news from Skalla. He stayed long enough to drink two cups of tea as custom required, then returned gratefully to the peace of his own dwelling. His years as lighthouse keeper had accustomed him to solitude, and now even a small gathering made him nervous. To a man who spent weeks at a time seeing no other face and hearing no voice but his own, even a handful of people could seem like a bewildering crush.

Fortunately, the villagers respected his wish for solitude. If a hunter had a good day, then Josan was given a share of the fresh meat, and when the weekly baking was done a wrapped loaf was left at his door. Other than that, he cooked for himself and split his own wood, and accustomed himself to the rhythm of winter life.

When he found himself craving the company of others, he sought out Renzo. Unlike the younger men, Renzo saw no need to fill silence with empty words. Renzo was not an educated man, yet there was something in him that reminded Josan of the gray-haired monks who had been his tutors. Perhaps it was his kindness, and the memory of how patient he had been in the face of Josan’s endless questions during the first months of their acquaintance. Or perhaps it was Renzo’s curiosity about the world beyond the borders of this village—that same curiosity that had led him to take up the life of a sailor in his youth. Whatever the reason, he was the one person that Josan could call a friend in this place.

During Josan’s first winter there, Renzo had taught him how to weave the snares that were used to trap birds, and now, when Josan joined him at his labors, he used his younger eyes to inspect the snares, mending those that could be salvaged and weaving new ones to replace those whose cords had rotted from age or hard use.

Winter wore on, and one day blended into another so he could no longer tell them apart. Midwinter’s Eve came, and Josan made the mistake of joining the villagers for their celebrations. Unaccustomed to strong drink, he awoke the next morning with a pounding head and no recollection of what had transpired the night before. Renzo later told him that he had lapsed into a foreign tongue, peering at the villagers as if they were strangers until he had been persuaded to lie down to sleep off his drunken folly.

It was no comfort that others had apparently behaved far more outrageously than he had. They were uneducated peasants and could be forgiven their follies. He was a scholar and knew better than to let his intellect be overwhelmed by strong drink.

As spring approached, Josan returned to the island, along with two men from the village—skilled carpenters who made swift work of mending the wooden shutters. Replacing his living quarters had been another matter. Only a narrow ribbon of sand now separated the tower from the lapping waves at high tide. Even an ordinary storm might flood the gently sloping beach, so instead they constructed a small cabin up over the dunes, next to the newly redug well. Hidden in the shelter of the dune thicket, Josan could not see the ocean from where he slept, but he could still hear the rhythmic pounding of the waves.

A few days after the men had left to return to their village, a ship sailed cautiously up the coast and anchored well offshore. A pair of longboats rowed the long distance to shore. In addition to the cabbage-seed oil and other expected provisions, they brought three new glass globes for the lamps, carefully packed in straw. It took four trips to bring everything ashore, and the sailors sweated as they stacked the goods in the storeroom under Josan’s supervision, making haste so they could leave before the tide turned.

On their last trip they brought a leather document case, and in turn Josan gave them a sealed letter to the head of his order, and a copy of his logbook to be delivered to the collegium.

The case contained a letter from Brother Nikos. There was no mention of Lady Ysobel in the missive, and Josan spared a moment to wonder if she had indeed reached Karystos safely. But surely if she hadn’t, Brother Nikos would have seen fit to mention it.

Brother Nikos expressed concern regarding the condition of the tower and urged Josan to be mindful of his safety as he went about his duties. In case the tower fell or had to be abandoned, Josan was to send word to the brethren and await instructions. He was not to return to Karystos under any circumstances.

This phrase was repeated twice, as if Josan were a willful child who needed to be reminded of his responsibilities.

Josan swallowed hard as he realized that he would never be allowed to return to the collegium. When the sea reclaimed this stretch of beach, as surely it would during the next great storm, the brethren would find somewhere else where he could end his days.

He had thought of this as a place of exile, but only in his worst nightmares had he imagined that it might be permanent. When he had first arrived, he had been certain that, given time, his mind would heal itself, just as his body had slowly recovered from the ravages of the fever.

And indeed, within months his coordination had returned so instead of jerky scrawls he could once again write with the precise script of a scholar. True he had forgotten much of what he had once known, but he had taken comfort that he was mastering new skills. After all, he had learned the language of the villagers with relative ease.

But Brother Nikos’s letter made it clear that Josan had been clinging to a foolish dream. The brethren did not need him. Nor did they want him. He was no longer their equal but merely an obligation, no different from the brothers whose wits had grown feeble with age and had to be confined to the pensioners’ ward lest they cause injury to themselves.

It would have been far kinder if the fever had killed him.