Sal swiped the contents of the tabletop onto the bed and scrambled to cover it all up.
“Ah, I see you have woken,” said Jacques. “My brothers and I have finished our morning prayers and now seek to break our fast. Will you join me at table?”
Sal’s heart was racing so quickly, he couldn’t speak. Instead, he managed a weak nod.
The abbot seemed to find the answer satisfactory. He nodded in response, turned, and headed out of the guesthouse, apparently expecting Sal to follow, which he did after a brief hesitation.
The monks that had stood sentry outside Sal’s door were no longer there, likely they were already in the frater breaking their fasts. Sal followed the abbot, not to the frater, but to the abbot’s own house.
He took a seat opposite the abbot at his table. A white cloth set the table. Cutlery had been laid out for each of them. There were few furnishings about the abbot’s home, an oil painting on canvas, a pair of longswords, and a shield hung upon a wall.
Two boys, likely ten and three at the oldest, bustled about in their brown robes, readying the abbot’s meal and dishing out the food, hot from the hearth ovens.
One of the boys brought a sliced loaf of bread to the table, steaming and smelling of fresh dough. The other boy placed a dish of butter and a knife next to the bread.
Jacques motioned with his hands, and Sal took a slice, slapping a healthy portion of butter on the warm bread. He bit into the crisp crust with a satisfying crunch and into soft, white flesh before the butter could melt. Sal felt he hadn’t tasted anything so good in ages, yet the bread was far from the best thing he’d eaten that meal.
“I see you are eyeing my swords,” Jacques said, laying his slice of buttered bread down upon his plate.
Sal nodded. “Yours?”
“Only, by inheritance.” Jacques gestured. “That sword there belonged to my father’s father, the shield and the other, my father’s.”
“Are they sharp?”
“Oh, but are they,” the abbot laughed. “Sharp enough to cut a man in two, I reckon. Though, I was never a man of the sword. All my life, I have been a healer, as my father trained me to be. On the latter end, I have been a man of God, but never a man of the sword as my father before me. Come now, let us not waste this fine meal with words, eat your fill, my son.”
While the abbot looked to live sparingly, it seemed he lacked for nothing at table. They were served mulled wine with the meal. When the bread had been all but picked to crumbs, the serving boys brought cheese and fruit, followed by poached eggs, bacon, and fried potato slices. When Sal felt he could eat no more, the serving boy placed a lemon custard before him, and Sal found he had room after all.
It seemed Jacques preferred to keep his morning meal spare of conversation, deferring to speak only after they had finished with the custard.
“I was informed you arrived back here after evenfall last night.”
Sal froze. He’d hoped word hadn’t gotten to Jacques, but it seemed there was no helping it. He would needs tell the truth. “I did.”
Jacques cocked an eyebrow. “I can appreciate honesty. I’ll not ask where you were, nor why you arrived late. I only ask that you do not do this again. I can only cover for you so often. If you were to have been seen by one on the Enlightened Council, we would not be having this conversation.”
“Look I—I’m sorry. I never meant to put you in this situation. If there is anything I can do—”
The abbot waved his hands. “I don’t ask that you apologize, only that you correct the error of your ways.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t. For the sake of us both.”
Sal nodded.
“What did you think of the food?” Jacques asked, lightening the mood.
“Excellent, I’ve not eaten so well in a long while. Much better than what was served in the frater.”
“Ah, but the abbey cannot afford for five hundred men to eat so well. The brothers of the Vespian Order are no strangers to sacrifice. We live sparingly as the Lord teaches, but those who do the most work are compensated for their efforts, and as master of the manor, in a matter of speaking, I must be nourished with strength enough to fulfill my many tasks.”
Sal smiled. “You no longer share the sleeping quarters with your brothers, I see.”
“To lead the flock, the shepherd must be set apart, and in some ways, set above. By this, he will become more visible to those who would follow. To be set apart is my burden to bear.”
