by Greg Keyes
“If that's so, you can't just go in there yourself. Even if the greffyn doesn't kill you, the Halafolk will. You need an army or something.”
“If the king is to send an army, he needs reason. I don't have anything to give him but guesses, yet.” His shirt was off. “Wait here,” he said.
The pool was just deeper than he was tall, and clear enough that he had little problem finding what he was looking for—a rectangular opening in the rock face that led into the hill and slightly down.
He came back up.
“There's a tunnel,” he said. “I'm going to see where it goes.”
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
He unstrung and recased his bow and placed it back on Ogre's saddle along with his armor. He made sure he had his dirk and ax, took several deep, even breaths, then a deeper one, and dived.
The tunnel was roomy enough, and smoothed, but he had no trouble pushing himself along. What he did have trouble with was the darkness. Daylight faded quite quickly behind him, as his lungs started to ache. He remembered, too late, that the Halafolk were known for making false entrances into their havens. Traps designed to kill the unwary.
And it occurred to him that tunnel was too narrow to turn around in easily. Could he back out quickly enough to save
his life?
No, he couldn't.
He swam harder. Colored spots danced before his eyes.
And then air. Damp and gritty-smelling, but air, and total darkness. He took a few moments to breathe before exploring further.
He was in another small pool, not much larger than the one he had entered. Aspar determined by feel that it was surrounded by a stone-walled chamber, rough and natural, which seemed to go on in one direction.
Good enough. He would return the way he had come, get all of his weapons and some torches, come back and find out where the passage went. And somehow convince Winna to stay behind. That was going to be the hard part.
He was just thinking that when he heard a splash and a gasp of breath behind him. He yanked out his dirk, holding it between himself and the unknown.
“Aspar? Aspar, are you there?”
“Winna—I told you not to follow me. And keep your voice down!”
“Aspar!” She did lower her voice, but he caught the frantic, panicky quality.
“Just after you went in—some men came up, on horses. Three, maybe four. They started shooting arrows at me. I didn't know what to do, I—”
He had been feeling for her the whole time. Now he had her, and at his touch she stumbled through the water into his arms, gripping him with more strength than he knew she had. In the dark, it was easy to grip her back.
“Three or four, you say? Could it have been more?”
“Maybe. It happened fast, Aspar. Ogre and Angel are still loose—”
“That's best. You did right, Winna. You think fast, girl!”
“What now, though? What if they follow me?”
“Were they human or Sefry?”
“I couldn't see their faces very well. They wore cowls.”
“Probably Sefry, then.”
“Saints! That means they'll come after us! We're already in their haven!”
“Probably. Well. We'd better not be here when they come through. Take my hand. Feel with your other, and with your feet. Try to stay quiet. We'll get through this, Winna. Trust me.”
“I trust you, Aspar.”
“Good.”
Now, he thought, if I only trusted myself. What a hell of a situation.
CHAPTER TWO
D'EF
“WELL, THAT'S IT THEN,” Henne said, turning his sun-browned face toward Stephen and flashing him a chip-toothed grin.
“What is it?” Stephen asked. He didn't see anything unusual—just the King's Road, the straight, pale-barked columns of river birch all around, the green riot of cane that marked the edge of the river Ef, off to their right.
Henne pointed to a clump of ferns, and after a moment of incomprehension, Stephen realized they hid a stone boundary marker. From that point on the King's Road, a track that might have been worn by deer wandered off through the forest.
“Past that is monastery grounds. The main road comes in from the south, but this'll get you there quicker.”
“I don't see the monastery.”
“Yah. It's around the base of the hill, I reckon another league. I'll ride on with you, if you wish.”
Stephen bit his lip. He had become more cautious about being alone in the forest, lately.
“They'll probably feed you at the very least, for bringing me all this way,” he told the hunter.
