Stormcallers: Chapter 25
But praise Atamato Cintona, the shackled boy, for he found his courage and feared neither Master Gentamo nor his own foolishness. So bright burned the hope in his chest that he left the Great Library and marched to the poor districts of the Free City.
There he acquired, with what little coin he had along with the promise of more to come, a tiny room above a food-shop, barely big enough for even a street-laborer. The roof leaked, and the street outside was full of mud and raucous noise. The smell of stewed seaweed below the floorboards made him sick, and his bed was almost as threadbare as his cap.
It was here that he began his many foolish experiments to find the truth of things. He dreamed such madness as to make the scholars and professors of the Academy blush. He hung a giant pendulum in the middle of the room, and marked its rotation to see if the cloud-sea itself turned as the islands did. He climbed onto the roof on the clearest nights to catch glimpses of the glittering ice crystals, to see if they moved or remained still. He drew diagrams, wrote formulas, and poured himself so deeply into his experiments that he often forgot to eat, which was fortunate, considering his empty purse.
When he could bear it no longer, when his head was full of equations and explanations, he availed himself of the local taverns, buying penny-ales and letting his tongue wag its way through his many theories.
But alas, it was this loose tongue of his which brought him to the attention of the Fellowship. For he spoke of his time in the Academy, and the foolishness of his Mentor. He said much he should not have, and rumors spread like water down a hill. It was not long before word of his tales reached the ears of the Fellowship of the Light.
So it was that one night, as Atamato staggered out into the streets of the Free City, he was met by two cloaked men, who carried a length of rope and a bag between them. They tied his limbs and covered his eyes and mouth, and dragged him to a room of cold stone and no light.
When the bag was pulled off of Atamato’s head, a moment of fresh air was all he had before a splash of ice-water struck him full in the face. Poor Atamato could only gasp and sputter as he was beaten by thick hands.
From the darkness, a deep voice spoke his name, like this: “Atamato Cintiona, we know of your crimes. We know you have taught heresy across the cloud-sea. Tell us now who you consort with, who else shares in your heresy.”
Poor Atamato, he had never been beaten before. He could only struggle to breathe, and gasp out a faint plea for mercy before the beating started again. When at last he could speak, he could only profess his ignorance and innocence. He knew nothing of heresy, he was a scientist and engineer, not a priest.
But the brutes who held him cared little for his protests. They beat him and asked him again, who did he consort with? Who did he teach of heresy? They wanted names, and places, and plans.
For the Ramshakle Heresy was a great threat to the Fellowship of the Light. Such was the Fellowship’s creed that the storms were naught but discord, born from the center of all things, the depths. The Fellowship preached there was no order in the storms, and no stability. The winds could have no currents, the cloud-sea could hold no paths. To the Fellowship, this was a dangerous lie.
They said to him: “There is no greater danger to think the uncontrollable can be controlled. Flame is most dangerous to those who think they cannot burn. You can burn, Atamato. Do not forget this. We will give you time to think, to remember all the names. We will return soon, and you will write out a confession. You will beg for forgiveness, and give the names of all who are a part of your heresy. When you have done this, you will be absolved and given your freedom. Your suffering will end.”
Did he speak to them? We do not know. What of the Ramshackle Heresy? It was not destroyed, only hidden for many years. The writings of Master Gentamo were found again, and the currents were charted many years later, but this is not the point of the story.
When they were certain they would get no more from him, they bound Atamato’s hands and threw him into a tiny cell to await his final punishment. This was the punishment for heresy, for the Fellowship of the Light: to be locked away until the time was right, and then brought into the light once more to be hanged in front of the citizenry. A written confession would be provided, written by either his own hand or another. This was how the Fellowship proved their strength to the unbelievers.
Now you must know that Atamato did not think himself irreligious. In the darkest nights he considered that math had its own rituals and holy books and litanies. He could chart the Golden Percentage, and craft the Perfect Ratio. The circumference of a circle could be summoned through string and an angle, and distances further than the eye could see could be measured.
But now, in his cell, with Phalamili Rukiya, words echoing in his head, he realized it was a kind of magic. Numbers became guideposts, ushers along an uncertain path. An complex and uncontrollable world solidified into something sensible. But no matter how hard he thought, he could not make the entire world fit into a narrow box of numbers and letters. It was too real for that. So he sat in the darkness, tears rolling down his face, as he prayed for an epiphany.
Science was a tricky thing. In its infancy, the scientists of old thought truth would be self-evident; a playful child eager to be chased, hiding and giggling with delight when discovered. They did not know the stories of old, or the ancient magics. They did not know the truth was elusive and mysterious. They did not believe they could look right at it and not believe it. They did not believe that something could only look like the truth, or feel like it.
But Atamato, fortunate and wise, he had heard the words of Phalamili Rukiya, and once more they echoed in his memory. As she stared at his charts, she looked at him with fierce eyes, and said: “A blind man may grip a horse’s tail and call it silk. Another may grab its hoof and call it a sheep. Another it’s flank and call it a bull. None of them are right, though they are not fooled.”
