Holding his Book of Aiden, Ciarlo walked into the Uraban harbor town. He wore a calm smile; he whispered prayers. Despite the previous rejections, he kept believing these people would listen to a stranger.
Larger than a typical fishing village, this town boasted several long docks where Middlesea trading ships could tie up and unload. As he walked along the streets, Ciarlo passed crowded mud-brick homes, a small marketplace, a craftsworkers’ district, and three Urecari churches built of wood and stone.
He didn’t know the name of the town; in fact, he’d never even seen a map of Uraba. Making his way down the coast, he merely followed the roads that took him in the general direction of Olabar, where he hoped to find clues about his sister Adrea. During his travels, he had another calling: when he saw those poor, misguided followers of Urec, he had to preach to them.
Ciarlo went through the village, responding with a benevolent nod to anyone who glanced at him. His faith was a barricade against the resistance and hostility he had encountered so far. Very few of the stubborn Urecari were receptive to his message—in fact, they didn’t want to hear him at all—yet he continued nevertheless. Now that he had met the fabled Traveler in person, he was more certain than ever.
The mysterious wandering hermit had appeared in camp one evening, told him stories, and left behind a new volume of handwritten tales. The Traveler had also healed Ciarlo’s lame leg—a true miracle. Now Ciarlo felt he had to repay Aiden by preaching his word.
As the Uraban villagers stared at the stranger’s pale skin and odd clothing, he raised his hand in blessing. When he showed his Fishhook, they recoiled as if a monster had just appeared in their midst. Women rushed children into their homes and closed the doors.
“I am glad to see you,” he said in pidgin Uraban. He understood the language now and could communicate well enough, though his accent marked him as a foreigner. He held up his Tales of the Traveler, knowing these were safer stories, and even Urecari were more likely to listen (though these people erroneously believed that the Traveler was Urec rather than Aiden). “I have good news! Let me tell you about Aiden’s voyage and his encounter with the Leviathan. Let me tell you—”
A woodworker stepped away from the bench he was building, still holding a hammer. “We don’t want to hear it. Go away.”
A potter came out of his shop and nudged his young apprentice down the dirt street. “Bring the sikara—now! Tell the mayor, too.”
Ciarlo spread his open hand. “There is no need to be frightened. Ondun loved both of His sons. You should not cover your ears against the words of Aiden. We can learn much from the examples of his life.” He lifted his book. “Aiden sent me a dream that led me here.”
Someone threw a rock, which struck his shoulder with a stinging blow. Startled, he turned to them, his face plaintive. “Why are you afraid?”
Another rock grazed his cheek, though he raised the Traveler’s tome to fend it off. More craftsmen emerged from their shops and began shouting, finding bravery in numbers.
Several guards marched down the streets, escorting a pompous-looking man who wore the maroon olba of a mayor. The official yelled such a rapid stream of Uraban that Ciarlo had difficulty understanding the words.
Ciarlo greeted him, offering explanations even before the man could ask. “I’ve come here to tell you of wonders.”
The man’s face flushed. He straightened the maroon olba on his head, tightened the silken sash that held his shirt closed over his potbelly. “You are not welcome here. Why do you come to this town?”
“Because Aiden guides me.”
A woman in the red robe of a sikara strode down an intersecting street and said in a loud voice, “Cover your ears against his lies!”
In his travels, Ciarlo had received varied receptions from the sikaras; if not tolerant, at least they had not called for his death or imprisonment. Not yet. This one, though, looked very angry.
The woman’s arrival gave the official all the impetus he needed, and he ordered the guards to grab Ciarlo. When he clung to his two books, the mayor yanked the volumes out of his hands. Squinting down at the pages, the mayor saw Tierran writing and looked as if he had swallowed a large insect. “What is this?”
“The Book of Aiden,” Ciarlo said proudly. “I can read it to you. I will teach you, and all of your people.”
The mayor threw the books to the dirt. “Gag him and bind his arms. Make him watch while we burn this blasphemy.”
At first Ciarlo did not resist, but when the official tore pages from the books to make a pile for burning, he struggled to break free. A rag stuffed into his mouth by one of the guards prevented him from crying out. Without being asked, a lampmaker doused the torn pages with scented oil and set them ablaze. Ciarlo felt great sadness to see the Book of Aiden perish, but far more grievous was the loss of the unique Tales of the Traveler, each sentence in Aiden’s own handwriting. Those stories were irreplaceable.
In only moments, the fire consumed the paper. Curls of ash drifted along the streets like funeral veils.
Ciarlo’s shoulders sagged. He wanted to weep, but he was not weak, and he would not give up. He tried to convince himself this was merely another trial that Aiden had given him. The roads, and his beliefs, had brought him to this place, and he was here for a reason.
“Throw him down a well!” a shrill woman yelled.
“Why not stone him right here?”
“Or chain him out in the sun until he repents and accepts the word of Urec.”
The sikara offered a hard smile. “I could instruct him. We have many implements to assist us.”
Ciarlo struggled, more frightened by the thought of indoctrination than torture.
“No.” The official turned to his guards with a flourish of one hand toward the sea. “The Moray came to port last night.”
Some of the townspeople chuckled; quite a few seemed disappointed. The guards dragged Ciarlo along the street toward the docks. He tried to speak of Aiden on the way, but the gag muffled his words.
They approached a long galley tied up to the longest dock. Its silken sails were furled. Striding out onto the pier, the mayor whistled toward the ship. “Captain Belluc, are you still in the market for workers? You go through men quickly.”
A bronzed man with a single earring came out on deck to greet them. He sized up Ciarlo. “I can always use new men at the oars.”
“And you always pay gold.” The mayor smiled. “Part of which goes to the church, of course.” He extended his hand, and Belluc placed shining yellow coins in his palm. “This one’s an Aidenist, so you won’t need to pamper him.”
“I don’t pamper my men, Aidenist or not.”
Through the galley’s open hatch, Ciarlo could make out a dark, stuffy hold filled with long benches and shackles at the ends of long oars. When the guards finally took the gag from his mouth, he spluttered, “I came here to preach.”
The bald captain raised his eyebrows and laughed. “You’ll be too busy rowing to preach.” He called to two other sailors aboard the galley. “Take him below and put him in chains with the others.”