by Carol Berg
What if the legends of Eodward and the angels and Gillarine’s holy, fertile ground had given someone to believe the abbey spring a Danae sianou? And what if that someone had tried to poison the guardian Dané with the murdered Horach? The plan would have failed, because the true sianou lay at the spring’s source in the hills at Clyste’s Well. Clyste would have lived on, locked away for her part in my grandfather’s crime, yet still infusing the abbey fields and flocks with her own life and health, a balm to such horrors as Black Night. And then I had opened the way to her holy place…
Faces, events, information shifted, twisted, and settled into a new pattern like tiles into a fine mosaic. Gerard had disappeared on the night of my attempted escape, only days after I had led Gildas to Clyste’s Well. And only days later, pestilence had come to Gillarine.
I jumped to my feet, horror and certainty wrenching mind and heart. I knew what had happened to Gerard. Tears that had naught to do with the cold blurred my vision. Murdered. Great gods in all heavens, they had murdered the boy to kill the Danae guardian of the abbey lands. I knew it as I knew my own name. And now I understood what crime had been committed, it became clear who had committed it.
I stepped into the cloister garth and spun as I yelled, violating the holy silence and the land’s grieving. “Where are you, monk? Gildas, come out here and tell me what you’ve done!”
Blind and stupid, Valen. Self-absorbed wretch. From the moment I had stepped into this abbey he had played me like a vielle. How had I not seen? Great Iero, he had all but told me outright. I belong with the cabalists little more than you, he’d said. And, If the cities die, if learning dies, we are sent back to the land, to nights in the wild forest with spirits we can no longer tame with words, to awe of these Gehoum—the Powers who make the sky grow light or dark, whose righteous wrath is fire and storm. Righteous wrath. Everyone should be pure like you and Gerard, he had told Jullian. Horach had been his student…and an innocent, too.
The part of me that believed I was unworthy of this place, that bore gratitude and affection for Gildas, who had welcomed me with good humor and allowed me to imagine I could be friends with scholars and men of substance, cried out that I was wrong. But I was not. Not this time. Clyste was dead. And so was Gerard.
“God-cursed child murderer!”
Brother Cantor intoned the opening note of Vesper plainsong as if to correct the abrasive timbre of my shouts, and then the voices—so terribly few—joined in the chant. Perfection, continuity, clarity…the music swelled as their procession approached the ruined cloisters.
Sila Diaglou’s spy had told her of the lighthouse. But he couldn’t tell her how to get into it and destroy its contents, because he was not privy to that secret. And a runaway novice had disrupted their ruse to lure Luviar and Stearc into her clutches with a bloody Gildas as bait. No wonder his hands had been left loose that night; he had offered himself to his Gehoum—a noble sacrifice. So he had waited until Palinur and given her Luviar and Victor. No wonder Gildas had looked dismayed when I told him Brother Victor had survived the gallows—not only because the chancellor was in Osriel’s custody, but because the little monk could reveal who had betrayed him and his abbot.
Where are you, betrayer? I tugged at my hair. Gildas would not be at prayers. The worm would lurk in the heart of the cabal—with Gram and Stearc and Elene. I ran for the guesthouse, forced by shattered walls and rubble to circle south of the lay brothers’ reach and past the ruined kitchen. Across the yard. Up the stoop.
“Come face me, gatzé! Tell me how clever you are to fool an ignorant pureblood!”
I slammed through doors and kicked aside the toppled furnishings and soot-grimed couches littering the dark rooms of the ground floor. A single rushlight burned in a tripod holder near the stair. I sped up the narrow, winding ascent. Yelling. Heedless.
The middle floor was dark. I raced upward and burst into a firelit chamber that smelled of scorched plaster and spiced cider.
Stocky, pale-skulled Prior Nemesio knelt by the meager fire, a sooty poker in his hand. He was alone. His startled expression quickly smoothed into satisfaction. “Brother Valen! It’s Iero’s own blessing to see you safe here again.”
“Where is Gildas?” I snapped.
“At Vespers, I would think.” Worry carved a mask on his big-boned cheeks. “What’s wrong? Brother Anselm said you’d had quite an ordeal. I offered to bring his posset so I could tell you—”
“Where are the Evanori—Thane Stearc, his secretary?” I said. Jullian had vouched that Nemesio was one of us. “I must speak with them outside Mardane Voushanti’s hearing.”
“That’s what I’ve come to tell you. Thane Stearc and his party moved on to Fortress Groult with the rest of the Evanori. When they saw what’s happened here, they dared not stay.”
Cold dread bound its fingers about my rage. “Did Gildas go with them? Or Jullian?”
“Brother Gildas thought they would do better to remain here. It’s entirely unsuitable that an aspirant run about the countryside in the midst of—”
“Father Prior, Gildas murdered both Brother Horach and Gerard.” My hands trembled with scarcely held rage. “We must find him. Confine him.”
