Arein considered. “No, not really. I mean, nothing like that. Wizards aren't magical, not the way a unicorn is. We just have a certain aptitude for using magic. It's more of an instinct than anything.”
That was a start, Durren supposed. There was, of course, the fact that she was wearing a cloak and carrying a staff, which amounted to a wizard's uniform. But maybe Durren only thought that because he'd spent so much time at the academy, where each class dressed basically the same. After all, many people wore cloaks to travel, and staves were hardly uncommon either. Arein's was a cheap enough thing, not like those of some of the higher-level students; it wasn't engraved with metal or carved with mystic sigils or topped with a crystal orb.
“All right,” Durren said. “We're travellers, on our way to Fort Jargen, where we're supposed to be meeting our parents. They're expecting us by this evening, and they're important people…important enough to send someone looking for us if we don't arrive. But Arein, you've twisted your ankle, do you understand? That's why we borrowed that staff for you in the last village we passed through.”
“That could work,” Arein conceded. “I mean, they probably don't want to draw attention to themselves. Yes, I think it's a good idea, Durren.”
“And what about you, Hule?” Durren asked.
Hule looked puzzled. “What about me?”
“Do you understand what we're going to tell the priests when we get inside?”
“Hule still says we should fight them,” the fighter grumbled.
“But do you understand?”
Hule nodded moodily.
“Okay. Good.” Durren didn't sound half as confident as he'd have liked, for it had only just occurred to him that the problem with having come up with a plan was that they'd now have to put that plan into action. Talking about tricking mad priests was one thing, actually doing so quite another.
He turned his attention once more to the monastery. There was a doorway set into a large portico, its border inlaid with glinting fragments of pottery in red and blue and gold. But there was no door, only a short, broad passageway leading to a smaller entrance within the building, beyond which lay deep shadows.
“Hello?” Durren called, as loudly as he dared.
There was no answer—but then he hadn't really expected one.
“I suppose we'll just have to go in,” he said, hoping against hope that one of the other two would contradict him.
Instead, Arein addressed the observer, which had been zipping back and forth between them and Tia and currently was hovering above her left shoulder. “You'll have to stay back, Pootle,” she said. “I'm sorry, but you're bound to give us away.”
The eyeball bobbed uncertainly, as though weighing her words. Then it shot off, back in the direction they'd come from, and this time didn't return.
Since he seemed somehow to have elected himself their temporary leader, Durren went first. Out of the sun, the passage wasn't so gloomy as it had appeared from outside. Reaching the end, he found that it opened onto a far longer corridor. This one must run the entire length of the building, and was illuminated by slants of light from high slit windows. There were further arches in either direction, none as large as the one they'd entered by, but all just as open; Durren was beginning to suspect that there were no doors in the place anywhere. From their left he could hear faint sounds of activity and voices, so he led the way towards them.
Beyond the next opening was a colossal hall, huge enough that it must have filled an entire third of the monastery's central portion. The decor and furnishings were simple to the point of minimalism, with only a few long tables and benches at one end and the rest of the floor left bare. What light there was came from apertures carefully placed to correspond with windows in the outside wall, and fell in slanting beams of dusty yellow.
Durren's heart thundered as he counted perhaps thirty priests scattered about the room. A few were sitting at the tables, but most were kneeling on the floor of the open area. At a glance, their numbers appeared to consist more of men than women and more the elderly than the young. Other than that, however, they made for a remarkably varied crowd, with skin tones of yellow, white, brown, grey and black hinting at a multitude of different races. Their only uniformity was in their robes, which were of a greenish blue that made Durren think of the waters of the Middlesea on an overcast day.
Seeing the four of them, one of the nearby priests wandered over. “Can I help you, my young friends?” he asked.
The priest, like many of those in the room, carried a long staff not dissimilar to Arein's. He was younger than Durren would have expected, and amber-skinned as Durren himself was, likely from somewhere upon the coast or else a traveller from the far shores of the Middlesea.
“I hope so,” Durren said. “We've been walking for hours, and my friend has hurt her ankle.”
He motioned to Arein. Her limp looked overdramatic to his eyes, but if the priest felt any suspicion, he hid it well.
“You're certainly welcome to rest here,” he said. “We don't have much, but what we have we're glad to share.” His brow creased in puzzlement. “But, if you don't mind my asking, how is it that you came to be all the way out here?”
So Durren told the story he'd prepared, placing special emphasis on just how important their parents were and how they'd probably be worrying, even now, about their absent offspring. All the while the priest listened sympathetically, and without any obvious indication of having realised he was being fed a string of lies.
“Ah,” he said, when Durren had drawn his rambling tale to a conclusion, “that would certainly explain it. Well, I only have a little skill at doctoring, but I'm sure I can bandage an ankle. Won't you come along with me?”
The priest began to move away, towards an opening on the opposite side of the hall—and Durren realised he had no idea what to do next. Their distraction was working, so far as it went; those priests who weren't kneeling and deep in concentration seemed at least aware of their presence, and no one had left the room since they'd arrived. But if the four of them were to go now, then they'd be no use at all to Tia.
