by D. P. Prior
He studied his glass for a moment, twisting the stem on the table. “Am I really sworn? The Gray Abbot’s expecting me back.”
“If I were caught between two masters, I know which one I’d be obeying,” Ignatius said.
“The one all in white and with the biggest army in Nousia to back him?”
Ignatius’ brows knitted and he leaned across the table.
“Sorry, Grand Master.” Shader lowered his eyes and flinched.
The silence hung heavy between them. The waiting was excruciating. Couldn’t he just get on with it? The usual dressing down for irreverence? The speech about faith and duty?
Ignatius seemed to catch his thoughts and chuckled. “What would be the point?” He sat back and clasped his hands behind his head. “Even when you were under my command you never took a blind bit of notice of anything I said.”
“That’s not—”
“Deacon, I’ve known you a long time. I consider you my friend. You don’t need me to tell you the right thing to do. Think about it. All that training, all that prayer, the battles—don’t forget the battles. How else can Ain test us in the world? You’ve proven yourself a hundred times over. Except to one person.” Ignatius rocked forward and touched his palm to Shader’s chest.
“But Verusia…” Shader pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I know.” Ignatius’ voice had softened. “I was there. The things we saw in those forests would have corroded the faith of lesser men, but not you. Ain’s blood, Deacon, you led the charge that won the day.”
Shader shook his head, bit the tip of his thumb. “It’s not just—”
“Faith, my friend. Faith. It’s all you need. Ain loves you. All He asks is that you do your duty. No more than that.”
***
The docks were deserted, dark as pitch and silent but for the lapping of waves on the jetties, the creaking of yards.
Shader pulled his coat tighter, tugged down the brim of his hat and ducked into the salty wind.
“Perfick time fer stowin’ away.” An old man hobbled from the boathouse, wheezing and hacking up phlegm, shaggy hat pulled low, thick cloak draped around his shoulders.
“Perfect time for sleeping.”
The old man coughed into his hand, hunkered down by the door. “Sleep’s fer the dead. Ample time fer that when I gets t’ the Abyss.”
Shader reached into his pocket, jangled some coins. “What’s it going to cost for you to keep quiet about this?”
The old man gave an innocent look. “Quiet about what? Unless ya mean a knight o’ the Elect, champ o’ the tourney, bearer o’ the Sword o’ the Archon, slinking off at night lookin’ fer a ship t’ take ’im t’ the other side o’ the world—maybe e’en as far as Sahul.”
“Who are you?” A chill crept beneath Shader’s skin. No one but the Gray Abbot knew of his plans, and he’d not set foot outside of Sahul in decades.
“Pacts ’tween lovers outweigh oaths t’ hierophants. That’s just the way o’ things: human nature in a nutshell.”
Shader’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword.
“I’d use the other one if I was you. It’s got a much keener edge.”
“If you insist.” There was a soft rasp as Shader drew the gladius. “Now cut the acting. You with the Judiciary? Where are the others?”
The old man chuckled. He pulled his hat off and straightened up, the cloak falling away.
“Aristodeus!”
Moonlight bounced from his bald head, etched deep grooves in his face. The philosopher rubbed his white beard between thumb and forefinger, as he always did when pleased with himself.
“How the Abyss did you find me?”
“Oh, the advantages of age and wisdom. Mind you, who says I was looking for you? I do have other things to attend to, you know. Always hopping about like one of those kangaroos you have in Sahul. Here one minute, goodness knows where the next. Must admit, though, I was hoping you’d head back. Well, actually, I knew you would.”
“I promised the Gray Abbot.”
Aristodeus stuck out his bottom lip. “Yes, the novitiate. Round two, eh?” Aristodeus threw a few shadow punches, bobbing and weaving.
“Not this time. No more fights. This is the end of it.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Aristodeus said. “Good idea, if you ask me. Prove yourself the best and then pack it all in for a life of prayer. The sort of thing I’d have done myself, only you know my thoughts on Nousians.”