“What slander is this?” Nemesio surged to his feet, his thick neck scarlet. “Gildas is your vowed brother! The lighthouse Scholar!”
“I’d wager my life that Gildas is a Harrower. He took Gerard to Clyste’s Well and bled him to death. You must send this news to Stearc right away. Don’t you see? Gildas betrayed Victor and Luviar to Sila Diaglou. He knows your identities. I’d give much to be wrong, but to be certain, we must secure him tonight.”
“I cannot credit this.” Prior Nemesio chewed his full lips. “Gildas is a pious man. Holy and generous. Hours ago, when the Sinduria said she’d heard your call for help, both he and Jullian wished to set out with her at once to succor you. Your sister refused, unwilling to risk his safety. The two of them went straight off to the church to pray for your return.”
I glanced about the room, dread and helplessness threatening to undo me. “Father Prior, where is the Cartamandua book? Please tell me that Stearc took it to Fortress Groult.”
“No.” Nemesio looked up. Uncertain. “Gildas kept it. To study, he said—”
I bolted for the stair.
Plainsong floated on the bitter air, along with the mingled odors of charred wood, of broken sewage channels, of incense and peat fires. The monks stood in a circle about the high altar of the ruined church, under vaults now open to the sky, and sang of their god’s joy and care. Depleted ranks of lay brothers stood in a small area of the nave that had been cleared of rubble and dirty snow. Only a few heads moved as I sped through the nave yelling Gildas’s name and Jullian’s.
The boy was nowhere to be seen, and, as always, the monks’ hoods were drawn up, hiding their faces. Knowing the search was futile, I snatched a lit candle from the high altar and intruded on their circle, peering at the hands clutching tattered psalters. Gildas’s hands, backed by their thatch of wiry brown hair, were not among them.
I replaced the candle and strode out of the church, cursing. Halfway across the trampled garden, hurried footsteps behind me spun me in my tracks.
“Brother Valen? Is that really you?” The hard-breathing monk lowered his hood. The round head and fringe of gray hair identified my novice mentor.
“Yes, Brother Sebastian.”
“The mask makes it difficult…and no tonsure anymore…” Uncertainty snagged his speech.
“I’m happy to see you alive, Brother. But I’m in a great hurry.”
“Well, of course, I knew it was you. Not so many purebloods come here, and none so tall. Brother Gildas said this pureblood life”—he fluttered his hand at my mask and my clothing, giving no impression of having heard me—“has changed you. Secular law forbids me to speak to you, but Saint Ophir’s Rule says you are yet my charge.”
I stepped back, brittle with impatience. “Excuse me, Brother. U
nless you can say where Gildas—”
“Brother Gildas is gone off to Elanus. Left something for you, he did. Said you would come looking for him…angry…saying terrible things. Said he wanted you to have this.” From his cowl Brother Sebastian pulled a thumb-sized wooden box, tied with a string. He laid it in my hand. “And he said to tell you that an archangel would be his shield when the last darkness falls. Brother Valen, what did he—?”
“How long?” I said, scarcely able to shape words. My shaking fist threatened to crush the little box. “When did he go?”
Sebastian hesitated, his unsteady gaze not daring to meet my own. He expelled a sharp breath, as if he knew how close he stood to the blood rage threatening to crack my skull. “Just after Sext I encountered him coming out of the chapter-house undercroft, where we’ve stored what supplies we’ve salvaged from the fires. Young Jullian was with him. I remarked that they had missed the service—understandable, as they had just ridden in this morning with the Sinduria. But I said that I would expect to see both of them at Vespers. Our vows must not founder on the shoals of trial and sorrow. That’s when he told me they had borrowed a horse from the Evanori and would be off to Elanus right away on Father Prior’s business. Then he gave me the box and the message for you. The two of them rode out well before Nones.”
“Thank you, Brother Sebastian. Please excuse me.” Nones rang two hours before Vespers. I gave no credit to the stated destination. Gildas was taking the boy and my book to Sila Diaglou.
“The night drowns us, Valen,” Sebastian called after as I hurried away. “Go with Iero’s light.”
I ran for the guesthouse. Nemesio would know if the Evanori had left horses for Voushanti and his men. If so, I could ride out…use my bent to follow Gildas. But before entering the guesthouse, I paused by the stoop and ripped open Gildas’s parting gift. One glance and I launched the damnable thing into the night, scattering its contents into the churn of mud and snow. I could not find a curse vile enough for Gildas, and so I cupped my arms over my throbbing head and leaned against the stone wall, screaming out self-hatred and rage. The scent lingered: spicy, earthy, pepper and mushrooms, lighting an ember in my belly, where lurked a diseased knot the size of a fist. Nivat’s claws settled into mind and body, ensuring I could not ignore it, could not forget, could not commit what wit I had to any other cause but servicing my hunger.
