If he could have stood before them, he would have. Instead, he sat up as straight as he could, ignoring the pain that lanced down his back and through his right leg, and used a penetrating, drill-bannerman’s booming voice he knew would penetrate to every last room in the barracks.
“Defenders of the Southern Islands, protectors of the Lord’s Lands. You have fought well, and now you are home!” The men cheered, but he had the impression it was more for him, and perhaps Charese as well, than for their own achievement, or their arrival. Around them, the eyes that had followed them coming in widened in recognition. They had, Gallord-Smit concluded, not been warned that survivors might make it home.
He deepened his voice, raised it even louder. “If you feel confused in your new surroundings, do not let it concern you. You are alive—perhaps you did not expect that! There will be ale, and song, and wenches to welcome you. See that you do not waste the life you have been gifted!”
That brought a roar from them, and shouts of, “Gallord-Smit! Gallord-Smit!” that quickly morphed into, “Captain SMITE! Captain SMITE!” More wide-eyes stares turned on him, and men emerged from balconies and the confectionary, all to look upon him and the scruffy entourage he had brought back.
Under the backdrop of the chanting, he turned to Charese. “See them to the quartermaster. They are to receive fresh uniforms and weapons, and allocated bunks. Then take them to the canteen for limitless ale, on my account.” He considered. “Coming home is hard. Without our help, these men will end up drunks or corpses. We'll keep them here for a while, and drill them to exhaustion. When they’ve had enough, I will speak to Lord Perrile—or his replacement; all these men will receive feoffments, in fee simple. Including you, Charese,” he finished, placing his good hand on her shoulder.
She smiled broadly, though he saw a hint of sadness behind it. “Yes, my lord,” she bowed.
“Go get dressed and drunk,” he ordered, then he turned back to his bearers. “Get me inside, and out of this thing,” he said. “One of you will help me up to my quarters.”
The bearers bowed subserviently, and picked up the chair to comply. Amid the backdrop of his name being chanted, and showered with stares from amazed onlookers, he was carried like a hero into garrison headquarters.
59 ARAD
It was the kaf he noticed first.
To be sure, the approach to Benn’s Harbour felt like a homecoming. He was eager to step on to the docks again like he had those two years or so before; he was a returning resident this time, and he felt welcome. Sayri was on his arm as he strolled out onto the boardwalk, with Wissa shadowing them both and the Proselyte and his odd, bestial companion in tow, and the crowds that thronged before them were at once again exciting and exotic, while also familiar. But it was the scent of kaf, winding its way through accompanying smoke, roasted meat, sweat and offal that made his eyes light up.
Kafa was imported from Somria, and arrived there from somewhere further west. Nonetheless, his memory had now firmly affixed it to Benn’s Harbour—perhaps it was the thicker, creamier way in which they brewed it here, compared to the more stringent varieties common back home. In truth, many Lordslanders did not even know what it was, since only specialty shops carried it, and only what would be considered exotic cafes brewed it here.
His mind had made its judgement, regardless. Benn’s Harbour would forever be known to him as a place of delicious, thick, brown kaf.
While he located a parlour and procured two steaming cups of the elixir Sayri went in search of something else, dragging Wissa with her. The Proselyte strode along the boardwalk, shadowed by the beast-man, who seemed overwhelmed by the crowds; Arad wondered how he would react to Yalcinae, recalling Sayri’s panic. The Proselyte was dressed in more modest attire than the tattered smallclothes Arad had become accustomed to seeing him in. He had borrowed a sleeping tunic from the Master of the Lady’s Challenge, who seemed unlikely to want it back in his eagerness to have Sayri and Wissa off his ship. With a short length of rope cut to his specifications by a deckhand, the monk had transformed it into a makeshift stole.
They reunited with Sayri and Wissa before a tailor’s shop where fine displays of spring fashion were proudly displayed—not the feathery fabrics of Somria or even the best locally; those would be up in the markets near the wealthy residences—but beautiful in any case, and pleasing to his eye since they represented the local style. Showing interest in the styles—perhaps feigned for their benefit—Wissa gave them some space.
