Barjin spent the rest of the day, which was drizzly and dreary for late spring, in the shadows behind the trees lining the wide road. He heard the midday canticle, then watched many priests and other scholars exit alone or in groups for an early afternoon stroll.
The evil priest took a few precautionary measures, casting simple spells that would help him blend into his background and remain undetected. He listened to the casual banter of the passing groups, wondering with amusement how their words might change when he loosed the Most Fatal Horror in their midst.
The figure that soon caught Barjin's attention, though, was neither priest nor scholar. Disheveled and gray haired, with a dirty and stubbly face and skin wrinkled and browned from many years in the sun, Mullivy, the groundskeeper, went about his routines as he had for four decades, sweeping the road and the stairs to the front doors, heedless of the drizzle.
Barjin's wicked grin spread wide. If there was a secret way into the Edificant Library, this old man would know of it.
* * * * *
The clouds had broken by sunset, and a beautiful crimson patina lined the mountains west of the library. Mullivy hardly noticed it, though, having seen too many sunsets to be impressed anymore. He stretched the aches out of his old bones and strolled to his small work shed off to the side of the library's huge main building.
"You're getting old, too," the groundskeeper said to the shack as the door opened with a loud creak. He reached inside, meaning to replace his broom, then stopped abruptly, frozen in place by some power he did not understand.
A hand reached around him, prying the broom from his stub born grasp. Mullivy's mind shouted warnings, but he could not bring his body to react, could not shout or spin to face the person guiding that unexpected hand. He then was pushed into the shed-fell face down, not able to lift an arm to break the fall―and the door closed behind him. He knew he was not alone.
* * * * *
"You will tell me," the sinister voice promised from the darkness.
Mullivy hung by his wrists, as he had for several hours. The room was totally black, but the groundskeeper sensed the awful presence all too near.
"I could kill you and ask your corpse," Barjin said with a chuckle. "Dead men talk, I assure you, and they do not lie."
"There's no other way in," Mullivy said for perhaps the hundredth time.
Barjin knew the old man was lying. At the beginning of the interrogation, the priest had cast spells to distinguish truth from falsehood and Mullivy had failed that test completely. Barjin reached out and gently grabbed the groundskeeper's stomach in one hand.
"No! No!" he begged, thrashing and trying to wiggle out of that grip. Barjin held tight and began a soft chant, and soon Mullivy's insides felt as if they were on fire, his stomach ripped by agony that no man could endure. His screams, primal, hopeless, and helpless, emanated from that pained area.
"Do cry out," Barjin chided him. "All about the shed is a spell of silence, old fool. You will not disturb the slumber of those within the library.
"But then, why would you care for their sleep?" Barjin asked quietly, his voice filled with feigned sympathy. He released his grip and softly stroked Mullivy's wounded belly.
Mullivy stopped thrashing and screaming, though the pain of the sinister spell lingered.
"To them you are insignificant," Barjin purred, and his suggestion carried the weight of magical influences. "The priests think themselves your betters. They allow you to sweep for them and keep the rain gutters clean, but do they care for your pain? You are out here suffering terribly, but do any of them rush to your aid?"
Mullivy's heaving breaths settled into a calmer rhythm. "Still you defend them so stubbornly," Barjin purred, knowing that his torture was beginning to wear the groundskeeper down. "They would not defend you, and still you will not show me your secret, at the cost of your life."
Even in his most lucid state, Mullivy was not a powerful thinker. His best friend most often was a bottle of stolen wine, and now, in his agony-racked jumble of thoughts, this unseen assailant's words rang loudly of truth. Why shouldn't he show this man his secret, the damp, moss-and-spider-filled dirt tunnel that led to the lowest level of the library complex, the ancient and unused catacombs below the wine cellar and the upper dungeon level? Suddenly, as Barjin had planned, Mullivy's imagined appearance of the unseen assailant softened. In his desperation, the groundskeeper needed to believe that his tormentor could actually be his ally.