Shader knew them only too well. The philosopher always seemed to move in Nousian circles, though, teaching, advising, debating. He’d even schooled Shader to enter the Templum all those years ago back home in Britannia. Ever since Shader was a child, he’d had Aristodeus to guide him, first as a tutor hired by his father, who’d insisted on the best, and then as a friend. He’d missed the old man’s advice since he’d left Nousia for Sahul, and even that decision had been encouraged.
“Fancy a trip to Sahul?” Shader said. “It’d be good to have some company. Six weeks at sea’s enough to rot your soul if all you have to talk to are drunken sailors and the ship’s cat.”
“I’m afraid I must disappoint. Business with the Templum.” Aristodeus raised his eyes along with his hands.
“Then perhaps you’ll return the sword for me.”
The philosopher leaned in for a theatrical whisper. “Don’t suppose they’ll notice if you keep it. I won’t say anything if you don’t.”
Shader knew they’d have his blood if they found out what he was doing. A knight of the Elect—no matter how former—reneging on his duties to the Ipsissimus. That would be the kind of excuse they needed to bring back the stake. If the Templum Judiciary wasn’t already on his tail, it would be come morning. With any luck he’d be halfway to Rujala by then, and well on the fringes of Nousian territory.
“Sword and man are bonded.” Aristodeus adopted that look of grim seriousness he saved for making his strongest points. “It is a matter beyond ceremony and the tinpot power of Ipsissimi. Unlike so much that is to be found in the Templum, the Sword of the Archon is much more than smoke and mirrors. Much more.”
Shader’s eyes narrowed. The disparagement of religion was nothing new. Aristodeus had always considered himself above such superstitious nonsense. Nevertheless he’d indulged Shader’s mother by arranging for the boy to join the Templum Elect in Aeterna. Under his father’s tutelage he was already an accomplished swordsman, and Mother’s piety had been such a huge part of his childhood that he had the makings of a luminary. As Ignatius Grymm had told him at the time, it was the perfect combination for a consecrated knight. Probably would have been if not for the third influence. Aristodeus’s ideas had begun nipping at his faith like termites in wood the minute tuition had been handed over to Adeptus Ludo. But years later it was Ludo’s holiness that had won the day. Under his guidance Shader had set sail for the Abbey of Pardes, leaving the world of warfare behind him.
When Aristodeus had been informed, he’d frowned a lot, taken his time formulating his reply. Once he’d done so, he’d been so encouraging you’d have been forgiven for thinking it was his idea all along. Maybe he’d known the religious life wouldn’t work out.
Shader had proven too restless at the abbey, too frustrated with the stillness, too tormented by the parts of his nature that wouldn’t settle down and die. He’d grown critical of the other monks’ aloofness, their indifference to the world outside. The Gray Abbot had warned him about where such thoughts would lead, but he’d continued to indulge them. How could Ain be a just god if he did nothing about suffering? If Nous was his manifestation in the cosmos, his followers the hands and feet that carried out his work, why did the Templum tolerate evil? Why did it suppress the knowledge of the Ancients—knowledge that could cure disease, avert famine, and even make possible travel between the stars? That’s if what Aristodeus said about such things could be trusted. After all these years, Shader was no longer sure.
When the mawgs came and t
he brothers did nothing his true nature reasserted itself. He’d hunted the beasts all the way to Oakendale and led the villagers against them. It had been an epiphany, a finding of another way. Whilst others might sit in selfish contemplation, he would truly lend his hands to Nous for the meting out of justice, the slaying of evil. He’d founded his own Order, imbued it with the same ideals. He trained local recruits in the spirit and the sword, and then fell prey to the same flaws that had hindered him at Pardes. His feelings for Rhiannon had smothered his dying faith. He’d been convinced she felt the same. Her rejection had almost proven fatal, sending him back to the abbey, the only home he’d known in Sahul.