Sayri pushed a stick of something grey and steaming into his hands; he took it clumsily and returned the favour by thrusting the cup into hers. “Talarmi sticks, mmmm,” she drooled, tearing off a thick wedge from the stick that skewered it, and chewing loudly with relish. “I’ve been waiting so long for this.”
Arad took a bite then sipped at his kaf contentedly. “Where is Talarm, anyway?” he asked.
“No one knows,” Sayri replied with a smirk. “But they have excellent meat.”
Arad laughed, and she joined him. It was, he realized, a very special moment. They were together, back in her land, free, and safe—the first time for all of those things. He smiled as he admired her; she was greedily taking in the sights with her eyes, like a starving woman gorging herself on culture.
“I love you,” he told her.
“I’d forgotten how busy it is in spring, and it’s only getting started!” she gushed, slurping from her kaf. Then, seeing how he looked at her, she scrunched up her face. “You said something, didn’t you?”
Arad shook his head, laughing, and kissed her on the cheek. Then, in her ear, he said, “I said it’s so busy!”
“Ha! Compared to Yalcinae?” She transferred the stick to the hand she held the kaf in and punched his shoulder playfully. “You’re teasing me! It’s a backwards village to you.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s perfect,” he told her. “So how do we get to the Lower Valley? Where do the coaches leave from?”
“No travel coaches here, city boy,” she prodded him. “We either walk, or buy a couple of horses. How much coin do you have?”
He frowned at her. “I don’t have any coin, Sayri. I recently rose from the dead, you’ll recall. They don’t send us back with much.”
She laughed aloud at that, threw her arms around him and squeezed hard enough that they both spilled kaf. When she finally released him, Sayri turned to Wissa. “Do you have any coin, Wissa?” she asked, taking on the tone of a little girl begging from her mother.
“No,” Wissa said, her face deadpan. “But I can get some, if y’ like.” Arad wasn’t sure if she was joking, but Sayri shook her head vigorously.
“If I may intrude,” the Proselyte put in, returning from his browsing. The beast-man kept a careful distance from Sayri, Arad noticed. “If it is transport we seek, I can acquire it for us at the Sanctuary of the Spirit. One of the perks of my trade.”
Sayri peered at him doubtfully. “Proselyte, if it is your intent to—”
“Young lady, I assure you,” he put in before she could finish, “that I shall strive at my utmost to enroll you at the Sanctuary, but until you choose that path yourself, I shall accompany where you will.”
“At your word, young man,” she replied with a brief curtsey. “Show us the way.”
・
The Sanctuary of the Spirit was a long walk from the city walls. Arad was sad to leave the city so quickly after only just returning, but the area where the Sanctuary was found was stunningly beautiful. Beyond the croplands surrounding Benn’s Harbour it lay, where wineries of the Heartlands striped every hill with hypnotic, symmetrical rows of vines. As they walked along a path that meandered among these rows—the home of the Proselytes being well off the highway as well, they were forced to follow a circuitous route—it came into view atop a rounded hillock in the distance.
The Sanctuary of the Spirit was, Arad decided immediately, the strangest and most beautiful structure he had ever seen. The outer walls, which encirc
led the entire group of buildings, were whitewashed. Featureless along their upper edge, the walls were nonetheless decorated with teardrop-shaped bulbs atop each corner. There was no apparent entrance—at least none facing their approach.
The buildings inside were even more odd. The dominant structure was large and cylindrical, also whitewashed, sporting another teardrop as its roof but on a massive scale. It bulged slightly at the top of the vertical wall, but otherwise rose in precisely the same curve until it reached its apex in a shining point. Its height was impressive but not towering, being perhaps half its width. The other buildings visible were blockish with flat roofs, though they shared one bizarre feature with the primary; none had any windows.
