“It’s not a ghost or a squirrel,” he told Plake—told himself.
At that moment, the haunting figure cleared the foliage and appeared on the path before them. As it came closer, Klye saw it was not some lost soul, but a man of flesh and blood, an older man, judging by his gray hair and wrinkled face.
The man’s pristine white garb, reflecting the light of the gibbous moon, was what gave him an otherworldly appearance. When he saw Klye and Plake, the man stopped his humming but continued forward at the same leisurely pace.
It was as if the old man had been expecting to find them there, and that thought unnerved Klye more than the prospect of meeting a specter had.
The old man stopped several paces from them, placed his hands behind his back, bowed, and said, “Welcome to my garden and to Aladon’s Cathedral. I, Father Elezar, am at your service.”
At first Klye was speechless, but not wanting to stand there as though deaf and dumb, he replied, “Thank you, Father.”
In Port Alexis, Klye had learned that the priest in charge of the Cathedral was a Renegade sympathizer. He was told that priest allowed the Renegades of Port Town to operate out of the basement of the Cathedral, unbeknown to the other clergymen.
Was Elezar the head of the church? Was he a Renegade sympathizer? That was what Klye needed to find out…
“We are followers of Gnuren the Wise and have come—”
Elezar raised a hand to silence Klye. Plake flinched, as though he expected the priest to strike them dead with a wave of his liver-spotted hand.
“You may dispense with the deception, false monks,” said Elezar. “There is no need for lies here.”
The High Priest had seen right through their disguises, and somehow Klye knew he would not be able to convince the priest otherwise. Yet Elezar didn’t seem angry. The priest, his hands now folded before him, regarded the two intruders with what Klye thought was amusement.
“I did not mean to offend you.” Not knowing what else to say, Klye added, “We are looking for the priest in charge of the Cathedral.”
“The High Priest is the chief authority of the Cathedral, and I am the High Priest.”
They had stumbled upon the High Priest, but Klye still had to gamble that what he had learned of Elezar was true. “We need to get to the Cathedral’s lower levels.”
“You seek an audience with Miss Beryl,” said Elezar, not asking, but clarifying.
“Uh, yeah.” The High Priest had him completely off balance, a new and unpleasant sensation for Klye.
Elezar’s smile grew. “Be at ease, my friends. You are safe here. If the third member of your party would like to join us, he is welcome, though I’ll understand if he would rather stay out here in the garden. Truly, this is my favorite place to be, day or night.”
Klye swallowed his astonishment. He knew where Othello had entered the brush but saw no evidence that the archer was out there. Anxious to get on with things, however, Klye motioned for Othello to join them. To his surprise, the archer had silently positioned himself farther down the path, so when he left the cover of the hedges, he was actually behind Elezar.
Though his expression was as unreadable as ever, Klye thought there was a grudging respect in Othello’s bright green eyes as he joined his fellow false monks.
“Now, if you will follow me, I will take you to Leslie Beryl.” Turning his back to them, Elezar started walking back the way he had come. Over his shoulder, he said, “I have given you my name and would be honored to have yours.”
Before Klye could reply, the High Priest added, “You need not worry about your anonymity. No foes of yours or mine are nigh, and no one outside the garden will hear anything but the wind through the trees.”
The priest was so sure of himself, so confident that his guests wouldn’t stab him in the back, Klye couldn’t help but wonder what the High Priest had hidden up his sleeve. In Klye’s experience, a man was only this calm in the company of criminals if he had accepted his doom or was confident in the doom of the others.
But what choice did they have but to follow him?
“Why do you need our names?” Plake demanded. “I’ve heard that a name holds a lot of power. With it, enchanters can take control over the person’s mind, body, and soul.”
Klye winced, hoping that the suspicious rancher hadn’t angered their guide. While there did seem to be something uncanny about Elezar, Klye was prepared to dismiss the High Priest’s supposed omniscience as a combination of correct guesses and sheer confidence.
For all they knew, a small company of Renegade archers was scattered throughout the garden, keeping their arrows trained on Klye and his men as they were led to the church…
But Elezar merely chuckled. “I am no enchanter, my young friend. I wanted to know your names so that I could pass them on to Leslie. If you prefer it, though, I’ll introduce you as Monk One, Monk Two, and Monk Three. She would find that quite humorous.”
With a sharp glare in Plake’s direction, Klye said, “I am Klye Tristan.”
Elezar paused, regarding his visitors patiently.
Klye continued: “This is Othello, and this is Plake. I am afraid Leslie won’t recognize our names any more than you do, Father. We are not expected.”
The High Priest’s warm smile was renewed as he said, “Well met, gentlemen.” Walking once more, he added, “I did not think she was expecting anyone else tonight. And, of course, Leslie’s guests typically use a different entrance.”
Klye felt his face warm. “The Renegades of Port Alexis could tell us very little about the Renegades of Port Town. I apologize for inconveniencing you, Father.”
“No apologies are necessary, Klye. Everything worked out all right in the end, didn’t it?”
Klye had to admit that, so far, everything had gone very smoothly. If he believed in luck, Klye would have wondered when his was going to run out.
