The Monk's Habit (The Disinherited Prince Series Book 2)

by Guy Antibes

  “He was with me,” Darrol said. “I showed him where Paki was and helped carry the lad all the way from the port. It takes longer getting up the hill.”

  Gorm shook his head, his face looked like carved granite. “You’ll see the Abbot tomorrow, first thing.”

  “C’mon, Gorm. Pol wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

  “Rules are rules,” the monk said, looking defiantly at Darrol.

  Darrol just pressed his lips tightly together and nodded to Pol before he stomped out of the dormitory.

  “Go to sleep,” Gorm said, already heading to his cell.

  Pol couldn’t shake off the feeling of unfairness and glared in Gorm’s direction.

  ~

  Pol shook Paki awake. “Hurry up. We’re to meet the Abbot before breakfast,” Pol said, clutching the message that Gorm had given him. Pol didn’t like the look of satisfaction on the dormitory monk’s face. He had never thought that Gorm disliked him, but that had ended last night.

  “Wha—?” Paki said. He put his hand to his forehead. “I’m not feeling well.”

  “That’s because you got drunk where you shouldn’t have,” Pol said.

  “Where?”

  “Billious? Remember the old man?”

  Paki looked up at Pol, who threw his robe at him. “Put this on and straighten your hair. We have a disciplinary meeting with the Abbot as soon as we can get to his office, and I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  “Why you?”

  “Because Darrol and I fetched you, and we didn’t get back in time. Now I’m in just as much trouble as you are,” Pol said.

  Paki got up and began to stagger to the door. By the time he reached it, he walked normally. Pol followed him all the way to the Abbot’s office.

  The two desks in the clerks’ room were empty. They were probably eating breakfast, Pol thought. He knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” the Abbot said.

  Pol poked his head through the door, and then dragged Paki inside with him. He put his summons on the Abbot’s desk. “We are here as instructed, sir,” Pol said.

  “Sit down, the both of you.” The Abbot said, picking up the notice. “So you both went out to Port Deftnis last night. Is that true, Pakkingail?”

  Paki nodded. It irked Pol that his friend didn’t say a word.

  “Pol?”

  “Monk Gorm told me that Paki was missing just before I went to bed last night. He gave me an hour to find him. I asked Darrol Netherfield to help me, since he knows the monastery grounds better than I do.”

  The Abbot smiled, just a bit. “You mean he knows where young acolytes would likely get into mischief?”

  Pol nodded. “We found Paki asleep at Billious’s place. I don’t know the formal name—”

  “I know it, well enough,” the Abbot said.

  “By the time we returned the hour had passed, and Monk Gorm informed me that we were both subject to disciplinary action.”

  “That’s it?”

  Pol nodded.

  “Pakkingail, do you have anything else to add?”

  “I was asleep through it all, sir.” Paki said, keeping his head down and his eyes on the floor.

  “Gorm will expect punishment. He probably told you rules were not meant to be broken, or something to that effect.”

  “Rules are rules, sir,” Pol said.

  “Well, then let’s not break them. You both will spend Sevenday brushing the muck from the main courtyard. For that, you each will receive a silver hen.”

  “Payment for punishment?” Paki said, his eyes rising to meet the Abbot’s.

  “Don’t tell Gorm you’re both getting paid. Paki, you realize what you did was wrong?”

  “I was with two stable monks. They talked me into going, but it was me that decided to go.”

  “You’ll have plenty of opportunity after your first year. Don’t go without permission. We do allow first year acolytes occasional trips to Port Deftnis and Mancus, as well… in the daylight.”

  Paki nodded.

  The Abbot stood. “I’m famished. Let us walk to the commissary together.”

  Pol rose faster than Paki, who seemed to still feel the effects of his actions the previous night.

  They entered the commissary. Pol and Paki hurried to the food line, and the Abbot proceeded to sit at the high table to be waited on.

  “What was that all about?” asked one of the other acolytes standing in front of them in line.

  Paki groaned. “We were disciplined.” He made a sorrowful face and kept it that way midway through the line.