“You must admit there are certain comforts afforded the position.”
“I would not deny it, and yet you seem to be forgetting the responsibilities that come with such comforts and the weight those responsibilities bare. It is no simple task to rule Knöldrus Abbey.”
“I meant no offense by it.”
“Of course, there was no offense taken,” said Jacques. “But tell me, what of your task? Have you found out anything of promise concerning this murder?”
“Nothing thus far,” Sal admitted.
“I see,” said Jacques. “If anything changes to that regard, I would that you informed me immediately. Anything I can bring to the Enlightened Council could put doubt in their minds concerning your guilt. Find enough evidence, and it could serve to delay a verdict.”
“Right. Well, I’m innocent on all accounts, ought I to try and tell them this?”
Jacques smiled sadly and held his hands in a placating manner. It would be best if you had some sort of proof of your innocence. Leobald has the rest of the Masters looking for blood, and that is a difficult thirst to quench with words.”
“You make my future seem so hopeful,” Sal said sardonically.
“I’ll not act as though there is nothing to fear. Make no mistake, you must learn the truth of what happened to Brother Dennis and give sufficient proof to support your story, else I fear the Enlightened Council may prove less than merciful when the time comes for judgment.”
“And when will that time be?” Sal asked. “I can’t just run around looking for something that likely isn’t there. All the while hoping that I won’t be tried for murder at any given point.”
“I understand the predicament. This is an unusual circumstance, but as I have told you before, there is little else I can do on your behalf. Though, I should think you would be more grateful for the measures I have already taken.”
“I—I am, grateful,” Sal said. “I only fear for the inevitable outcome of this unusual situation.”
“Have you considered retracing your steps from that night?”
Sal looked at the abbot skeptically. “And what good should that do?”
Jacques shrugged. “Retracing my steps oft helps me to remember things I’ve forgotten.”
Sal considered the idea. He had not thought much on the night that he’d been found in the cathedral. Could it be that he had seen something that night? When he’d visited the orchard the morning they found the body, Sal certainly felt as though he’d seen something. It was as though he had walked back into a nightmare that day. A feeling he was not eager to reencounter. Yet, the abbot could be right, perhaps retracing his steps was a good idea.
“I suppose I could give it a go.”
Jacques nodded, a benevolent smile spreading. “Very well, I have enjoyed your company, Salvatori, but it would seem the hours have not slowed, and I am needed elsewhere. You have my leave to go.”
As Sal crossed the yard, he considered what the abbot had told him. His recommendation about retracing steps from that night might be helpful, and Sal decided that was what he would do.
Only, first, there was something he wanted to find out.
Sal made his way back to the abbey guesthouse and was relieved to find his skeev and assorted paraphernalia had not been disturbed. He took one of the tobacco leaves from the roll, crumbled half a cap of skeev, and rolled it in the leaf. He cut a length of wicking and pocketed the flint, then hid what was left of the caps, wicking, and leav
es beneath the mattress, before looking for somewhere private to smoke. He decided to simply round the guesthouse, sparking the flint on the stone wall that he kept at his back. With the wicking hot, he lit the rolled tobacco leaf and inhaled the acrid smoke, coughing when he exhaled.
He hoped none of the monks would notice the smell and decided he’d best head out before someone went investigating. With the leaf half smoked, he smothered the joint on the wall and pocketed what was left.
He felt better, much better. His urge to touch and hold the locket increased tenfold. There was certainly a connection between the locket and skeev, though how strong and deep that connection was remained unclear to him. All Sal knew was the magic of the locket was unleashed with skeev.
But what good was the magic, really? It had gotten him out of some sticky situations, had even helped him to murder a man, but for the everyday practical uses, the locket’s applications were seriously lacking. The magic was too wild, too unpredictable, and far too powerful to be taken lightly.