The result was quite disorienting; without windows or doors to judge by, it was impossible to properly discern the size of the edifices, and they took on the appearance of toys.
After a moment Arad noticed that the vines ran right up to the wall, giving him a frame of reference. With a start he realized that the wall itself was at least three handswidths in height. That would make the main tower an easy hundred paces in length, and its height—
“That place is massive!” he exclaimed as he worked it out. “How in the Spiral did they construct it? And what holds up that pinnacle on top?”
Sayri was alongside him, frowning as she tried to work out what he just had. From behind, the Proselyte came up to speak to him.
“It is lost to history,” the monk said mysteriously. “Our records only date back a few centuries, and the Sanctuary is said to have been built not long after the collapse of the Repository.”
“The Repository?” Sayri repeated, her head snapping around at the word. The Proselyte nodded confirmation, and she glanced back at Wissa.
Arad barely noticed; he was still in awe of the size of the main building. “How many of your fellows live there?” he asked.
The Proselyte shrugged. “It varies, as many students find the training too rigorous and leave, while other come in droves to learn our secrets. Perhaps . . . two or three hundred at a time.”
“That would leave the place mostly empty,” Arad mumbled to no one but himself.
“Echoes in empty halls,” Sayri commented in a faraway voice. “It must be lonely.”
“Inner study requires solitude,” the Proselyte said. The words sounded like a mantra, or a slogan.
In the time it took to approach the Sanctuary, no movement was visible outside the walls. Arad imagined that the growing season for the grapes was yet tendays ahead, so there was no reason for there to be activity. He wondered how the food required to feed all the building’s inhabitants could be shipped in, then corrected himself as he remembered the monk’s population estimates. It’s mostly empty, he told himself. What about when it had been filled? Would the vineyards have been croplands?
There was a narrow entrance along the wall to their right, about twice his height and arched at the top. Strangely, it was only wide enough to admit one person at a time. “Where are supplies brought in?” he asked.
“This is the only entrance,” the Proselyte replied.
“But—that makes no sense. They have to unload cargo and take it in by hand?” When the monk nodded, he asked, “But—why such security in a monastery? What about—furniture? Construction materials? For that matter, what about horses?”
“The horses are kept in a nearby stable,” the spiritualist replied patiently. “We make all we need within. Other than that, I cannot say; as I mentioned, this place was built long before our records begin. It is, and shall always remain, a mystery.”
Arad shook his head in wonder. A mystery indeed, and a nonsensical one, at that.
The Proselyte went through the archway, followed close behind by his bestial companion Bauma, who seemed oblivious of the odd structure. The tall girl who wore a Collector’s robes but was not a Collector—he had only briefly met her, but Sayri had called her Wissa—went through next, scanning around her as she did, presumably for threats.
Sayri looked back at Arad, shrugged, and went after her.
Left outside alone, he stared up at the towering walls. The building was designed as a fortress, there was no doubt in his mind. But for who, and to protect from what? A mystery.
He wondered if he could jump over the wall and considered trying it; he hadn’t tested his physical prowess yet, not really. Was he as strong as in the dream? He dismissed the idea, though—now was not the time.
“Come on,” Sayri said in mock impatience, stepping back out to seize him by the arm and jerk him through. Arad chuckled, throwing his arm around her shoulders once he was inside, and examined the inner courtyard.
It was, unsurprisingly, barren. The ground was covered in short, yellow grass. The Proselyte motioned them on, making for another entrance into the large main structure, identical to the one in the wall.
Inside the main building was a massive hall, with pillars over a handswidth in diameter supporting the ceiling, which towered overhead. The chamber stretched ahead nearly fifty paces, where Arad saw a curved wall with an archway leading to a spiral staircase. To his left and right, the columns seemed to go on endlessly, curving away from him.
“I will speak to the Grand Master of my order,” the Proselyte said in a hushed voice, though the huge room appeared empty. “Young lady, he will wish to meet you. I assure you he will not seek to detain you, though he may attempt to persuade you.” He turned to Wissa. “Collectors are forbidden to enter here. I will inform the Grand Master that you are not what you appear, but other proselytes may come upon you here. You need merely tell them the truth; they will accept it.” He began toward the stairwell.