He’d returned to Aeterna for the tournament on the advice of the Gray Abbot, who’d told him these issues with fighting, with being the best, needed to be worked out before he could continue the novitiate. Shader wondered now if Aristodeus hadn’t been behind that as well. It wasn’t beyond him to pop up in Sahul for a quick word. Nothing the old man did surprised him anymore. He’d always had an uncanny knack of being in the right place at the right time.
Aristodeus was watching him with that pretend questioning raise of the eyebrows that said he was reading you like a book.
“The sword is yours, my friend. Take it with you to Sahul. Shove it under your bed at the abbey if you like, but take it.”
The flesh on Shader’s back began to crawl. The wind whipped up, spraying salt water in his face. He sheathed the gladius and put one hand on his hat to stop it blowing away.
“Don’t worry about the Ipsissimus,” Aristodeus said, heading off down the gangway. “I’ll sort things out with him. All the best with the novitiate.”
Shader turned and started out along the jetty.
“Oh,” called Aristodeus over his shoulder. “Give my love to Rhiannon.”
Shader spun. “How do you…?”
But the old man was gone.
THE BARD OF BROKEN BRIDGE
Rhiannon closed her eyes, loving the breeze playing through her hair, cooling her skin. It beat the blazing sun, but it wouldn’t last. That’s why you had to stand there and lap it up. The “Breath of Nous”, Soror Agna called it, and right now Rhiannon reckoned she had a point. Nous might’ve been the “Ground of Being”, the “Mind of the Universe” and all that baloney, but when you were frying in your own sweat he was a damned sight more useful as a gentle wind. The locals had another name for it, course. The figjams up in the smoke knew it as the “Doctor”, but down in the villages it was the “Oakendale Fart.”
Sammy pulled on her hand. Mousy hair stuck to his forehead below the brim of Dad’s straw hat. “Can we go now?” He looked up at her through squinty eyes, freckles shouting from the bridge of his nose.
“Brothers.” Rhiannon pinched his cheek. “Good for only one thing.”
Sammy frowned and cocked his head. “What?”
“Tucker!”
He screamed and scarpered, glancing over his shoulder to make sure she was chasing him.
The breeze died a quick death, leaving it a scorcher all the way to Delling Creek at the border with Broken Bridge. The two halves of the limestone bridge that had given the village its name made a “V” beneath the sparkling waters. Silver minnows shot between the reeds, passed amongst the copper coins glinting in the mud at the bottom. The farmers still tossed them in every summer, but it was a waste of time. It was hard to remember when it last rained.
Rhiannon had once seen a shark stuck in the shallows, one of the big bronze whalers that must’ve swum up the estuary. She’d run home to tell her dad and he’d brought his mates back with forks and spades. She could still picture the creek running red, the shark’s thrashing sending weaker and weaker ripples through its own blood. Even now she wished she’d never mentioned it, but Dad said she’d done good.
“Broke by funder.” Sammy stuck his fists into his hips and puffed out his cheeks. He said the same thing every time, as if he’d just made a discovery.
“Lightning, Sammy. Thunder is the noisy bit.” Rhiannon fixed a smile as he gave his old man look, knitting his brows and puckering his mouth. Hard to believe he was six only yesterday.
Soror Agna said a mawg shaman had blasted the bridge five hundred years ago when its swarm had been driven from the Abbey of Pardes. Then there was the story of a demon from the Abyss that tried to cross over to Oakendale to eat a wannabe wizard who’d failed to honor a pact. When the wizard wasn’t wearing pointy hats, his day job had been farming wheat. Poor bugger lost his whole crop to locusts the previous year. Must’ve thought a bit of black magic would keep them off. Elias had sung about it a few times at the Griffin, although Rhiannon suspected he’d made it up. She’d never seen demons, and those who claimed to be wizards were generally impotent geeks without any friends. Swanning about in robes and talking mumbo jumbo apparently gave you an instant personality. Elias’s song had Brannos the Brave, whoever he was, striking the bridge with his club and the demon plunging to the swelling waters below. It was hard to imagine now, as the long drought had dried the creek to the point that it was little more than a trickle above the silt. Dried up and wasted. Soror Agna would no doubt approve. Isn’t that what the Templum did? What it would do to Rhiannon? All that self-denial in the name of the greater good.