  Pol was just happy he wouldn’t be put into a dungeon cell or expelled. Now he knew their infraction wasn’t as serious as Gorm made it out to be.

  They sat down, and Darrol joined them.

  “We have to muck the courtyard on Sevenday,” Paki said.

  Darrol winced. “Not a nice job, but it could be worse, and you escaped physical punishment.”

  “Physical punishment?” Paki parroted.

  Their friend nodded. “The maximum would be twenty strikes with a cane, but there are worse things than being caught late.”

  “But I was drunk,” Paki said.

  “So?” Darrol said. “Being drunk and sleeping isn’t a violation of any Deftnis oath. If you caused damage, that would be a different story, but you didn’t hurt anyone but yourself.”

  “It isn’t fair to Pol.”

  Pol felt Paki’s eyes on him and he looked up from his food. “I don’t care. If it keeps Gorm off of me, I’m okay,” Pol said.

  Darrol nodded. “The Abbot doesn’t want to overrule the dormitory monk very often. Gorm is a special case.”

  “He isn’t a real monk?”

  Darrol shrugged. “He’s a real monk because the Abbot made him one, but he has an unfortunate history. I’ll leave it at that. Don’t blame him for who he is.”

  That was an interesting revelation, Pol thought. He had tried to develop a pattern for Gorm, but his behavior didn’t quite match up. If Gorm had a history, perhaps there was more to the monk than what Pol could discern. Now he was a bit confused. Perhaps he was too hasty in assembling a pattern. The concept of improper patterns was significant. He would bring it up with Vactor, his magic tutor.

  Pol was attentive enough in his Seeking class, and with Master Akonai he methodically took notes, but he couldn’t wait for his magic lessons.

  He arrived early in the classroom to find Vactor alone.

  “It’s just you. Sakwill and Coram are practicing with pattern-masters today, trying to pick up the anticipation magic that you tried to teach them. Did you want to join in?”

  Pol would have under other circumstances, but not today. He hadn’t been able to thoroughly test his new endurance. He had been to the healers weekly, but he still felt like his strength wasn’t near to normal.

  “I have some questions about patterns.”

  Vactor smiled. “Good. It’s always good to talk about patterns. It’s what makes a good magician great. Go ahead.”

  Pol told him about his adventure the previous night, and the Abbot’s judgment. He trusted Vactor enough to tell him the Abbot would pay.

  Vactor chuckled and shook his head. “Gorm.”

  “It’s Gorm’s pattern that I wanted to talk about. I thought I understood him. I had a pattern crafted that might have worked, but Darrol said that Gorm had a background.”

  “And what does having a ‘background’ have to do with his pattern?”

  “Maybe nothing, maybe a lot,” Pol said. “What happens if a magician senses a pattern and tweaks without fully understanding it? I know if you apply too much or too little force, you won’t get what you expect.”

  Vactor nodded. “Malden told you that magicians don’t bother to tweak most patterns?”

  “Something similar. He said that he rarely tweaked patterns, but he saw patterns everywhere, and he often didn’t need to tweak them.”

  “Part of the reason is what you discovered today. Twe
ak a poorly understood pattern, with magic or influence or physical force or whatever, and you probably won’t get the expected results. Magic is not omnipotence. Magicians aren’t gods. They can make serious mistakes that backfire.”

  “So that’s why Malden said that battle magicians are useless? I thought it was because of the unpredictability of a conflict.”

  “You answered your question. Malden is correct. What is the uncertainty of war, but a pattern not understood or not static enough to reliably tweak?”

  Pol sat back. “Oh. I thought it had to do with changing conditions. It does, but now I know why.”

  “It’s good that you do.”

  “Then why does Deftnis send out pattern-masters?”

  Vactor leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table. “Because they are taught to restrict their actions to what they see. Anticipation magic doesn’t make a swordsman unbeatable, but it helps well enough. It only works with a few opponents at a time. The more variables there are to anticipate, the harder it is to use.”