“Trusting bunch,” Arad said. Sayri smiled at him nervously.
“We can leave anytime you like,” Wissa said, taking the words right from his mouth.
Interestingly, the beast-man did not follow the Proselyte. In fact, Arad did not see him nearby; he looked behind them and saw that Bauma had not entered the main building, but was squatting outside. Had the Proselyte signalled him somehow to wait? If so, he had missed it, though he wasn’t entirely surprised; he had been somewhat distracted by the enormity of the structure.
None of the three seemed inclined to explore; they waited quietly for the Proselyte to return. Something was nagging at Arad, though. Was there another reason the beast-man had not entered? He studied Bauma where he was squatted outside. The savage creature seemed unnerved, and his nostrils kept flaring. Was he smelling something he didn’t like?
“I’m going to look around a bit,” he said. He turned perpendicular to the way they had come in, and began walking through the columns, parallel to the curved outer wall.
“Don’t go far,” Sayri said unnecessarily; he had only taken five steps when he halted.
There was a pile of books on the floor between two pillars, scattered in disarray. Arad didn’t examine them closely; he was certain such a mess would not normally be left by the monks. He quickly walked back over to Sayri and Wissa.
“Something is wrong here,” he said quietly and calmly. The others stared at him.
The Proselyte’s footsteps sounded on the stone floor, and he returned a dozen heartbeats later. His face was completely drained of blood, and his eyes were tight; he was clutching a satchel in his left hand. “I have coin. We need to leave now,” he said to none of them in particular, his voice rough. He headed for the exit.
“Why?” Arad called to his back, following. “They won’t help us?”
“No,” the monk replied, turning back just before he emerged back into the daylight. “There is no one to help. They are all dead.”
“Explain.” Wissa had silently moved up beside him. Her voice was quiet, but as cold as death.
The Proselyte took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He held it for a long moment, perhaps ten heartbeats, then released it very slowly. When he opened his eyes again, he appeared to be composed, but his eyes were sad. “The proselytes in the upper rooms are all dead;
someone has killed them violently. The Grand Master’s library was ransacked; they were looking for something. They took all of the books. The Grand Master himself is also deceased. He was in repose, on his sleeping platform. He may have died of natural causes.”
Sayri said, “Who would do such a thing?” Her voice was, Arad noticed, quite calm. She has grown so much since we separated in Yalcinae, he realized.
“We know who, Sayri,” Wissa answered.
Arad’s eyes flicked back and forth between them as he tried to follow what they had shared, but he was unable to understand until Sayri’s eyes drifted down to the grey robes Wissa wore. “The Collectors? Why?”
It was the Proselyte who responded, though all of them already knew. “They want her. And they knew my order would protect her. Provide sanctuary for her,” he added sadly. He turned to Sayri, and reached to touch her cheek. “I am sorry, young lady. There is no sanctuary for you here.”
A tear ran down Sayri’s cheek at his touch. She was, Arad realized, crying for him. “I am glad you were with me,” she told the monk. He nodded sadly.
“The stables are over the hills that way,” he motioned. “Acolytes tend them. If we are lucky there may be someone for us to question. At the least, we can hope for horses.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Wissa muttered. Arad looked at her, waiting for explanation, but she offered none.
It was late afternoon when they found the stables. As Wissa had predicted, the acolytes were murdered and the horses gone.
Arad studied the corpses; both were young men, perhaps younger than Sayri. The injuries were pinpoint and deadly, not sloppy and crude as a soldier would leave. “These are masterful kills,” he observed.
Sayri frowned at his callous description, but Wissa replied simply, “Collector assassins.” He looked to Sayri for explanation; she raised her eyebrows and shrugged. A cold chill ran through him; that the Collectors would go to such lengths was an ominous sign.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 73