And then, the shackled boy discovered a great truth; a truth I now tell to you. With his eyes closed and head held back he saw; if only they had talked with each other, if they had just worked together, they might have been able to describe the horse quite accurately.
But what could he do with such revelation? Nothing while he was in his cell, trapped and chained by the Fellowship’s displeasure. No, all he had was a small piece of paper with which to write a confession.
So the shackled boy confessed. He opened his heart and emptied his secrets onto the page. When it was full, he begged the guard for more. A fire now burned in his eyes, a soulful need to challenge the parochiarchy. Atamato wrote long into the night, and awoke only to write again. Entire paths of thought were written and then scratched out and rewritten again. A new way of looking at the world was forming under Atamato’s pen, pushing aside the old walls and chains that kept everyone in ignorance and darkness.
He wrote down every secret he knew. He wrote the formulas that charted the path of ships across the cloud-sea. He wrote the secret mesurements of the Magnaprim Areotlas. He wrote the methods of creating the tools that guided Navigators on their journeys. He wrote down creeds, codexes, and precepts.
In the darkness of his cell, Atamato, the shackled boy, wrote the Cloud-sea Almanac. A book of math, charts, diagrams, and secrets. Though the thick mists of the cloud-sea had kept the people apart, his almanac would set them free. Now anyone could build an areotlas, travel where they wished. In his heart, he saw a world where the myriad masses could see the world for themselves. They could find their own truths, and speak them aloud on market squares and street corners. Together, he saw a world in which everyone could finally see what couldn’t be seen by two eyes alone.
Some say it was this that broke him, that emptied him at last of himself. Some say the storms found his empty shell, and in his womanly weakness they made a puppet of him to poison the world with lies.
We know the truth of it, the truth I now tell to you. Brave Atamato, he did not empty himself, but found himself anew. It is because of his sacrifice that now we tell the tale of Rukiya, Ysalla, and Goduu. We tell the tale of the Wailing Hour thanks to the boy who embraced his shackles, and gave the story over to those who could carry on without him. This is how we honor him and his sacrifice.
But how did the almanac leave his cell? Would not the priests of the Fellowship burn it rather than let it free?
Indeed, beloved, they would have, but we have not come to that part of the story. First Ysalla must leave Jarhaan and travel with Bishop Sindre to the great Cathedral. It is not until then that Atamato’s story truly ends.
Poor Queen Ceinneret, her story had not yet ended; for you remember how she was known as the Beldamned Queen, and this is how she became known thus.
For one day at court, the Chamberlain stepped to her side and bent low to her ear: “The Baron Treave, Lord of the low-land province of Denneshel, begs leave to speak with you on a matter of great import, your Highest.”
That name sounds familiar
Indeed it should, beloved, for it was the Baron Treave that Melora warned her queen would refuse the levy, and provide no soldiers nor coin. He was fiercely loyal to the old king, and despised his children; pretenders to the throne, he thought, and he had fought against Queen Ceinneret’s rule for years.
But Ceinneret was queen, and while a King might have banished the brutish man, a Queen could not deny his leave to speak without seeming petulant and childish. So, she waved her hand, like this, and allowed the proud Baron to approach.
As was proper, the Baron spoke before he moved: “Your Highest.” It was a show of gratitude, and when the echos of his words had faded from the court-room, the Baron stepped forward. As he approached the throne, he bowed low, three times.
Now Queen Ceinneret was shocked, for these three bows were precicely measured, dividing the long carpet in threes. His face was a placid mask, instead of holding any of the faint scorn it usually held. When he reached the first step to the Queen’s throne, the Baron stopped short, and took off his hat.
Queen Ceinneret did not move, neither in shock nor in curiosity. A true Monarch was never surprised, and if they were, they never revealed their true thoughts. Rulers are like stones; as unyielding and resolute as the mountainside.
While Queen Ceinneret kept her calm, the rest of the court was not so stoic. A great wind of whispers blew across the court, as Lords and Ladies fell to gossip, trying to divine some reason for the Baron’s behavior. Could it be that the proud and rude Baron Treave, Lord of the low-land province of Denneshel, had been humbled?
At last, the Baron cleared his throat, and spoke. “It is with humility that I come before you, High Queen of Cast, Ceinneret the wise and powerful. I have brought with me a gift of bounty, to fill the stores of your province. Seven coffers of my finest treasures, to do honor and glory to your highest majesty.”
He bowed again, low, and stayed bent; again, a sharp contrast to the scornful man who had never before waited for Ceinneret to bid him rise.
Out of the corner of her eye, Ceinneret saw the court hide their mouths behind secretive hands, and the whispers and mutters of the gentry drifted through the air. What was the Baron up to? So practiced was this new respect, so careful was his submission, that she couldn’t believe it wasn’t itself a more practiced insult than he had ever before given.
She could have thrown him out of court then and there. She could have stripped him of his titles, thrown him in the dungeon, and ousted his family from the upper provinces. She could have instilled a true loyalist, who believed with all their heart that Ceinneret was their queen, rather than hold on to a rusted loyalty to her long dead father.