He did wonder, however, what had caused Elezar to side with the Renegades to begin with. Each rebel tended to have his own motivation and goals, which went a long way in explaining why the various Renegade factions—from Continae to Capricon—were not better coordinated. They were all revolutionaries, but there were many different brands of rebels.
Not wanting to test whether the High Priest’s patience had an end, Klye kept his question to himself. Elezar’s reasons for helping the Renegades were his own business.
The priest led Klye, Plake, and Othello through the labyrinth of plants and trees until they reached a small door in one of the Cathedral’s stone walls. The door was unlocked, and the priest preceded them into a narrow hallway, which they followed rather than ascend the stairway to the left.
At the end of the hall was another door. Klye was surprised to find that this one wasn’t locked either. Elezar opened it, warned them all to watch their step, and began his descent into the bowels of the church. Whatever lay at the bottom of the stairway was completely cloaked in the darkness.
Klye hesitated and watched as the black abyss swallowed up the priest, bright gown and all.
“I don’t like this,” Plake complained.
Klye didn’t either. Tempted to unsheathe his dagger, Klye sighed and let his feet take him down into the darkness. There was no turning back now.
* * *
DeGrange studied Arthur as they left the sounds and smells of the harbor behind. The boy kept his eyes cast downward, as though he found his shoes incredibly captivating. When DeGrange, in an effort to dispel the awkward silence, asked him friendly questions, Arthur replied with one-word answers.
The Captain of the Three Guards decided the boy was simply a timid creature.
DeGrange led them down a circuitous path in order to avoid the main street that shot straight from the wharves to the center of the city. He chose the smaller, quieter streets to spare Arthur the sight of the seedy tavern-goers that wandered that larger road on any given night. It was the ugly side of Port Town, a side that DeGrange was not proud of.
Avoiding the ni
ght crowd was for his own benefit as well. The men and women who found need to celebrate with excessive drink and immoral forms of entertainment every night were in clear violation of the mayor’s curfew. Hell, they would have been in violation of any curfew, since the taverns were wont to keep their doors open until the last patron stumbled out onto the streets after dawn.
Oh, DeGrange and his guards could give them all fines, including the barkeeps, who were supposed to close their doors at sundown, but no one would pay the fees. Most of them probably couldn’t afford to. So DeGrange’s only other option was to arrest them, and he knew all too well that Port Town’s jail—oversized as it was—was almost always full.
Clearing his throat, DeGrange said to Arthur, “You know, the curfew is for your own good. There’s no telling who you might find skulking about the streets at this time of night. The city guards can’t be everywhere at once.”
Arthur looked up. “Do you mean the Renegades?”
“Aye,” said DeGrange with a sigh, “but the rebels aren’t the only problem Port Town faces. Rumor has it that a band of burglars and pickpockets from the capital are responsible for a string of recent robberies, though it all gets blamed on the Renegades. And now there are pirates…” DeGrange trailed off, his thoughts outpacing his words.
“Pirates?” asked Arthur. “Real pirates?”
DeGrange hid a smile. Arthur had mentioned he was from Hylan, the large farming community near the island’s eastern coast. DeGrange doubted the boy had ever seen a man who earns his livelihood through thievery—either on land or on the water. The lad probably thought that bands of bloodthirsty buccaneers existed only in exciting tales of adventure on the high seas.
“Yes, real pirates,” DeGrange said, and when he saw Arthur’s eyes had grown as big platters, he added, “But it’s nothing to panic about. In fact, maybe we had better keep this between you and me.”
Arthur nodded solemnly.
“Besides, the Three Guards will make short work of them.” If the mayor is kind enough to give me permission, he amended silently. “The problem with pirates is that they are unpredictable. Some of them are just plain mad. Generally, they live short, tragic lives, spending their money as fast as they steal it, wasting it on the drink and whor—er—gambling.
“It’s all so bloody pointless,” he continued, talking more to himself than Arthur. “They try to get ahead by circumventing the law, but their shortcuts inevitably lead to shortened lives as well. The promise of quickly gained riches lures them in, though some of them simply like to fight.
“At least the Renegades’ motives tend to be less selfish…or less hedonistic, I suppose. Their battles are fought for political power, not for plunder alone. Maybe that makes the Renegades more dangerous than pirates, but I respect them a hell of a lot more than sea-robbers.”
Only a small part of him was still aware of the boy walking beside him. DeGrange couldn’t believe how complicated his job was getting lately. Being Captain of the Three Guards used to be an honorable and gratifying experience. Now he felt torn between the city he was sworn to protect and the man who gave him orders.
Now it was Arthur who broke the silence. “Is it true that the leader of the Renegades is the mayor’s own daughter?” His voice was meek, but his curiosity must have overpowered his reservations.
DeGrange didn’t say anything for a moment, striving for the most succinct way to answer the boy’s delicate question. While he had his troubles with Crofton Beryl, he didn’t want to air the mayor’s dirty laundry in front of Arthur either.