“They would at that,” Henne said. “But then I'd have to stay and make pleasant with 'em for a while. Nothing wrong with that as it goes, but Whitraff village is three leagues downstream, and I fancy faren there in time for Evenbell. They have those pretty sort of people in Whitraff, the sort you won't find in a monastery, no offense to you, lad.”
“Oh,” Stephen said. “Ah, none taken. And I'll manage the last league by myself. Thank you much for your company on the journey.”
“Nothing to it,” Henne replied. “I'll probably see you from time to time. Sir Symen sends someone down here every now and then to buy cheese and wine, and to make sure all is well. I may even stop on my way back. Maybe you can put in a word for a good price.”
“I'll certainly tell the fratrex of the hospitality I received from the folk of Tor Scath,” Stephen promised.
“Good. Farst-thu goth, then,” Henne said, turning his mount back toward the King's Road.
“Saints keep you,” Stephen replied.
A few moments later, for the first time since his kidnapping, Stephen found himself alone. To his surprise it felt good. He sat his horse for a moment, savoring the stillness of the forest. He wondered, suddenly, what it might be like to be As-par White, alone and at home in this great land. Free, not bound to anyone or anything, able to come and go like the wind.
Stephen had never known that. He likely never would. He'd never even thought about it, until this moment. His road was set; the youngest son, he had been his father's tithe to the church since birth.
And Stephen wanted to serve, especially to study. He really did.
But sometimes …
Frowning at his foolishness, he kneed the horse into motion.
The forest began to open up. Stumps became as common as trees, and then even more so. The clearings were thick with blackberry and red-ticking, wild plum, horseteeth, and huckleberry. The drone of insects rose and fell around him, and for the first time in days the hot sun fell on him unhindered. It cheered him, and he began whistling a hornpipe.
A crash and a curse in the underbrush interrupted him and brought a rush of blood to his head. For a terrible moment, he was again being dragged from his mount, bound and gagged by men who might kill him at any moment. For a few drums of his heart the memory was more vivid than reality.
He calmed when he saw an old man in the habit of a fratir of the Decmanusian order.
“Can I help you, there?” Stephen called.
“Eh?” The old fellow's bushy gray eyebrows rose skyward. “Who are you?”
“I'm Stephen Darige, of the Cape … Ah, Stephen Darige, at your service.”
“Well. Good, good. Going to buy cheese, then?”
“No, actually, I—”
“Yes, yes. Our cheese is noted far and wide. They come all the way from Fenburh for it. Well, since you're going to d'Ef, the saints would smile kindly if you would help an old man.”
“As I said, I am in your service. What seems to be the trouble?”
“There is no trouble where saints prevail, young man, only challenge.” He grinned sheepishly. “But to be wise, it's best to know when a challenge ought to be shared. I've a bundle of firewood here that I've, er … bundled a bit too large. I would be much grateful for some aid with it. It's here, caught up in these blackberry vines.” To emphasize that, he kicked at somethin
g Stephen couldn't quite see.
“No trouble,” Stephen replied, dismounting. “No trouble for a fratir. Are you a novice or a first initiate? I can't tell the habits apart.”
“I am what you see,” the fellow said, looking a bit crestfallen. He brightened suddenly. “I am Brother Pell.”
“From Hornladh?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” He suddenly looked suspicious. “How would you know?”
“You're named for Saint Queislas,” Stephen said, a little smugly. “His name has many forms—Ceasel, here in Crotheny—but it's only in the rural parts of Hornladh where they call him Saint Pell.”
“Not so. He is called the same in Tero Gallé.”
“With respect, good brother, there he is known as Pelle.”
“It's nearly the same.”
“Quite so. But distinct, nonetheless.”
Brother Pell blinked at him a few times, then shrugged. “Here is the firewood, then.” He smiled vaguely.
Stephen looked down. The bundle was huge. It probably weighed more than the old man did.
“It's a good thing I came along, then,” Stephen said. “How far is the monastery?”
“Half a league. The saints dispose. You'll give me a hand?”