But a weakness in her took hold, and demanded caution. She did not know what the Baron sought, and to react rashly, without knowing the truth of it, was to play into the hunter’s snare. She may have been Queen, but she still had little choice.
“Rise, Baron Treave. Your gift is most welcome. My Stewards will take your coffers and add them to our stores. Our gratitude is as freely given as your tribute.”
She studied the Baron for a flash of glee at his success, or fury at her calm; but there was neither. The Baron bowed again and backed away, as perfect a picture of abject submission as any noble had ever given her.
The pantomime complete, the court was left in stark confusion. The courtiers and nobles that surrounded Ceinneret studied each other with practiced care, searching out the lost scraps of information that had escaped their notice.
Ceinneret envied them; she did not have the time to consider what had just happened. The Court and the Chamberlain waited impatiently, and so she bid the next courtier to approach.
The rest of the court session was tense and confused. The winds had shifted, and not imperceptibly. Nobles from across Cast now stepped with greater care, and spoke, if not with respect, than with caution.
But while Ceinneret might have once appreciated such deference, now she felt only suspicion. They had never found her worthy of such behavior before, why now did they step so carefully? It was a question that tormented her until at last she could bear it no longer. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed the court, sending hopefuls and petitioners alike away from her throne that she might think in peace.
In the silence that followed, she summoned her queensmaid. When Melora arrived, she saw in her queen a great torment. She curtsied before her queen before speaking: “How may I assist you, your Highest?”
But Ceinneret was not ready to ask her true question, so newly formed in her head. Instead she asked a possibly unimportant question that had been in her mind since the beginning of the day’s court. “Has the Master of the Hunt returned yet?”
Melora knew the answer well enough, but it is rarely wise to be blunt with a Queen. “I do not believe so, my lady,” she said. “I have not seen his horse-boy for three days. If you wish, I will ask the servants of the castle if there is word.”
Queen Ceinneret stood from the throne, her gaze passing over the silent guards that lined the room. It would not serve her to speak her mind plain in such company, so she shook her head in silent dismissal. “It is of no importance. If the man wishes to continue hunting to hide from me, he at least will find fresh air among the mountain peaks. Now, I must adjust my dress.”
Melora knew what this meant, for this was how ladies of Cast asked for their chamberpot. Once Melora had fetched the porcelain stool and placed it beneath her Queen’s dress, the Queen asked of her clever maid, in quiet tones: “Did you mark the Baron’s behavior at court?”
Melora shook her head in apology, and said: “My lady, I was not in the throne-room today during court.”
But Ceinneret knew Melora was clever, and heard many things, and so she did not allow her queensmaid to be so circumspect. “I did not ask if you saw it, I asked if you noted it.”
Melora could do nothing but nod. “I did, my lady.”
Ceinneret turned to Melora, and spoke a question without asking. “I found the Baron to be uncharacteristically respectful.”
Melora knew how to recognize when her lady asked a question. She chose her words carefully. “I am but a simple maid, your Highest. I have found it difficult to guess the motives of the nobles at court.”
Ceinneret was not fooled, and so in a whisper meant only for Melora, she said: “You are many things, lady Melora, but you are not simple. Herathia has become bold, the Erwind Trade Conglomerate makes demands, my brothers Argenture and Owengallon call for blood and war, the islands of the cloud-sea grow more and more restless as the winds change…Tell me, lady Melora, with your clever ears and quick tongue, what news is there from the scullery?”
With subtle tone, Melora said: “My lady, I have heard a rumor in the marketplace, of the lower provinces. There is indeed fear of famine, but not only for the barren harvest. Not a half-month ago, a rain-storm descended on the provinces, the largest seen for some generations. Grain silos across the land were crushed and swept away.”
Ceinneret was astounded at this, for it is not fit for a Queen to be surprised at such new. “Why have I not heard of this until now? Why must I hear this from the whispers of my queensmaid?”
Melora kept her eyes downcast, and whispered so the guards would not hear: “There is a rumor, your Hightest, that the rain-storm was punishment for the nobility’s loyalty to the old king.”
Ceinneret laughed at the idea: “The fool Baron thinks the storm was divine retribution for his refusal to accept my rightful claim to the crown?”
But Melora had not intended this. She slowly shook her head, and met her Queen’s eyes. “Not divine. Not these storms.”
For this was the way of Cast, that gods and divine power were the domain of Kings and warriors. For Queens and womenfolk, darker rumors must be told. And now it was clear to Ceinneret why she had not been told of the rain-storm and its destruction. “The people of Cast think I bewitched the storms.”
Melora bowed her head. “The rumor is a quiet one, but the words are whispered among the simple farmers of the low-land. Some say you called the storm to punish the fool Baron for his recalcatrance and hubris.”
Ceinneret smiled in spite of herself. “The entirety of the low-lands facing famine as punishment for an insolent Baron? Even in his ordeals he is full of himself. And do you think I am a Storm-hag? A Beldam? What do you say, Melora?”
Melora did not meet her Queen’s gaze, nor shared her Queen’s smile. “I think you must decide, my Queen. It is but a rumor now, but rumors have created and destroyed dynasties before now. There is both risk and reward to the truth.”