“Rumor has it that Leslie, the mayor’s daughter, has indeed fallen in with the city’s Renegades. But there are many bands of Renegades throughout Continae, even several different groups here in Capricon. Each has its own leader, as I understand it, but I doubt Leslie, young as she is, truly leads Port Town’s Renegades. Frankly, I’m not convinced she actually is a Renegade. The Renegades might have started that rumor to insult the mayor.
“But since no one has seen Leslie in many months, it’s hard to say what she may or may not be doing with her time…if she’s even alive. The Renegades could have killed her long ago out of spite.”
Although DeGrange was dodging concrete facts—for there were few enough of those when it came to the secretive rebels—he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. Most everyone, including Crofton Beryl, believed that Leslie was somehow involved with the Renegades. Several decrees concerning Leslie Beryl had been read to the citizens of Port Town, encouraging them to share any information they might have about her.
Some of the latest announcements added clauses like “should any harm come to the mayor’s daughter, it will not be held against her captor” as well as “the captor will receive his reward even in the unfortunate event of her death.”
How long before Crofton hired professional bounty hunters to find her? DeGrange thought. Or maybe he had already. The mayor had ordered the Three Guards to keep an extra look out for her and the other Renegades whose identities were known.
Leslie was to be taken through any means possible. Capturing her alive was preferred, but if that wasn’t possible…
DeGrange shivered, wondering again what had happened to the Crofton Beryl he had known upon first being promoted to Captain of the Three Guards. He realized he pitied the mayor more than he despised him. Between his wife’s dying of a strange sickness a year ago and the audacity of the local Renegades, the mayor’s strictness could perhaps be forgiven.
That didn’t mean, however, that DeGrange had to like the man.
He bade Arthur of Hylan a goodnight when they reached the ugly building so many of the dockhands called home. The gray, three-story structure had once been used as a hospital, but it had been evacuated not long after the Thanatan Conflict, after the last victim of a deadly plague had perished.
Instead of burning the hospital down, as perhaps he should have done, the mayor at that time had asked healers to purge the sickness from the place. As the story goes, the healers did what they could to purify the hospital, but the townspeople refused to go there anymore, and a new hospital was erected on the other side of town.
Many years later, Crofton Beryl had decided to convert the abandoned hospital into living quarters for the dockhands, for surely the place was safe by then. And yet, as DeGrange watched the boy disappear into the building—its walls nothing more than bare, weathered wood—he could almost smell the stench of sickness.
Wrinkling his nose, DeGrange turned and continued on in the direction of his own house, which was nestled among the dwellings of Port Town’s middle-class citizens just southeast of the city’s Square. He hoped his family wasn’t too worried about him. After nine years as the Captain of the Three Guards and countless years as a city guardsman before that, DeGrange knew his wife was all too accustomed to his unpredictably late nights.
Though he found the dark, empty streets of Port Town somewhat calming, he couldn’t forget the pirate ships that threatened the safety of his family, friends, and the city he loved. As he neared his neighborhood, he thanked the gods for protecting him and his family.
DeGrange also thanked them that his daughter, unlike Leslie Beryl, was content to busy herself with knitting needles instead of swords and daggers.
* * *
Othello blinked rapidly, and his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The hallway was almost pitch black, but a small amount of light from ahead provided some illumination, enough for him to see that while grandiose on the outside, the Cathedral was not as well kept on the inside, at least not down there.
Spider webs clung to the low beams of the ceiling, under which he was forced to duck. He saw rat droppings scattered here and there on the floor. The plaster on the walls was peeling. Breathing mostly through his mouth so the dust wouldn’t irritate his nose, he nevertheless could smell the stale air around him.
Othello glanced behind him every now and again to be sure they were not being followed. He had no faith in the priest’s promise th
at they were safe, here or anywhere. He had survived, living alone in the wilderness, by keeping his wits about him and never allowing his five senses a moment’s reprieve—even when he slept.
If someone were to ambush them from behind, Othello would see their assailant as soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He would probably hear someone coming long before that. This did not assuage his unease in the least, cramped in the tight corridor and bereft of his longbow to boot.
Othello doubted he and his companions would be able to fight off even a single well-armed adversary in their current position.
There were doors that presumably led to small rooms on either side of the hallway. Most of them looked as though they hadn’t been opened in centuries, but the doorknobs on a couple of them were free of dust. Since no light shone from under these doors, he presumed the rooms were empty.
The corridor did not twist or turn. Up ahead, past Plake, Klye, and the priest, he saw it ended with a set of double doors that were outlined by a light from the other side. He felt the pace of the others quicken in anticipation of leaving the darkness behind, heard Plake cursing under his breath.
Once they reached the double doors, the priest knocked twice, and though he had not used much force, the sound echoed down the tunnel-like corridor. He saw that Klye’s hand rested on his hip, as though he might draw his dagger through the very fabric of his robe if danger presented itself. Plake shifted his weight from one leg to the other.
He heard a woman’s voice, muffled, say something from the other side of the doors.
“You have visitors,” the priest called to her, heedless the thick, wooden barrier between them.
The woman said something in reply. A full minute passed before Othello heard movement from the room and saw two shadows—made by somebody’s feet—blocking the light beneath the door.
Rebels and Fools (The Renegade Chronicles Book 1) Page 4