“Rest a moment, Brother. I'll get this.”
“Many thanks, young sir, so knowledgeable about the names of saints.”
“It's no trouble,” Stephen said, heaving at the heavy cords that bound the sticks. With a great deal of tugging, pulling, and lifting, he managed to get it onto his back. It was amazingly heavy and unwieldy. His knees were almost shaking. Half a league! He'd be lucky to make it as far as his horse. Let the beast drag it.
But when he started laying the bundle down behind the horse, the old man said, “What are you doing, young sir?”
“I'm going to harness my mount to your firewood.”
“No, no, Master Darige. That won't do. Saint Decmanus, the patron of our sanctuary, is quite clear on that point. Limbs must be gathered with limbs and carried with limbs. We may not bring the wood back with the aid of your horse.”
“Oh.” Stephen shifted the weight on his back a bit. He had never heard that. “Well then, could you take her reins?”
“Assuredly, Master Darige.”
They continued on down the path, Stephen grunting beneath the load, Brother Pell whistling a slip-reel.
The forest ended soon after that, and from his hunched position, Stephen had a good view of green grass and cowcakes. When he troubled his head to lift itself, he saw pleasant pastures cropped by slow-moving rust-and-white cattle.
“The source of our vaunted cheese, yes,” Brother Pell said. “Good stock these, but the secret is the grass. Dew-drenched— you've never smelled anything sweeter. Almost you'd rather eat the grass, eh!” The brother waved at a pair of cowherds, and they waved back from their shaded resting spot near a willow-bordered creek.
“Nice bream in that brooh,” Brother Pell remarked. “A good place to meditate.” He chuckled. “Bream in the brooh. Almost a verse, that.”
“I think I need to meditate now,” Stephen said through gritted teeth. The shaded stream looked a paradise.
“Oh, it's not so much further,” Brother Pell assured him. “Look, we're coming up on the orchard.”
Stephen was beginning another treatise.
My Travels with the Damned, Part the Second: The odd affair of the monk with the brain of a cow.
If at first this human-seeming creature appears intelligent, the illusion quickly vanishes when it attempts conversation …
As Stephen composed, he staggered through long, beautiful rows of sweet spring apple blossoms, a kingdom of butterflies and bees. His legs begged him for rest, for just a moment leaned back against one of those perfumed trunks. He thought of apples, of crunching into one, and the juice flowing down his chin. Of cold cider wetting his parchment-dry throat.
The language of his treatise became harsher.
“See here, how much further is it, Brother?”
“No distance to speak of. Tell me, Master Stephen. How is it you know such lore about the names of saints?”
“I went to the college at Ralegh. I've come here to fill the novice position in the scriftorium.”
“Saint Lujé! You're the lad who was coming from Virgenya! We had lost hope! Three searches went out and found no sign of you.”
“I was kidnapped,” Stephen said, between deep gasps. “Holter saved me. Took me … Tor Scath.”
“Your patron must have been watching you. But—why did you tell me you were come here to buy cheese?”
Stephen managed to lift his eye enough to stare at the monk.
… any thought that enters its head flits about within the hollow like an aimless insect, causing endless perplexion …
“I didn't,” Stephen said, exasperated. “I—”
“There, there. I'm sure your adventures have made you cautious. But you're safe now—you're with us. And see, that's where we live.”
He pointed, but all Stephen could see was the ground. Until he raised his head, further, further. The path wound up the steep flanks of a conical hill, and there, perched on the very top of it, stood the walls and towers of the monastery d'Ef.
“Come on!” Brother Pell said. “Step lively, and we may be in time for the praicersnu. I think it's ham and cherries, today.”
Stephen had reached the end of his strength, however.
“I'll rest before climbing that,” he said, perhaps a little sharply.
“Oh, lad—no! You can't do that. You've set your foot on holy soil. Remember your Saint Decmanus! The burden is a blessing, on the road of the righteous. Do not set it aside until journey's end, where it will be lifted from you.”
