35 The Dyscovera
One uncharted sea looked much like another, but Criston knew that at any time the curve of the horizon could reveal mysterious shorelines, rugged continents, exotic islands—or the edge of the world itself. So far, though, he saw only water stretching out in all directions… day after day after day.
After leaving the escort of Soeland ships, the graceful carrack continued westward, chasing the sunset into waters that no living man had ever seen. As captain, he had chosen a different course from the wide-ranging path the Luminara had sailed on her disastrous voyage.
Each morning at dawn, Prester Hannes summoned every member of the crew to listen to his sermons. He was grim andfiery, quite unlike the soft-spoken and avuncular Prester Jerard from the Luminara. But Hannes had been shaped by thepainful experiences he'd endured, and Criston felt close to the man, understood him. He himself was very different fromthe optimistic young sailor who had climbed aboard the Luminara nearly two decades ago….
Hannes shouted into the clear, moist air and inflamed the sailors, but out on the open sea, the men had no place to vent their anger. Rather, the prester had to content himself with focusing their energy and determination on finding Terravitae and forming an alliance with Holy Joron to crush the enemy. Prester Hannes continued to remind the crew how much was at stake on this mission. “Though we sail far beyond the eyes of mortal men, do not assume we are safe. Always remain alert for Urecari treachery.”
Impressionable Javian was alarmed to hear such talk, but Criston let the prester spew all the invective he liked. He could never forgive or forget what the Urecari raiders had done to Windcatch, his old mother, or his beloved wife Adrea and their unborn child….
While the Dyscovera sailed smoothly along under high white clouds, Criston sat at the table in his cabin and marked the ship's charts. After a brisk knock, Javian pushed open the door, his face flushed with worry. “Sir, there's trouble brewing!”
Only a few steps behind the cabin boy came big Kjelnar, clearly angry. “It's a decision for you to make, Captain. It shouldn't have been a problem at all, if you ask me. One of the crewmen, sir—a man named Mior. The men don't like him. They're suspicious.”
Criston frowned irritably. “A crewman isn't required to be liked, just to do his work. Haven't these others ever sailed before?”
Kjelnar kept his voice low. “Even so, Captain, there could be something to their suspicions. Mior is quiet, keeps to himself, has secretive habits.”
He followed the two out onto the deck, where he saw his sailors milling about uneasily. In the hot afternoon sun, the other crewmen had stripped to the waist as they worked on deck, but the one named Mior remained fully clothed in shirt, pants, and headband. He must have been abominably hot in such garments.
“He never shows his skin, and that's passing strange, especially in this weather,” Kjelnar grumbled. “Some of the crew think he has scars from the lash on his back, and he's ashamed of them.”
“Or that he has fern tattoos, showing his allegiance to Urec,” Javian interjected.
Criston rested his fists on his hips as he observed. “Has he actually done anything wrong?”
“He completes his tasks like any other sailor, better than some. He causes no trouble, but still…” Kjelnar rubbed his face. “Nagging questions make the men uneasy, and uneasy men are more difficult to control.”
Growing angry, Criston walked with a determined gait across the deck. “Then we'll put an end to this now, for good.” Some of the sailors turned away, cowed, while others raised their voices in a cacophony of indignant shouts.
Mior stood apart, glowering at them, his back to three large barrels.
Criston regarded the thin young man, who seemed only a year or so older than Javian. “I will have no secrets among my crew. We'll face unknown perils together. We must trust one another.”
But Mior stood rigid, shaking his head. “No, Captain. A person has a right to privacy, even on a crew. Why should these men care how I dress?”
“You're right, they shouldn't care.” Criston swept a stern gaze across the men, showing his own disapproval before he turned back to Mior. “But they do. And once the question has been raised, it can't be taken back. Considering what the ra'virs have done over the years, the crew has good reason to be suspicious. It's a small thing, and you are all ridiculous to argue about it.” Criston raised his voice sharply, looking at them again, then back at Mior. “Including you. Will you take off your shirt?”
“No, Captain. Please don't make me.”
“It's the fastest way to put an end to this distrust.” Impatient, Criston gestured to two of the men. “Off with the shirt. We'll all see if he's hiding scars or fern tattoos—and then everyone can get back to work!”
Mior struggled even after the captain's command, and the open defiance concerned Criston even more. But when the cloth ripped and the fabric fell away from the white unblemished skin, they saw no lash scars, no tattoos… only a pair of small, rounded breasts.