Still, the locket held a certain appeal that Sal found irresistible. It was almost like a drug, the more he wanted to be away from the thing, the more he sought after it. In a way, the locket held more power over him than skeev, after all, the locket was the one thing he would not have sold for a taste of skeev. And that included his soul.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized how little he knew about the locket. Nabu had told him of the Sahyasa, wardens of Darkness, the servants of Sacrull. According to Nabu, the locket bore their mark, the symbol of the beasts of six. Still, it was all a touch fantastical. What exactly had Nabu suggested, that the locket contained a demon?
Jacques had mentioned the symbol on the locket as well. He’d said it was mentioned in his holy book. Might be Sal should have asked him about it during their breakfast.
Then again, what if Sal simply took a look for himself? Only, where would he begin? The holy book of the Vespian Order was not known for its brevity. It would likely take him weeks, if not months, to finish the thing if he went cover to cover. He was no stranger to the holy book, as his uncle had a copy in his solar, but Sal was no expert. However, he was inside Knöldrus Abbey, a stronghold of the Vespian Order. Where better to find a slew of experts on that very book? And where better to find those experts than the library?
Sal knew he should do as Jacques suggested. After all, he only had until the Council decided otherwise to find the monk’s true killer, and there was no way of knowing when that would be.
And still, he wanted to know what the rune stood for. At the very least, he felt that knowing that would give him some clue about the locket’s origin. An origin that was perhaps less steeped in superstition than the one Nabu Akkad had provided.
He headed for the library, telling himself he would retrace his steps later. For now, the only thing on his mind was the locket. He had only seen the library of Knöldrus Abbey from afar, but according to rumor, the library was a beauty all its own, comparable to Knöldrus Cathedral herself.
The rumors had not lied. Limestone, constructed and carved to match the cathedral, complete with two façade towers. The gargoyles that lined the façade stared down with menacing visages warped by pain, fanged maws opened wide in challenge, and clawed hands threatened to pluck the unwary from their stupors. Some with beaks, others snouts, wicked horns, and bat-like wings. Some crouched to spring, others standing tall and defiant.
Sal found them stunning. Dark, twisted, and depraved—but beautiful all the same. The skill and craftsmanship of the sculptor readily apparent.
Once within, Sal found the library no less entrancing. The ceiling was a latticework of ribbed vaulting. The floors richly veined marble tiles arranged to form subtly elaborate patterns. The stained-glass windows not only shone with light from across the color spectrum, but were arranged to depict scenes of heroism and beauty. Most impressive of all were the walls lined with shelves of oiled mahogany wood, filled floor to ceiling with books of all colors and sizes.
Sal could not imagine where one would even begin to look. He would do best to start by finding a monk to help. He wandered the vast expanse of the library, taking it all in, when he finally crossed paths with two monks wearing the drab brown robes of the Vespian Order. Sal recognized the tall one as a Master on the Enlightened Council, he’d been at the pardimon tree the day the body had been found. Sal did not recognize the other monk, a man with sunken eyes, gaunt cheeks, and a face that showed his displeasure without a hint of pretense.
“What in the Light’s name are you—” shouted the monk with the sunken eyes. “You can’t be in here.”
Sal stopped in his tracks, stunned still by the sudden and surprising outburst.
“Is there a problem?” Sal asked.
“You can’t be here,” repeated the monk.
“And why not?”
“Access to the archives is exclusive to the brothers of the Vespian Order.”
“Truly?” Sal asked, affronted by the man’s aggressive nature. “Well, might be you can help me then. I’m looking for a copy of your holy book and if possible someone to help me find a certain passage.”
The monk looked as though he might reach out and strangle Sal with his wrinkled little hands. “Access to the archive is exclusive to the brothers of the Vespian Order.”
“Right, yeah, you said that already, but I’m not asking for access, just a book, and a little help.”
“You need to leave,” said the sunken-eyed monk.
