by Guy Antibes
The horse bobbed his head up and down.
Pol regretted leaving Demeron behind, but only Darrol would accompany Pol, disguised as Nater, once they got close to the monastery. They entered the inn, actually a tavern with a small wing of rooms.
Their abode for the night was larger than Pol had expected. Three beds hugged the walls with a table and chairs in the middle.
“Now, let’s check on your disguise. You’ll leave the inn as Nater,” Val said.
Pol closed his eyes and concentrated on calling up the pattern of Nater’s face. He had memorized it at the Grainell manor. The more times Pol changed, the less pain he felt.
Darrol laughed. “It tickles me every time I see you do that.”
Pol squinted at his friend. “It doesn’t tickle me. It hurts to change my face.”
After nodding his head, Val touched Pol’s features. “I want to make sure it feels real. Sometimes you apply a pattern to your face, and it’s more of a glamor than a change. You’ve done it right. It will look like Nater until you change back.”
“What if I’m sleeping or if someone knocks me out?”
“That’s why it hurts if you’ve done it right. You’ll look like that until you change the pattern of your face,” Val said. “Now talk like Grainell.”
Pol complained about the meal they had just eaten in the small tavern and described the ale as salty piss.
Darrol curled up on one of the beds in laughter. “Just like the little toad,” he said.
“Don’t address me as a toad!” Pol said. He broke into laughter as well. It lasted long enough for him to notice Val’s face. The Seeker obviously didn’t think much of Pol’s joke.
“Just keep in your role. Falling out of it could cost you your life.”
Val’s comment sobered Pol quickly. “I understand,” he said. “I suppose Tesna doesn’t allow for laughter.”
“They’re all nobles with whatever they use for weapons shoved up their…” Darrol said.
Pol put up his hand. “That’s enough. I understand. You didn’t know Coram, the South Salvan that stole Demeron and I killed, but I spent quite a bit of time with him learning Level Three magic at Deftnis. He behaved just like you described.”
Val nodded. “The whole monastery is full of Coram’s, then.”
~
Pol said farewell to Demeron, who didn’t seem very bothered that they would be separated. It disappointed Pol just a bit, but then Demeron was a horse, after all. He thought differently than a human. Pol had noticed that often.
His horse and Val had gone on ahead and taken a trail just to the north of the monastery. It would be up to Val to get messages to him. If Pol needed to escape, he was to take the road north and then just go up the trail to Val and Darrol’s camp. The map that Val carried noted a rough trail they could use to escape over the mountains to Shinkya. Since the Baccusol Empire had uneasy relations with the Shinkyans, they would have to flee to the north rather than make contact with the reclusive people.
~
After a quick meal in Gobbleton, the town that supported the monastery, Darrol clung to Pol’s side as they took the road up towards Tesna. He wore a tabard in Lord Grainell’s colors that he had pulled out a few miles down the road. “I don’t like you heading into the bear’s den. I’m not so sure Val will be able to contact you.”
“If he doesn’t, I know my way well enough to seek you out,” Pol said. He had memorized the map that included Val’s intended location.
Pol rode up to a gate some distance from the monastery, which he could see perched above. The road was in good repair. He guessed that merchants in Gobbleton would want to make sure they could go up and down without difficulty.
Two guards rose as Darrol and Pol approached.
“What is your business?”
Pol leaned down from his horse with the letter from Tesna monastery. The guard looked at him and at Darrol.
“Get what you want from his horse, and you can proceed to the monastery. Your man-at-arms has gone as far as he can.”
Darrol made to protest, but Pol held up his hand and giggled like Nater. “Father will be glad to get rid of me and you can tell my mother that I am safely ensconced at the monastery.”
The two of them transferred a few things to and from their saddlebags, and Darrol bowed deeply to Pol. “Good luck to you, Master Nater.”
“Be gone,” Pol said, waving his hand in dismissal. He turned to the guard. “I suppose I just ride up this road?”