How long had it been since they'd left her? Durren realised he had no way to judge the passage of time. What felt like hours was probably far less than the ten minutes she'd asked for.
The priest was waiting now, his expression enquiring. Arein and Hule were both looking to Durren as well, as though it was his responsibility to find some solution to their predicament. But he had nothing—and at any moment the priest was sure to query his hesitation, to notice the gaps and implausibilities in the tale he'd spun, and would drop this facade of pleasantness. Durren racked his brains, frantic to think of something, anything, to break the mounting tension.
However, when a distraction came, it had nothing at all to do with him—and he was as startled as everyone else. For just then the air was torn by a scream, long and heartfelt.
The voice was a woman's, Durren felt sure—just as he was certain he'd recognised it. And the sound had come from above, in the direction of the tower.
9
H
ard as it was to tell one person screaming from another, Durren had no doubt that the voice had been Tia's. And he had never in his life heard such raw fear.
He wanted to run to help her—but the priests made that difficult. Many of them were on their feet now, a few drifting hesitantly towards the exit on the far side of the hall. Some were glancing with suspicion towards Durren, Arein and Hule. Among their number was the acolyte that Durren had told his story to.
Durren tensed. There was just a chance he could slip past all of them. He picked his route: veer right past the young priest, duck sharply left, then weave through those two and dash straight ahead, feint left, slip right instead. Yes, he thought he could make it.
Then Durren heard the scrape of metal on metal.
In its wake, silence fell like a hammer blow. Durren could hear not even the rustle of cloth or the shuffle of feet.
Hule, h
e thought, you damned idiot.
“Hoy! Foul sorcerers!” Hule bellowed, as though on cue. “Defend yourselves, if you dare.”
The young priest looked more puzzled than afraid. Perhaps that was understandable; one minute he'd been quietly corrupting the unbalance, the next people were screaming and a sword-wielding ruffian was howling insults at him. Even so, he levelled his staff before him, and a few of the others followed his example. Though none of them seemed quite sure what to make of the situation, they began moving to surround Hule.
That meant they were surrounding Durren too. Already his route to the far archway had closed. He glanced to Arein; she was retreating towards the entrance through which they'd arrived. Durren couldn't blame her, but he had seen no sign of stairs leading upwards in that direction, so nor did he feel he could follow her.
Hule darted forward, swinging his heavy sword. There was a crack, and then one of the priests was holding two short staves rather than one long one. With a yelp, he dropped both and took a quick step back. Another, braver priest took the opportunity to swipe at Hule's left side, but Hule brushed the blow aside effortlessly with his buckler, followed with a jab that left another opponent hastily retreating.
Durren nearly went for his own short sword, thought better of it. Nor was the decision altogether squeamishness; a fight here would only bog them down, and the numbers were overwhelmingly in the priests' favour. Anyway, the moment one of them decided to bring magic into the equation this would all be over.
Hule glanced his way. “Well?” he muttered. A sweep of his sword sent two priests stumbling aside. “Get going, why don't you?” With a tilt of his head, he indicated another exit, this one at the nearer end of the room, where the kneeling priests had been.
It was still the wrong direction, but at least it was closer; perhaps Durren could find a way around. Rather than second-guess him, or even pause to wonder at the fact that Hule had apparently come up with something approaching a plan, Durren made his break. He flung himself at a gap between two priests, narrowly avoided getting the end of a staff in the ribs, skidded and caught himself and dashed onward. No one else tried to stop him; between the strange youth waving a sword about and the one running away, clearly they considered Hule the greater concern.
Durren made it to the smaller archway. Beyond was a short corridor and then an elongated bunk room. There, a priest was hurrying on her way, no doubt drawn by the commotion. When she saw him, her mouth formed into a questioning O. Rather than slow, Durren leaped onto the nearest bed, sprang from that to the next, and was past her before she'd even realised what was happening. He charged towards the far end of the room, and she made no attempt to follow.
The next passage had doorways off to either side, but they led only onto washrooms, the bathing pools there no doubt fed with ice-cold river water. Durren ran on instead to the next junction, turned left and left again. By his reckoning, that brought him out on the opposite side of the monastery from the one at which they'd entered. His flank was already beginning to ache, but he gritted his teeth, kept going.
When he passed the large arch that led back into the main hall, Durren dared a glance. Hule was still surrounded and still keeping the priests at bay; apparently none of them had yet thought to incinerate him or turn his blood to smoke. Hule seemed to be trying to force a path in Durren's direction, but the priests had him hemmed in as tightly as they dared.
For a moment Durren considered staying to help. But even now the memory of Tia's scream still rang in his ears. So instead he pressed on, grateful that, thanks to Hule, not one priest was looking in his direction.
Just beyond the archway, the passage gave way to a flight of steps, which Durren started up three at a time. At what he judged to be the corner of the building, the staircase turned sharply, then grew noticeably steeper. Immediately he almost stumbled into someone: an elderly priest who scowled in confusion. In fact, there were four of them, Durren saw, making none-too-quick progress up the precipitous stairs; apparently all of the older priests had gone to investigate Tia's scream, while their younger brethren stayed to deal with the intruders.