"You won't tell them?" Mullivy asked.
"They will be the last to know," Barjin promised hopefully. "You won't stop me from getting at the wine?" Barjin backed off a step, surprised. He understood the old man's initial hesitance. The groundskeeper's secret way into the library led to the wine cellar, a stash that the wretch would not easily part with. "Dear man," Barjin purred, "you may have all the wine you desire―and much more, so much more."
* * * * *
They had barely entered the tunnel when Mullivy, carrying the torch, turned and waved it threateningly at Barjin. Barjin's laughter mocked him, but Mullivy's voice remained firm. "I showed you the way," the groundskeeper declared. "Now I'm leaving."
"No," Barjin replied evenly. A shrug sent the priest's traveling cloak to the floor, revealing him in all his splendor. He wore his new vestments, the purple silken robes depicting a trident capped by three red flasks. On his belt was his peculiar mace, its head a sculpture of a young girl. "You have joined me now," Barjin explained. "You will never be leaving."
Terror drove Mullivy's movements. He slapped the burning torch against Barjin's shoulder and tried to push by, but the priest had prepared himself well before handing the torch to the groundskeeper. The flames did not touch Barjin, did not even singe his magnificent vestments, for they were defeated by a protection spell.
Mullivy tried a different tactic, slamming the torch like a club, but the vestments carried a magical armor as solid as metal plate mail and the wooden torch bounced off Barjin's shoulder without so much as causing the priest to flinch.
"Come now, dear Mullivy," Barjin cajoled, taking no offense. "You do not want me as an enemy."
Mullivy fell back and nearly dropped the torch. It took him a long moment to get past his terror, to even find his breath.
"Lead on," Barjin bade him. "You know this tunnel and the passages beyond. Show them to me."
Barjin liked the catacombs―dusty and private and filled with the remains of long-dead priests, some embalmed and others only cobweb-covered skeletons. He would have use for them.
Mullivy led him through a tour of the level, including the rickety stairwell that led up to the library's wine cellar and a medium-sized chamber that once had been used as a study for the original library. Barjin thought this room an excellent place to set up his unholy altar, but first he had to see exactly how useful the groundskeeper might prove.
They lit several torches and set them in wall sconces, then Barjin led Mullivy to an ancient table, one of many furnishings in the room, and produced his precious baggage. The bottle had been heavily warded back at Castle Trinity; only disciples of Talona or someone of pure heart could even touch it, and only the latter could open it. Like Aballister, Barjin knew this to be an obstacle, but unlike the wizard, the priest believed it a fitting one. What better irony than to have one of pure heart loose the chaos curse?
"Open it, I pray you," Barjin said.
The groundskeeper studied the flask for a moment, then looked curiously at the priest.
Barjin knew Mullivy's weak spot. "It is ambrosia," the priest lied. "The drink of the gods. One taste of it and forever after wines will taste to you ten times as sweet, for the lingering effects of ambrosia will never diminish. Drink, I pray you. You have certainly earned your reward."
Mullivy licked his lips eagerly, took one final look at Barjin, then reached for the glowing bottle. A jolt of electricity shot into him as he touched it, blackening his fingers and throwing him across the room to where he slammed into a w
all. Barjin went over and dropped one arm under Mullivy's shoulder to help him stand.
"I thought not," the priest muttered to himself.
Still twitching from the blast, his hair dancing wildly with lingering static, Mullivy could not find his voice to reply.
"Fear not," Barjin assured him. "You will serve me in other ways." Mullivy noticed then that the priest held his girl's-head mace in his other hand.
Mullivy fell back against the wall and put his arms up defensively, but they were hardly protection from Barjin's foul weapon. The innocent looking head swung in at the doomed groundskeeper, transforming as it went. The weapon's image became angular, evil, the Screaming Maiden, her mouth opening impossibly wide, to reveal long, venom-tipped fangs.