Pol didn’t exactly like the mocking smile from the guard, but the stupid question received the expected reaction.
“You can’t miss it.” The guard pointed a thumb behind him to the monastery perched up behind them on the mountainside.
With his heart in his throat, now that Pol was really alone, he kicked his mount to get it headed up the road. He missed Demeron already, and now he would have to rely on himself. The thought scared him. For the first time in his life, he was without parents, friends, or mentors. In Listya, he had Searl to visit, even though the monk was in jail.
Pol took a deep breath and nudged the horse forward. Another rider passed him by, and Pol caught up to him. The rider gave Pol an appraising glare as he turned.
“One of the last acolytes?” the man said. He didn’t ride away from Pol, so he took that as a non-hostile gesture.
“Last?”
The monk shook his head. “Forget I said that. What’s your name?”
“Nater Grainell, from Boxall. My father is a Duke,” Pol said, feeling his way towards acting like a nervous Nater. “I’ve been accepted into the monastery.” The man must have been a monk since he looked Darrol’s age. He had the darker hair that might indicate South Salvan.
“All of our fathers were something before we entered Tesna. Boxall, eh? How are you at washing dishes and cutting wood?”
Pol didn’t like the monk’s smile, but he purposely looked at his hands. “I’ve done the both once or twice camping. I can do it, but why?”
The man laughed at Pol’s words. “I hope you haven’t forgotten.” He kicked his horse and ran ahead. Pol would let the monk leave him in the midst of the dust of the road.
At Deftnis, the acolytes were enlisted into performing menial tasks. Pol had chopped wood and dishes plenty of times, but that didn’t fit in Nater’s narrative. He wondered more at the monk’s description of him as one of the last acolytes. Perhaps Val would be interested in that answer.
He never caught up to the monk, but he eventually approached the open gates of Tesna Monastery. Unlike the discreet displays of the Deftnis symbol, Pol looked up at the large metal rendition of Tesna’s: a triangle with an eye above a simple grid of lines mounted on the stone. He guessed it meant seeing into the pattern.
A guard stepped out of a shack just inside the gate. “Business?” He wore a dark blue tabard with the Tesna symbol embroidered in white.
Pol pulled out his invitation and showed it to the man. “Master Nater Grainell of Boxall,” he said.
“Master no longer, and certainly not a master here, acolyte,” the guard said. “It will be some time before someone calls you by anything but your first name. Take this to that wooden building over there.” The guard pointed to a four-story building. Dark stone went up the first floor, replaced by black painted wood. A gilded Tesna triangle showed above the main double doors.
Pol nodded to the man and tucked his invitation into his cloak and then tied his horse to the rail in front of the building. Pol had been through this before in Listya when he became Regent Tomio’s aid. He could have walked out of Castle Alsador at any time, but now bearing the responsibility of finding information gave his presence unexpected weight.
He entered into a dark reception area. Magic globes provided the light, but they were all small, except for the few that hovered over the big desk in the middle of the room. Monks walked to and fro, all with shaven heads. Pol’s hand immediately went up to his hair. He feared he wouldn’t have it for lo
ng. They dressed in different-colored robes. As far as Pol could tell, they were all made of velvet. Each robe sported an embroidered patch of the symbol of Tesna. Some symbols were gold and some were silver, and Pol even noticed a white version like the guards wore. Deftnis monks only wore a colored rope or belt to signify their status.
“Excuse me,” a monk said, bumping in to Pol, who stood in front of the door. He shuffled to the desk, eyes on the busy monk who took a set of stairs to Pol’s left.
“I am…” Pol nearly said ‘master’ again and smiled. “I am Nater Grainell of Boxall. My father is Duke Grainell.”
The monk at the desk looked up, visibly unimpressed. Pol didn’t expect anything else, so he set his invitation in front of the man.