Smug, Silos had called him that morning in Palinur, and rightly so. Gildas, the scholar who had surely read about herbs and medicines among all his studies, would have known that giving me too much nivat would turn my head to muck and would grow my craving when the need came on me again…and again…and again. He had abetted my escape before calling down Thalassa’s hunters and then so very kindly had fed my perversion. He knew his service would put the weak and gullible fool in his debt, give him a leash to control the ignorant sorcerer. Who in the world had measure for my folly?
I shoved open the guesthouse door. Harsh reality dispensed with my silly imaginings of riding off on my own to retrieve Jullian. Of a sudden every fiber and sinew of my body ached. Exhaustion weighed my limbs with armor of iron. And Voushanti sat on the stair beside the rushlight, paring his fingernails with his knife.
“So, pureblood,” he said, without looking up from his task, “I thought perhaps you had gone wandering again. Lost yourself in the bogs and forgotten your oath.”
“I do not break my oaths.” Though I too often failed in my striving to keep them. As with Boreas. As with Jullian. Gildas would use the boy to manipulate me, as he had used the nivat. His shield. His hostage. When the last darkness falls…
I kicked a broken chair out of my way and tried to muster some semblance of a plan. Perhaps I could convince the mardane to let me “aid the brothers” in a search for Jullian and Gildas. “Tell me, Lord Voushanti, is our master Sila Diaglou’s ally or her rival?”
“You needs must ask him that yourself. I’ve had word he’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Here?” So soon. I’d expected…what? I was too tired to imagine.
“Prince Osriel’s plans ripen. He needs neutral ground for an important parley, and this place happens to be convenient.” He stood and stretched out his shoulders. “We’ll likely move fast after tomorrow. I’d advise you to sleep off these past days’ trial while you can.”
He would never allow me to go out. I shrugged. “Tell me, Mardane, do you ever sleep?”
His face twisted in his grotesque mockery of a smile. “When my duties permit. Tonight, I keep watch.” He moved aside just enough that I could squeeze past him to reach the stair. No doubt I would find him there in the morning.
The nagging ache of failure filled my boots with lead as I climbed to the upper chamber. A meal had been laid out on a tray—bread, boiled parsnips, dried apples. Anselm’s posset sat in a pitcher by the hearth. Too weary to eat, I pulled off my sodden boots and hose, sat cross-legged on a woven hearthrug, and poked up Prior Nemesio’s fire.
A cabal that thought to preserve humankind past the end times. A master who stole dead souls. Fanatics who used tormented spirits to slaughter the land’s guardians and unravel the fabric of the world. How in the name of all gods had a man who prided himself on keeping his head down stumbled into events of such magnitude? Stumbled…had I?
My thoughts wandered back to Wroling Wood, to the day Boreas and I had given up on Perryn of Ardra and deserted his legion. When we spied the tidy manse, sitting unguarded in the forest outside Wroling Town, we thought Serena Fortuna had at last acknowledged our meager libations. Unfortunately, rodents had found the larders before us, and we had to be satisfied with inedible spoils. We stuffed our rucksacks and ran, arguing about whether to head straight for Palinur or to pawn the goods in a lesser town. I had laughed at finding my book after so many years, crowing that an unwelcome gift could pay me twice over.
Just as we dropped from the outer wall to head for the road, the Moriangi outriders attacked. The arrow strikes pitched me into an overgrown ditch, thick with soggy sedge and brambles. Boreas dived in beside me, blackening the air with his curses. Our attackers, caught up in a blood-frenzied pursuit of hundreds like us, failed to stop and ensure we were dead.
We lay in that ditch waiting for nightfall, hearing the pursuit pass over and around us. I bled into the sodden earth throughout a long afternoon, praying that the rain would not turn to ice and seal my foretold doom, longing to be warm and dry and safe, to be free of pain and feel my belly full. And when I at last staggered out of the ditch, half delirious, my gut and heart and blood had led us…driven us…here. Straight to Gillarine.
I stirred the coals and asked the question that had squatted in the back of my mind since I’d waked in Gillarine’s infirmary. How was it possible that I had traveled ninety-three quellae in two days, starving, delirious, and half drained of blood? I could not answer it any more than I could say why my heart ached so sorely in the cloister garth of Gillarine, or why I wept when I looked on a Dané, or how a man who reveled in impiety and scorned all consideration of family had come to think of a Karish abbey as his home. My fists overflowed with shards of mirror glass, but I could not put them together in any way that made sense. I could not see myself anymore.
Perhaps I must have faith that whatever…whoever…had brought me here would show me the rest of the way. I dragged the tray of Gillarine’s bounty close and poured a generous dollop of Brother Anselm’s posset into the fire as an offering for Iero, for Kemen, for Serena Fortuna or whichever god or goddess might welcome it. As the sweet liquid sprizzled and scorched, I wolfed down the food and downed the remainder of the posset, pretending it cooled the fire in my gut. I would need my strength in the coming days, whether or not I chose to run. I would need it for Jullian. For my grandfather and his book. For the lighthouse cabal and the treacherous, dangerous Danae, whom we must beg to help us hold the world together. I had no time for weakness.
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