Only the Stones Survive: A Novel Read Online Free Page B

more he could do, the more he was given to do. In time, Sakkar was offered better food and slept on a pallet instead of the floor.
    Within a year he understood how a ship was constructed, down to the smallest detail. In another year he could have built one by himself.
    A decade had passed, during which Sakkar absorbed knowledge like a sponge, observing everything that happened around him and listening intently to more experienced men. In this way he had mastered several languages and a handful of dialects that were common among those involved in commercial trade. He also acquired the gestures and manners that set an educated person apart from a common laborer. Only a portion of what he learned was of any apparent value; some of it was merely trivia that stuck to his brain the way barnacles stuck to the hull of a ship.
    Barnacles have their uses too.
    On the day when Sakkar was promoted to shipwright, he had thought a special star shone over him. This was confirmed a few years later when he met a wealthy trader called Age-Nor, who required an outstanding shipwright to accompany his fleet and supervise the inevitable repairs needed on long journeys.
    Sakkar had demonstrated a full and impressive range of skills, and the position was his. He abandoned his original employer without a second thought. Age-Nor promised that after their first voyage together, Sakkar would be able to afford a house of his own and an obedient wife instead of waterfront prostitutes with bad teeth and worse diseases.
    Except all had gone terribly wrong. Which proved one could not trust the stars.
    Ruefully, Sakkar rubbed his crooked right shoulder. The smashed joint had not healed properly and never would; he was left with a useless arm and damaged nerves. Gradually, the fingers of his right hand were contracting into claws. There was nothing to be done about it. At his age, whatever that might be, structural changes to his body were permanent.
    Éremón growled, “Well, Sakkar? Either that’s your famous ‘island in the sunset’ or it’s not. If you’ve tried to deceive us, you’ll regret it.”
    Sakkar’s bright black eyes were as innocent as a child’s. “Who would dare incur the rage of Éremón the warrior, champion of every battle?”
    Éremón smiled; he never could resist flattery. Perhaps it was a weakness, he told himself, but he had so few weaknesses this one was rather endearing.
    “As I explained to your late father, I never visited Ierne myself,” said the Phoenician, “but in the harbor-front taverns of Tyre and Sidon it was often mentioned. Late at night, when sailors have drunk too much, they speak of strange things. I have heard it said that Ierne has wealth beyond measure, more gold than in all the treasuries of the East. Some even claim it contains the secret of eternal youth.”
    Éremón grunted encouragingly; he liked that part the best. His stocky body was revealing the first hints of a possible rebellion in the future.
    “No two descriptions of Ierne match,” Sakkar went on, “but all agree it is one of the Pretanic Islands in the ocean-river at the edge of the world. With my own two ears I have heard Greek navigators describe its position in relation to the tin mines of Albion and”—he hesitated, reluctant to put stress on something he knew to be unreliable—“and the stars above. Those are the guideposts that have brought us to this place. So it must be Ierne.”
    “Let me remind you…” Éremón began again.
    Sakkar interrupted, “I would never endanger the family of Mílesios, great prince. May Melqart, god of Tyre, strike me down if I am lying.”
    Éremón tensed instinctively.
    Both men glanced up.
    No bolt of fire shot from the sky.
    More relieved than he wanted to reveal, Sakkar said, “Let me remind you, Éremón, that after I was injured in a shipwreck on your coast and abandoned as useless, your family took me in. Among my people, such a deed confers a powerful obligation. When Mílesios