“Acolyte, of course,” he said as he pulled the paper close to his eyes. “Hmmm. Boxall.” The man pursed his lips and opened a drawer. “Here. Use this to get you around.” He gave Pol a wooden plaque with a burned-on Tesna symbol. Then he pulled another paper out of another drawer. “One side is a map of the monastery, and the other has the rules.” He grabbed a red pencil and circled a building. “This is your next stop. Leave your horse where it is. I hope you weren’t attached, since it is now the property of the monastery and yours no longer. You may go.” The man flit his hand towards the door. He looked at Pol again. “Go. Go, go, go.”
Pol wanted to say something, anything to object to the rudeness, but he bit his lip and moved on. So far, Deftnis suited him much more than this place. He shook his head while he lifted the saddlebags from his horse and looked back. A monk removed the reins from the hitching post and headed in another direction with his mount.
He wondered if Seeking was more like this, working in a foreign place, left to oneself. At least Val and Darrol weren’t that far from the monastery, but that did him little good. Since he had memorized the monastery layout, he had no difficulty navigating through the maze of multi-story buildings. There seemed to be two classes of monks, those that wore robes of velvet and those that didn’t.
The building certainly looked like a barracks building. He stepped inside. Gone were the velvet robes of the administration building. Just looking at the rough woolen robes of younger-looking acolytes made Pol itch.
He stopped an acolyte roughly his own age. “I’m new here. Do you know where I should go?”
The acolyte stifled a laugh. Pol could guess the boy had just told himself some sort of joke. He could think of a few. “Sit over there.”
Pol followed the acolyte’s eyes to a pair of wooden chairs hugging the wall next to a window.
“The house monk will be by within the next hour. Be patient and enjoy the rest, while you can.” He hurried out the door.
Occasionally, a monk in a velvet robe strode through the lobby among the stream of bald, wool-clad acolytes. If anyone looked Pol’s way, they sniffed and averted their gaze, moving on just a bit quicker. His wait gave Pol a chance to absorb the room into the pattern he had been creating of Tesna. He felt a tension in the air that had rarely been evident at Deftnis. Rope sandals adorned their feet. No boots at this place.
A short man wearing a faded orange robe with a white symbol walked up to Pol.
“Nater?”
Pol nodded.
“This way.”
Pol rose and threw his saddlebags on his shoulders. He paid attention to his escort as they walked through a labyrinth of corridors. Here he passed a few acolytes scrubbing floors and washing windows that looked out and windows that looked into rooms.
The monk led Pol down stone steps to the basement, creating a magician’s light as they descended. “First years’ burrow,” the monk said. He stood in front of a row of doors and tapped each one as he walked past. He opened the door to a windowless bedroom. Four beds were arranged along the walls with a table in the center. It reminded Pol of the room at the South Salvan inn, but without any light.
“Here. You can put your belongings in here,” the monk pointed to a wardrobe in a corner. “Take the key and find something to attach it to, so it doesn’t get lost. Don’t waste candles. You can do quite a bit in the dark, once you get used to where everything is.”
Pol pulled the key out of a very simple lock. Anyone with a metal pin could probably break into his locker. He shrugged off the saddlebags and shoved them into the confines of the cabinet. After twisting the key in the lock, he spelled the lock with his back to the monk.
The monk stood by, tapping his feet and looking away and didn’t show any notice of Pol’s use of magic. “At present there is only you. Another acolyte is scheduled to arrive within a week or two”
Pol noticed a rack with one robe and a pair of rope sandals on one of the beds.
“That is yours. Put it on when I leave. Go back up the stairs, if you can find them.” The monk’s mouth twisted into a little smile. “Off the lobby is the assignment room. Your name will be posted and your work stations for tomorrow. The rules are on the back of the map that you were given when you arrived. Your first task is to get that mop cut off. Do that today. We want all Tesnans to be clean-shaven from the top of your head to the bottom of your neck. Got it?” The man raised his hand to ward off a non-existent objection from Pol. “All of the monks are noble-born. We have learned to submit ourselves to the greater glory of Tesna as we are given glorious instructions on the ordered life.”