“I'm not certain he meant a literal burden,” Stephen protested.
“By the saints, you aren't one of those, are you? Endlessly making excuses that the saints never really said what they said, or if they said it, did not mean it? That won't go well, here. Besides, you're in full sight of our reverend fratrex, and you should make a good impression on him.”
“You really think the fratrex is watching?”
“No doubt. I wouldn't chance it if I were you.”
“I would think a fratrex would have better things to do than gaze out a window all day,” Stephen complained.
“Come on, boy-o.”
With yet another sigh of resignation, Stephen started up the path.
He folded at the very gates of d'Ef, to the grins and chuckles of several men in habit coming back from the fields.
“Brother Lewes,” Brother Pell said to a hulking sandy-haired fellow, “could you take our new brother's burden?”
The monk nodded, came forward, and lifted the bundle as if it was a pile of twigs.
“Come around the side,” Brother Pell said. “I've a feeling you can use some water.”
“I'd be very thankful,” Stephen said.
Without the crushing weight of the firewood, Stephen had a better look at the monastery. It was built in the high style of the early de Loy period, when regents from Liery sat upon the throne in Eslen and brought architects from Safnia and Vitellio to marry their talents with the local craftsmen. Here the result was exuberant, strong, and practical, constructed of a pale rose granite. The chapel was marked by a double arched bell tower above a long, narrow, steepled nave. The doors were set in high arches. Two wings extended from the center of the chapel, traveled some thirty yards, then took rightangle turns back toward Stephen, terminating in smaller versions of the chapel doors. In the two three-sided yards thus enclosed were herb gardens, small vineyards, chickens, outdoor hearths, a few lazy dogs, and a number of monks working at various tasks.
Brother Pell led him into the yard on the right, through an open arch in that wing, and Stephen saw that the back of the structure mirrored the front. This yard, however, was more serene, planted with rose gardens and adorned by statues and shrines to various saints. Against the chapel wall w
as built an arbor, covered in grapevines, and beneath were wooden benches and boards for dining. Brother Pell motioned Stephen to a bench. The board was set with a pitcher, two mazers, and several plates of food.
“Sit, sit,” Brother Pell said. He took up the stoneware pitcher and poured them each a mazer of water. It was cold and clean-tasting, and it felt like the laugh of an angel going down his throat. Stephen finished it greedily, then poured himself another.
Brother Pell had turned his attention to the cloth-covered plates. “What have we?” he wondered, lifting the linen.
The answer set Stephen's mouth watering. Crusty bread, a round of soft, pungent cheese, slices of brick-red ham so salty he could already taste it on his tongue, and yellow and red speckled cherries.
“May I?” Stephen asked.
“The bread only,” Brother Pell replied. “Novices are not allowed meat, cheese, or fruit their first month here.”
“Not—” He closed his mouth. He had heard about this sort of thing. He should have been prepared for it.
Brother Pell laughed gently and clapped his hands thrice. “My apologies, yes? That was me having fun with you. Please, eat of anything before you. There is no hardship concerning food here, save on fast days or when contemplation is assigned. Eat frugally, but well. That's our motto, here.”
“Then—”
“Tuck in,” Pell said.
Stephen did. He forced himself to eat slowly, but it was difficult. His stomach wanted it all, immediately.
“What brought you here, Brother Darige?” Brother Pell asked.
“To the church or to d'Ef ?”
“D'Ef. I heard you requested this monastery, specifically.”
“I did indeed. For its scriftorium. There is only one more comprehensive—the one in the sacarasio of the Caillo Vallaimo in z'Irbina.”
“Oh, yes. Your interest in names and such. But why not there, then? Why d'Ef ?”
“The Caillo Vallaimo has more scrifti. D'Ef has better ones, at least by my interests.”
“How so?”
“D'Ef has the best collection of texts from the early days of the Hegemony in this region.”
“And why does that excite you?”