  Pol figured out how that could be true. “I used location magic in a fight in Tarida to place my knife throws. I sensed more than just one person, and I was successful.”

  “I read about that. Val reported on that fight. It showed us that you can think very quickly, but what if there were twice the number?”

  ‘Oh, I see.” Pol thought about his health. “I’m physically stronger than I was. Will that make me fight better?”

  “Fight, yes. Anticipate? No. Pattern-masters need physical prowess, but their magic is based on quick thoughts and quick reactions, not strength. Magic augments what is already there. Personal patterns are a different thing. One doesn’t try to manipulate a personal pattern without understanding the consequences.”

  Pol nodded. The answer meant Pol had to be very careful when he developed personal patterns. He now realized that he didn’t know enough about people to make an accurate pattern.

  “Shall we test how strong you are?” Vactor stood and walked away from the table.

  “Move me about four feet in the air and turn my body around.”

  Finally, a test of his strength, Pol thought. He stood in front of Vactor and lifted him so that he looked at his face quite a ways up. Pol could feel the strain on his body. The next step involved turning Vactor, and he was able to get Vactor swiveled three-quarters around before his heart began to beat hard. He lowered Vactor while he still retained a bit of strength and staggered back to his seat.

  Pol hunched over, struggling for breath, clutching the edges of the chair to stay upright.

  “Better,” Vactor said, walking over and putting his hand lightly on Pol’s shoulder. “When you came here a month ago, you would have been out cold, wouldn’t you?”

  Pol couldn’t speak, but he nodded his head. Vactor let him breathe for a bit. Pol’s heart settled down.

  “I’m not cured.”

  Vactor shook his head. “No, but you’re not dead, are you?”

  “I still could die before I’m an adult,” Pol said. All the anxiety that he thought put away for good assaulted him again.

  “You won’t,” Vactor said. “I have faith that you will find a way.”

