The septry sat upon an island a half-mile from the shore, where the Trident slowed and broadened into a wide, languid mouth before spilling into the Bay of Crabs. Even from the distance, the island's prosperity was an anomaly in the war-torn Riverlands.
Terraced fields climbed the slopes like green stairs, leading up to towering windmills whose wooden vanes turned sluggishly in the sea breeze, groaning with the weight of the harvest. Below, fishponds shimmered under the autumn sun, the surface broken only by the occasional ripple of a leaping trout.
Aldric removed his helm, letting the warmth of the sun hit his face. "Friar Ray, how do we cross?"
"By ferry," Ray replied, squinting at the expanse of mud and water. "Usually, the brothers keep boats on both shores. But with Saltpans in ashes, they may have pulled them back to the island."
"Can we hail them?" Aldric asked.
Ray shook his head. "The brothers of the Isle seek silence. If they have business in town, they come; if not, they remain in prayer. There is no bell to ring for them."
"Spread out," Aldric commanded his Praetorians. "Find a hull that floats."
It was "Loud-Mouth" Marco who found a derelict fishing boat hidden in the tall reeds. The wood was blackened by age, the hull scarred with cracks that looked like old wounds. Moss and rot clung to the gunwales, and the oars were splintered at the edges.
Kevin kicked the side of the boat, listening to the hollow thud. "Will it hold?"
"To the Isle? Likely," Marco said. "And if it sinks, most of us can swim. The girls are the only ones who'll need a tow."
Martha and Beth looked at each other with visible unease. In the frozen wastes beyond the Wall, "swimming" was merely a faster way to freeze to death.
"Master, the boat won't hold the squad," Martha noted, her voice trembling slightly. "Beth and I should stay with the horses."
"No," Aldric said firmly. "I need you on the Isle. There may be women among the survivors who will not speak to a man in mail. Kevin, Ray, Martha—with me. The rest of you, hold the shore."
As they rowed toward the rising slopes of the Isle, the rhythm of the oars became a heartbeat.
"You've been here before, Ray?" Aldric asked.
"Two years ago," Ray said, his eyes distant. "When King Robert still sat the Throne and a knight on the Kingsroad was a sign of a tourney, not a massacre. Men didn't hide their faces then."
"Why the name?" Kevin asked. "The Quiet Isle?"
"Because it is home to the penitents," Ray explained. "Men who seek to wash away their sins through labor and silence. Only the Elder and the Proctors may speak, and even then, only on the seventh day."
"Like the Silent Sisters?" Kevin asked. "I heard they have no tongues."
Ray smiled. "A nursery tale, lad. Silence is a choice, a sacrifice to the Seven. A mute taking a vow of silence is like a cripple vowing not to dance—it has no weight. These men speak with their hands and their prayers."
Aldric leaned back, watching the windmills. "And what sins are worth such a price?"
"Every man has his own shadow," Ray said softly. "A blow struck in anger against a brother. Gold taken from a widow. To reach the Seven Heavens, they believe they must scrub their souls clean with the grit of the earth and the weight of the tongue."
Aldric chuckled. "In the lands I remember, there was an Order that grew rich by selling 'Shedding Scripts'—Indulgences. A man could pay a few coins to the High Priest, and his time in the fires of the afterlife was cut short. The Church claimed they owned a 'Treasury of Merit' earned by the Saints, and for the right price, they'd share a bit with you."
Ray's jaw dropped. "That is... foul. If gold can buy the Father's mercy, then the Lords can be as monstrous as they wish. What justice remains for the poor?"
"None," Aldric agreed. "That Order had no army, so they bled the people with paper. We are different. If a man sins in the Alliance, we do not ask for his coin; we judge him by the Law and take his property for the common good. It is slower, but it keeps the faith from rotting. I have no desire to build a temple on a foundation of lies."
Ray exhaled, relieved. "Though... if we find a Lord with a guilty conscience and a heavy purse once we expand, perhaps a small donation wouldn't hurt the cause."
Aldric laughed. "Perhaps. We shall see."
The boat hit the mud of the tidal flats with a soft squelch. The flats were a patchwork of a hundred shades of brown and gray, interspersed with patches of golden sand and tide pools where crabs scurried like nervous courtiers. The air smelled of salt and the faint, sweet rot of the sea.
Friar Ray led them along a winding path through the muck. By the time the ground began to rise and turn to solid stone, they had walked a mile.
Three figures waited at the edge of the terraced gardens. They wore the rough brown robes of the Faith, hoods pulled low. Two had wool wrapped around their faces, leaving only their eyes visible. The third stepped forward.
"Friar Ray," he called out. "Two years since you graced our hearth. Welcome."
"We seek shelter for a night, Brother Narbert," Ray said, shaking the mud from his boots.
"You shall have it. There is fish in the pot and straw for your backs. Do you require the ferry at dawn?"
Ray gestured to his companions. "This is Aldric, Commander of the Gods Eye Alliance. His student, Kevin. And Martha of the Free Folk. We come seeking word of the slaughter at Saltpans."
Narbert stiffened, his gaze lingering on Martha. "A woman?"
"I have teeth and a name, Brother," Martha snapped, shaking out her hair. "Do you hide no women here?"
"A few," Narbert admitted. "The sick, the wounded, and those with child. The Seven gave our Elder the 'Healing Hand.' He mends what the Maesters cannot."
"I am a healer as well," Martha said proudly.
"They come for the truth of the Mummers," Ray added. "Ser Quincy Cox has lost his mind to fear; he will not speak."
Narbert looked at Aldric's broad shoulders and the Sun-Steel plate beneath his surcoat. "You look strong, My Lord. But your numbers are few for the ghosts that haunt these woods. Perhaps the Elder can guide you. Follow me."
They climbed the wooden stairs that wound between the stone buildings. The slope was steeper than it looked from the river. Along the way, they passed brothers in silence. One led a pair of lowing cows toward a barn; another churned butter with a rhythmic, hypnotic motion. Higher up, boys called out to a flock of sheep.
Near the crest of the hill, they came upon a cemetery. A man larger than Aldric—a giant of a brother—was digging a grave. Every swing of his spade was labored; his movements were heavy, as if one leg didn't quite obey him. He threw a shovelful of gravel over his shoulder, some of it landing near Ray's feet.
"Careful, Brother!" Narbert barked. "Ray nearly tasted the Isle's dirt."
The gravedigger lowered his head in a silent apology, his face hidden deep within his hood.
"An apprentice," Narbert dismissed.
"Who is the grave for?" Kevin asked.
"Brother Lamb," Narbert said, his voice turning somber. "May the Father judge him justly. He was but thirty-four. He died of wounds taken at Saltpans. He and Brother Clement were taking our mead to the market when the outlaws struck."
"The Mountain's men?" Aldric pressed.
"Worse. Beasts without a banner. Clement would not speak, so they took his tongue. They said if he loved silence so much, he had no use for it. Lamb... they took his hands. They crawled back when the tide went out, but Lamb did not survive the night. The Elder knows more. He keeps the world's filth to himself to preserve the peace of the brothers. But even here, some wounds never heal."
Narbert pointed to the vineyards on the right. "The grapes are sour, but the mead is famous. The war has not yet touched our walls."
"It hasn't?" Aldric asked.
"Not this time," Narbert said, crossing himself. "Prayer has kept us."
"And the tide," Ray added grimly.
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