Sal looked to the tall monk but couldn’t catch his eye. It seemed as though the tall monk had paid no interest to the altercation. At a loss, Sal backed off, turned around, and headed for the exit. He felt the monk’s eyes on his back as he walked away. When he rounded the corner, he looked over his shoulder to see if he’d been followed. Neither of the monks had pursued, and Sal decided it was far too early to give up. There was no reason he shouldn’t search for a more amiable monk who might agree to help him with his problem. This time, he walked the other direction, admiring the beauty of the carved wood and the stained-glass, when he heard voices.
Sal slowed his pace, moving toward the sound of voices and peeking his head into cloister after cloister, expecting to cross paths with the speakers at any moment.
“Don’t play coy with me, you little shit!” said a shrill voice.
Sal stopped cold. He recognized that voice.
“You’re not backing out now,” said Leobald. “I don’t care if you piss your little britches, you’re going to do this.”
“He knows,” said another man. It took Sal a moment to realize the voice belonged to the young apprentice, Philip. “No, I won’t do it, not now.”
“Keep your voice down,” said Leobald. “How could he possibly—look, he knows nothing. Now, we had an arrangement, don’t forget what I’ve promised you.”
“What, that you’ll make me your prior?” said Philip. “If he finds out what you’re planning—”
“What we are planning,” said Leobald. “Don’t forget your involvement so quickly, I for one, shall not.”
“Are you threatening me?” asked Philip.
“I am reminding you,” said Leobald. “When I am abbot of Knöldrus Abbey, you shall be my prior, and together we can elect an Enlightened Council which is more to our liking.”
“Obedient to you, you mean,” said Philip.
“Must you be so obstinate?” said Leobald. “You know precisely what I mean. But if you don’t act, none of this comes to fruition. You do understand this?”
“I don’t think you know what you’re asking of me.”
“I am asking a simple task,” said Leobald. “Now, we should be moving on. I’ve been gone too long.”
Sal heard shuffling from the cloister. Without a moment of hesitation, he turned tail and moved as quickly as he could for the library exit. No one called after him, and Sal neither heard nor saw any sign of a pursuer. Still, he didn’t feel safe until he was out of the library and moving acr
oss the abbey yard.
His legs and feet moved of their own accord, his mind spinning with a whole new set of questions.
Why was Philip speaking privately in the library with Leobald? What plans had the pair made, and why was Philip so frightened to carry them out? Who was it Philip feared had found out their plans? Could it be that they had something to do with the murder of that monk?
Sal had been looking at the ground, lost in his own thoughts. When he finally looked up, Sal realized where his feet had carried him.
The sight of the great pardimon tree nearly stopped his heart. His pulse quickened, and his head grew light. He was caught somewhere between wanting to flee and wanting to freeze, he settled with walking toward the tree, slowly.
A memory came to him, a man beneath the tree, a hooded man in brown robes—a monk. Only, no, not one man, two men—two monks—and the storm, and a struggle, and the scream.
A blood-curdling scream, just the thought made Sal want to stop walking, to drop to the ground and curl into a ball. It was the scream of a man who knew death was emanant. The scream of a man who had nothing left to him but to cry out.
Sal felt sick to his stomach. The thought of what he had seen finally sinking in. The realization that he had seen the monk murdered, that he had heard the man’s final cry for help, and he had not helped. It was no consolation to Sal that he was too sick, too deep in his cups that night. It was no excuse worth using, none-the-less, a thought to find comfort in.
He was nearly close enough to the pardimon tree to touch the wide trunk. Sal stood where the body had laid the morning the monk had been found. A fish-belly-white corpse in drab brown robes.
Sal could see it now. The monks struggling beneath the tree, illuminated by flashes of lightning, the noises of their struggle muted by the storm, and yet, one scream had carried through—a scream that had sent Sal running away when he should have run toward. More than a scream, but a moment of truth, a moment for Sal to learn his true role, a moment where he’d shown his true colors.
A Fool of Sorts Page 11