  Pol didn’t know what Vactor meant by that, but Pol didn’t disagree with him. He didn’t want to end up dying early like the father he had never known.

  ~~~

  Chapter Six

  ~

  FALL HAD ORDERED THE TREES TO DROP THEIR LEAVES, although on Deftnis Isle, the weather was mild enough so many plants didn’t go dormant, and that kept the island green. His Seeker class stopped when Jonness was called away from the monastery. No one mentioned the reason, but the assistant monks decided it was a good opportunity to teach horsemanship.

  Pol found out that most acolytes did not have their own horse, but the monastery had large stables. Pol had only been able to get bits and snatches of time to ride his Shinkyan horse. He knew the horse needed a name, and he finally came up with one. Pol remembered the Sleeping God had a name, Demeron, or something similar to that. He decided that Demeron, a god’s name, was worthy of his mount.

  The acolytes rode out the stable gate. Pol looked up as he passed underneath the door and spotted a portcullis hanging within the stone wall of the monastery. He couldn’t imagine anyone invading Deftnis, but someone designed it as a fortress, with every gate defensible.

  Paki slipped by his side. “What do you think we are going to learn?”

  “Maybe we will learn how scouts take care of their mounts or how to ride in cavalry formation.” Pol didn’t know and didn’t care. All he knew was that he enjoyed being on Demeron’s back for more than the few minutes he usually had to exercise his horse. He told Paki about the naming.

  Paki laughed. “Trust you to come up with something so obscure.” Paki had to look up at Pol sitting on the tall mount.

  “I look down on you from my heavenly perch,” Pol said, trying to make his voice sound low. He noticed that Paki’s voice had begun to change.

  “One of the Six Hells is more like it,” Kell said from behind him. “My father told me that Shinkyan horses were devils.”

  “Jealous?” Paki said.

  “Of something so evil?” Kell shook his head. Pol noticed that Kell rode his own horse, and it looked quite handsome. “Where does someone like you get something like that?”

  “Pol grew up as a prince,” Paki said.

  That brought a scowl to Pol’s face, and he nudged his riding crop into Paki’s ribs.

  “Right,” Kell said.

  “I was a prince,” Pol said. Now that Paki had brought it up, Pol didn’t want it discussed again. “I was disinherited.”

  “You were?” Kell’s face looked a bit uncertain until he thought about it. “Both of you are pulling my leg. I can’t believe you. Prince of what?”

  “A country I’d rather not mention,” Pol said. “My mother died, and I was not liked in the castle, so I petitioned for disinheritance.”

  “You volunteered?” Kell said in disbelief.

  “I didn’t want to be assassinated. That’s why I came here.” Pol turned back to the column of horses.

  “A fairy tale.” Kell paused. ‘That’s how you claim you got your horse? I guess that’s a story to cover the fact that you stole it.”

  Pol didn’t turn around. He didn’t like Kell, or his accusations, or his disbelief. He continued to ignore his insults until they reached a turf plain on the far side of the island. The ground didn’t look like it would be very fertile, but what did Pol know.

  The two monks who accompanied the eighteen acolytes made them line up into two rows of ten. One of the monks stood in his stirrups and addressed the group.

  “We will split into two groups. Those who are magicians go into my group on the left and those who aren’t go to the right.”

  Paki and Pol headed left. Pol was relieved to see Kell mill around, but he ended up on the right.

  “The others will learn how to ride using their knees to guide their horse. We will do that as well, but I’ll also teach you some basic ways to guide your horse using magic. Have any of you ever tried?”

  Pol raised his hand. “My horse bolted, not this one, and I stopped it by thickening the air in front of it.”

  “Never heard of that before.” The monk wore a purple cord, tying up his robe, and that meant he rated a Level Five, two levels above Pol.

  “I hadn’t either, but I had to stop the horse, or else.”

  The monk nodded in agreement. “I’ve experienced ‘or else’. Horses are sensitive to magic, so most of them can be ‘nudged’ by simple spells. I’ll teach you the spells, and you are to tell your magic masters what they are. Except you.” The monk looked at Pol. “You’re the only Third Level here, so Vactor will assume you can do this.”

  Pol looked around, and the rest of the riders were First or Second Level magicians. He felt a little embarrassed by being pointed out, so he just nodded and kept quiet while the monk expl
ained how to tweak a simple pattern projected towards the horse.

  The large meadow became dotted with acolytes trying to guide their horses. Pol found the spell ridiculously easy, and Demeron followed his commands without fail. He leaned over and slapped the horse’s head when he meant to pat it.

  Not too hard.

  What was that, a voice in his head? He withdrew his hand and looked at it. Pol reached over again and patted Demeron’s head more gently.

  Better.

  Pol looked at his horse. “Are you talking to me?”

  Who else?

  No one had told him that horses could talk back.

  “Do you know who I am?” Pol said.

  My rider, Pol Cissert.

  “I named you. Do you accept the name Demeron?”

  Why did you name me that?

  Pol told him.

  That sounds like a name I can accept.

  “What do you call yourself?”

  Horse. No one named me after I became thoughtful.

  So Demeron had come to him before he could think. He let the implications of a thinking horse soak into him.

  “Do I treat you well?”

  Good enough. I am fed. You exercise me. I get bored, but I can learn by listening in the stable.

  A talking horse. No wonder Kell’s father might have thought the Shinkyan horses were devil horses if magicians could talk to them. Pol knew about superstitions, and Kell’s mention of the Six Hells told him that Kell was probably from Fen or Vento. There was a religion prevalent in the adjoining countries that preached the Six Heavens and the Six Hells.

  Pol laughed to himself. He had never thought that his summer assignment of learning about the religions of the world would help him.

  “Can you listen to me think?” Pol said.

  A bit. I don’t know what you thought about just now. I’m not very learned.

  “So I’ll have to be careful thinking around you?”

  I don’t think so. If you don’t have me on your mind, I won’t hear you in my mine.

  That made sense to Pol, since he couldn’t hear anything that Demeron didn’t specifically direct his way.

  “Why didn’t you know to communicate with me sooner?”

  You didn’t think of me and use your power at the same time. I thought you didn’t have any, but I’m happy that you do. You will teach me more?