Rhiannon bit down on her lip, told herself to stop whingeing. She was halfway to being a flaming luminary already. She’d be all right.
So why did she feel such loss? Wasn’t sacrifice meant to pave the way for the life of Nous? Crock of shit if you asked her. The only thing she felt from her rejection of Deacon Shader was emptiness.
And what if Huntsman had been wrong? What if he was just a charlatan, the Dreamers’ bodgy excuse for a juju man? He’d asked her to give up so much and she still wasn’t sure she could bear it. “Nous will give you the strength,” Soror would say. Course he flaming well would, and a fat lot of good it seemed to be doing. Maybe Agna was right. Maybe it would be easier once she’d entered the Templum of the Knot, given herself up to service.
She tried to capture the creek: the spray of gum trees jutting from the ruddy soil, the air sweet with their scent; she felt the heat prickling her skin, blinked up at the cloudless blue, let the songs of lorikeets and galahs play over her. All her senses melded into a memory that would linger. She told herself to savor her last days in the villages before she joined the priests in Sarum.
“When are we going?”
Rhiannon smiled down at her little brother, his face glistening with a rosy sheen.
She felt bad about marring his birthday with the news she was leaving. Maybe she was no better than Shader. He’d had his moment of drama, abandoning the lads of Oakendale so that he could bugger off back to Aeterna like a jilted kid. Maybe now she wanted hers. No one had shown the least surprise. She’d been meeting with Soror Agna for years and probably would have entered the Templum anyway. Even if she’d not met Shader; if he’d not saved her from the mawgs. She winced and shut the memory down before it could take hold.
“Where’d you wanna go, soldier?”
“Broken Bridge.”
“You wanna play guitar?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t you reckon it’s a bit hot to walk all that way?”
“Nope.”
“All right then,” she sighed. “Let’s just hope Elias is in.”
She knew he would be. The bard never went out these days unless it was to perform, and that was always at the Griffin. Elias had told her all about his wander years, his adventures amongst the Dreamers, but Rhiannon had never known him to set foot outside of the village.
Sammy ran ahead of her to the cleft bridge, still passable if you slid down the slanting stone a ways and leapt to the other side.
“Me first.” Sammy spread his arms for balance and crept to the brink. Rhiannon pulled her sandals off and threw them across.
“Here, give me your hand.” She paddled into the stream, guiding him down one half of the “V” till his feet were just abo
ve the water. Sammy bent his knees and gathered himself, then straightened up shaking his head.
“Come on, Sammy, jump.”
“No.” He slipped as he tried to turn, but Rhiannon caught him under the arms and hoisted him over her shoulder.
“I can do it.” He thumped her back as she waded to the far side and dumped him on the bank.
“I know you can, so there’s no need to show me, is there?”
She walked barefoot on the hard-baked road, Sammy pouting and dragging his feet until they reached the Griffin at the edge of Broken Bridge, brilliant sunbursts reflecting from its latticed windows. The sign, a faded painting of a ferocious hybrid, part lion, part eagle, creaked gently back and forth.
A group of lads in the white surcoat and red Monas of Shader’s Order sat at the tables outside, pitchers of beer in front of them. She hesitated as she spotted Justin Salace, ginger hair plastered to his scalp. She knew he’d seen her, but he tried not to show it, glugging his pint then leaning towards Barek Thomas, whispering in his ear. Barek peered over Justin’s shoulder, one half of his mouth curling into a smile. The pub door opened and Sheriff Halligan stepped out, flipping his notepad shut and slipping it into his pocket. Sneaky Nigel followed him as far as the doorway, drying a glass with his apron, looking grimmer than normal, which was saying something. Wasn’t surprising, though, considering what had happened last night. The way the boy-knights were staring at Rhiannon you’d have thought she’d been the one to murder Bovis Rayn; only the lads’ problem with her went back further than that. They’d been pissy with her since Shader had buggered off and left them to their own devices.