“Ordered life?” Pol said, echoing the monk.
“You might have heard of patterns. We use the term order in the monastery. Once you find the order to something, you can re-order it.”
“Re-order is the same as tweaking?” Pol asked.
The monk nodded. “Evidently you have been instructed by some heretic or other. Don’t use those terms here. Understood?”
Pol raised his hand like a pledge. “Understood.” He wouldn’t want to call attention to himself inside the monastery. A flower by any other name was still a flower.
“I know a few spells using order,” Pol said.
“Don’t use any non-sanctioned spells. We don’t encourage show-off acolytes.”
Pol nodded. The monk grunted his acknowledgement and walked out, leaving him in the dark. He spelled a magician’s light. Before he left Deftnis, Val had taught him more about making fire and light. Now he even could create the magician’s fire that he remembered Malden Gastoria using to make his mother’s funeral pyre burn quickly.
Pol tried each bed, wondering if one was any better than the others. One seemed to be less lumpy, so he sat down on that one. The basement didn’t smell too bad, not at all like a jail cell. Perhaps the principle duty of the acolytes was keeping the monastery perfectly clean.
He looked about the room and closed his eyes. He sought to locate those around him. Only a few dots moved on the basement floor, but the next floor up was very active.
He took a deep breath. He had finally reached Tesna, and his mission was about to begin. Val had told him all he had to keep his eyes and ears open and report what he discovered. Pol knew he could do that.
He took off his warm outer clothes, but he would wear something underneath the robe to keep from being scratched to death by the rough wool. The weave looked thicker than it was, and the loose fibers only made the robe’s surface more irritating. He noticed that someone had drawn a triangle on the left side of the robe. Acolytes didn’t even rate a patch. The sandals were about the right size. He had never worn sandals in his life and wondered if his feet might chafe from the rope.
Tesna seemed like a very odd place. He pulled his saddlebags back out of the wardrobe and emptied them on the bed. He folded his clothes, sliding them underneath his bed. As he did so, he found a low, wide, open-topped box. Pol pulled that out and put his clothes in there. He leaned down on his hands and knees and saw similar boxes underneath the beds.
Now dressed like everyone else, Pol made his way up to the ground floor, using his locator skill to find the room the monk described. He hoped he would fit in as he walked into the narrow room. One wall was
covered with papers tacked to the wooden surface.
He began to examine all of them. There were assignments to clean, to wash clothes, to assist in the kitchens, clean the bathrooms, and work in the stables, as well as other duties. It was obvious that everyone had spoken the truth: acolytes were the servants. He wondered if the monastery employed help. Probably just a few, he thought. He couldn’t imagine noble men of any ilk trusting their meals to acolytes.
Pol didn’t mind. He had put in a little time serving before, and he knew that servants were typically ignored. He’d learn more doing menial work than toiling in a classroom learning things he already knew, but he knew there would be time for both.
Nater Grainell’s name didn’t show up yet, but then the monk said he’d be on the lists tomorrow. He wondered how Nater would have handled this stricter environment. Pol couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Nater reduced to tears.
“What’s funny?” another acolyte, a bit older and taller, said as he entered the room.
“It’s ironic,” Pol said. “I left home to become a magician, a role that seemed to be easy, and now I’m doing the work of my servants.”
The acolyte nodded his head. “That’s the same for all of us. You’re new. Your head tells me that.”
“Arrived not more than two hours ago.”
The boy snorted. “Since we all wear the same thing, there are no ranks after your head is shaved. Then you’ll have to go through regular testing.”
“What is the testing?” Pol asked.
“It starts not long after you’ve arrived. No matter how long you’ve been an acolyte, you won’t progress to monk until you pass the tests.”
“When do you learn magic?”
The boy shook his head. “I’ve been here nearly three years and have gone to classes, but I haven’t bloomed yet, so here I am. They like to keep the servant pool as large as possible for as long as possible. That’s fine with me, since I’m better at sweeping than perceiving order.”