She bit hungrily through the bone in Mullivy's forearm and plowed on, crushing and tearing into the man's chest. He twitched wildly for several agonizing moments, then he slid down the wall and died.
Barjin, with many preparations still to make, paid him no heed.
* * * * *
Aballister leaned back in his chair, breaking his concentration from his magical mirror but not breaking the connection he had made. He had located Barjin and had recognized the priest's surroundings: the Edificant Library. Aballister rubbed his hands through his thinning hair and considered the revelation, news that he found more than a little disturbing.
The wizard had mixed emotions concerning the library, unresolved feelings that he did not care to examine at this important time. Aballister had actually studied there once, many years before, but his curiosity with denizens of the lower planes had ended that relationship. The host priests thought it a pity that one of Aballister's potential had to be asked to leave, but they expressed their concerns that Aballister had some trouble distinguishing between good and evil, between proper studies and dangerous practices.
The expulsion did not end Aballister's relationship with the Edificant Library, though. Other events over the ensuing years had served to increase the wizard's ambiguous feelings toward the place. Now, in the overall plan of regional conquest, Aballister would have greatly preferred to leave the library for last, with him personally directing the attack. He never would have guessed that Barjin would be so daring as to go after the place in the initial assault, believing that the priest would venture to Shilmista, or to some vital spot in Carradoon.
"Well?" came a question from across the room.
"He is in the Edificant Library," Aballister answered grimly. "The priest has chosen to begin our campaign against our most powerful enemies."
Aballister anticipated Druzil's reply well enough to mouth "bene tellemara" along with the imp.
"Find him," Druzil demanded. "What is he thinking?"
Aballister put a curious gaze the imp's way, but if he had any notion to reprimand Druzil, it was lost in his agreement with the demand. He leaned forward again toward the large mirror and scried deeper, into the library's lower levels, through the cobweb-covered tunnels to the room where Barjin had built his altar.
Barjin glanced around nervously for a moment, then apparently recognized the source of the mental connection. "Well met, Aballister," the priest said smugly.
"You take great chances," the wizard remarked.
"Do you doubt the power of Tuanta Quiro Miancay?" Barjin asked. "The agent of Talona?"
Aballister had no intentions of reopening that unresolvable debate. Before he could respond, another figure moved into the picture, pallid and unblinking, with one broken arm hanging grotesquely and blood covering the left side of its chest.
"My first soldier," Barjin explained, pulling Mullivy's body close to his side. "I have a hundred more awaiting my call."
Aballister recognized the "soldier" as an animated corpse, a zombie, and, knowing that Barjin was in catacombs no doubt laced with burial vaults, the wizard did not have to ask where he intended to find his army. Suddenly Barjin's choice to assault the library did not seem so foolhardy; Aballister had to wonder just how powerful his conniving rival might be, or might become. Again the wizard's mixed feelings about the Edificant Library flooded over him. Aballister wanted to order Barjin out of the place at once, but of course, he had not the power to enforce the demand.
"Do not underestimate me," Barjin said, as though he had read the wizard's mind. "Once the library is defeated, all the region will be opened to us. Now be gone from here; I have duties to attend that a simple wizard cannot understand."
Aballister wanted to voice his protest at Barjin's demeaning tone, but again, he knew that words would carry no real weight. He broke the connection immediately and fell back in his chair, memories welling inside him.
"Bene tellemara," Druzil said again.
Aballister looked over to the imp. "Barjin may bring us a great victory much earlier than we expected," the wizard said, but there was little excitement in his voice.
"It is an unnecessary risk," Druzil spat back. "With Ragnor's forces ready to march, Barjin could have found a better target. He could have gone to the elves and loosed the curse there―Ragnor certainly hates them and intends to make them his first target. If we took Shilmista Forest, we could march south around the mountains to isolate the priests, surround the powerful library before they ever even realized that trouble had come to their land."
Aballister did not argue and wondered again if he had been wise in so easily relinquishing control of the elixir to Barjin. He had justified each action, each failing, but he knew in his heart that his cowardice had betrayed him.