Durren elbowed his way past, staggered onward. A couple of the aged priests protested as he barged by, but neither tried to stop him. Round the next corner were yet more stairs and more elderly priests. Durren gritted his teeth, kept moving, dodging and shoving and slithering.
The next flight of stairs was significantly shorter and terminated in a narrow landing, beyond which a broad ingress finally opened upon the tower. Durren could see no more than that, however, since the foremost priests blocked his view: above and ahead, the leaders were disappearing through the entrance. Durren heard gasps, of surprise or alarm, and then much muttering among them.
He pushed his way through to the landing. From there, Durren could just see through the vault and the crush of bodies to the space beyond.
The tower was octagonal, with further arches on every second edge, open to the outside and revealing gently sloping rooftops. The structure's ornamentation was simple, the floor tiled in a crude diamond pattern, and the columns and domed ceiling decorated only with unpainted plaster, yellowed by the passage of years. Further, the room contained nothing but a pedestal at its very centre, a square pillar of stone carved with runes and pictographs. Upon the pedestal, balanced improbably on its rounder end, was what could only be the Petrified Egg.
It was indeed egg-shaped—but that was as far as the similarity went. The object was about twice the size of Durren's clenched fist, and its surface resembled fine pottery, though something told him this treasure had never been manufactured by the hand of man. For the Egg possessed a strange depth, as though its outer skin was faintly translucent, and within he could perceive dim shapes jostling against each other.
However, strange though it was, Durren found concentrating on the Petrified Egg impossible—for by then he'd seen Tia. She might no longer be screaming, but her mouth remained open improbably wide, as though the cry had simply grown too large for her to express. She was crouched at the far side of the room, one hand clutching the wall, as if she was afraid that at any moment she'd be swept away. Durren had never seen anyone look so afraid, and it was all the more strange and shocking for being Tia, whose face normally gave away so little.
At the sight of her, something in Durren snapped. “What have you done to her?” he roared at the milling priests, and began to shove his way forward, his one thought to reach Tia and somehow to help her.
However, Durren had barely crossed the threshold before he stumbled to a halt. From nowhere he felt a sense of the most unfathomable dread. Though he couldn't have said why, he knew that soon, very soon, something terrible was going to happen—and that he was powerless to stop it.
Distantly he noted a ruckus from the stairwell. Someone shouted, and Durren was certain the voice was Hule's. The fighter must have finally fought his way free of the main hall. Durren should have been glad, but he understood now that Hule was every bit as helpless as he was; nothing he did could possibly save any of them. And sure enough, as Hule finally tumbled into the room, he progressed no further than Durren himself had. Then his sword slipped from his fingers, rattled upon the tiles. Hule made a gargling sound, threw an arm across his face, and cowered.
Normally that would have surprised Durren. Just then, he barely noticed. Whatever was wrong with Hule, he'd have to take care of himself. Even Tia hardly seemed important anymore. Because Durren was sure now that, whatever had terrified him so, whatever had rooted him here, it was behind him at this very moment.
He didn't want to look. Only, not seeing was worse. To know that what he feared was nearby and yet out of sight brought back jagged fragments of childhood nightmares.
Then the voice came, from close at his back. “So this is where you've got to.”
In that moment, Durren was certain his heart had stopped beating. His body felt cold and distant, not a part of him at all. Yet somehow he found himself turning towards the v
oice, as though all alone it had the power to control him like a puppet. He knew what he was going to see.
Sure enough, there before him stood his father.
He was taller than Durren remembered. His eyes were darker, like chips of coal. And though he'd always trimmed his beard to resemble a blade stabbing from his long chin, the black hairs appeared even sharper than before, as though to touch them might draw blood.
There were questions Durren knew he should be asking, but all of them seemed hazy and remote. All he could bring himself to say was, “Sir?”
His father took a step nearer. He was every bit as imposing as he'd been when Durren was small. And it would always be that way, Durren thought: he'd never outgrow this man, never be able to look him in the eye—because his father would always find a way to become taller.
“I suppose you're proud of yourself? That you believe you've found a way to punish me? Yet all you've done is shame me, Durren. Just as you've shamed your mother's memory, and every Flintrand through the ages. You disgrace your name and your heritage.”
Durren wanted to defend himself. He wanted to say that he didn't care—because the things he desired, the person he wanted to be, had nothing in common with his father's intentions. He didn't give a damn about piling up gold he'd done nothing to earn; he had no wish to grow wealthy off the sweat of strangers. All that mattered was that he use the skills he had, and perhaps one day do some good with them.
Yet Durren said none of that. How could he? The terror was paralysing. It wasn't only that his father was here, but that his presence made no sense—yet, at the same time, seemed inevitable. This was the moment that, from his first day at Black River, Durren had known would come. And if he couldn't explain why it should be here or now, then surely that was only another failing to be ashamed of.
The Black River Chronicles: Level One (Black River Academy Book 1) Page 11