"I must go to him," Druzil remarked unexpectedly.
After taking a moment to consider the request, Aballister decided not to contest it. Sending Druzil would be a risk, the wizard knew, but he realized, too, that if he had found the strength to take more risks in his earlier meetings with Barjin, he might not now be in so awkward a position.
"Dorigen informed me that Barjin carried an enchanted brazier with him," the wizard said, rising and taking up his staff. "She is the best with sorcery. She will know if Barjin opens a gate to the lower planes in search of allies. When Dorigen confirms the opening, I will open a gate here. Your journey will be a short one. Barjin will not know you as my emissary and will think that he freely summoned you and that it is he who controls you."
Druzil snapped his batlike wings around him and wisely held his tongue until Aballister had exited the room.
"Your emissary?" the imp snarled at the closed door.
Aballister had a lot to learn.
Sunlight and Darkness
Newander felt invigorated as soon as he walked out the building's front doors, into the morning sunshine. He had just completed his turn at translating the ancient moss tome, hours huddled over the book with walls closing in all about him. For all his doubts concerning his own views about civilization, Newander knew with certainty that he preferred the open sky to any ceiling.
He was supposed to be in the small chamber, resting now, while Cleo worked at the book and Arcite performed the daily druidic rituals. Newander didn't often go against Arcite's orders, but he could justify this transgression; he was much more at rest walking along the mountain trails than in any room, no matter how comfortable its bed.
The druid found Percival skipping through the branches along the tree-lined lane. "Will you come and talk with me, white one?" he called.
The squirrel looked Newander's way, then glanced back to a different tree. Following the gaze, Newander saw another squirrel, this one a normal gray female, sitting very still and watching him.
"A thousand pardons," Newander piped to Percival. "I did not know that you were engaged, so to speak." He gave a low bow and went on his merry way down the mountain road.
Percival chattered at the departing druid for a few moments, then hopped back toward his mate.
The morning turned into afternoon and still the druid walked, away from the Edificant Library. He had broken off the main road some time ago, following a deer trail deep into the wilderness. Here he was at h
ome and at peace, and he was confident that no animal would rise against him.
Clouds gathered over distant ridges, promising another of the common spring thunderstorms. As with the animals, the druid did not fear the weather. He would walk in a downpour and call it a bath, skip and slide along snow-covered trails and call it play. While the gathering storm clouds did not deter the druid, they did remind him that he still had duties back at the library and that Arcite and Cleo soon would realize that he was gone. "Just a little bit farther," he promised himself.
He meant to turn back a short while later but caught sight of an eagle, soaring high on the warm updrafts. The eagle spotted him, too, and swooped down low at him, cawing angrily. At first, Newander thought the bird meant to attack, but then he sorted through enough of its excited chatter to realize that it had recognized him as a friend.
"What is your trouble?" Newander asked the bird. He was fairly adept at understanding bird calls, but the eagle was too agitated and spoke too rapidly for Newander to hear anything but a clear warning of danger.
"Show me," the druid replied, and he whistled and cawed to ensure that the eagle understood. The great bird rushed off, climbing high into the sky so that Newander would not lose sight of it as it soared ever deeper, and ever higher, into the mountains.
When he came out on a high and treeless ridge, the wind buffeted his green cloak fiercely and the druid realized the cause of the eagle's distress. Across a deep ravine, three filthy gray, monkeylike creatures scrambled up the side of a tall, sheer cliff, using their prehensile tails and four clawed paws to gain a secure hold on even the tiniest juts and cracks. On a shallow ledge near the top of the cliff sat a great pile of twigs and sticks, an eagle aerie. Newander could guess what was inside that nest.
The infuriated eagle dove at the intruders repeatedly, but the monsters only spat at it as it helplessly passed, or swiped at it with their formidable claws.
[The Cleric Quintet 01] - Canticle Page 8