She looked around them at the empty corridor, fear creeping in at the edges of her thoughts again. No one stood between them and the doors. She was sure she could lift the bar in a trice, and they could be away. Maybe taking the time to seek out the abbey had been a mistake. They could be at Windale just after nightfall if they pressed on. Then again, with no word from Kerrick since he’d returned to his father’s lands and no idea what that might portend, it were better to find some help for her father first. Without him… They had already lost so much. She simply would not consider the possibility of having to carry on this fight without him.
A slender shadow appeared at the far end of the corridor and paused for a moment, evaluating, scrutinizing.
“Hush, Father,” she whispered, shivering slightly even beneath her heavy cloak, brushing a hand lightly over the familiar hilt of her sword. “All will be well.”
Presently, the shadow resumed its course and approached them without any wasted motion. As his face came into the light, Renda recognized the hardened Bremondine abbot who yearly brought his barefoot monks down through the snows to Belen to celebrate the Feast of Bilkar. They would have had their celebration tomorrow. But there could be no celebration this year, not now.
She looked at the priest carefully, watching the cold efficiency of his step, the absolute focus in his gaze. She was always taken with how young he looked for an abbot, having only a wisp or two of gray mingled with the rest of his long, dark brown hair, and a few faint lines around his dark eyes that betrayed his tendency to smile. But that he was a Bremondine, she might have thought him closer to her age than her father’s. As it was, he might have as much as a century on them both. She squinted slightly to see his aura, which was a perfectly brilliant cascade of ice blue tight about his features that not the slightest bit of his god’s energy might be wasted. No sign of corruption. It was another good sign, but still, she would be cautious. She bowed slightly. “Abbot Laniel, on behalf of my father and myself, I thank you for taking us in.”
“My Lord Sheriff, Lady Renda,” he smiled in return and offered his hand to her, which was surprisingly warm in the cool air of the abbey. He looked them both over as he spoke. “We hope you have found challenge in your path this morning.”
“Challenge, indeed, my Lord Abbot…” She almost choked on the ritual words, remembering the events in the glade, “for which we are most grateful.”
“Then it is already a good day,” he replied with a smile. “As to taking you in,” he added, “We of Bilkar owe too much to the House of Brannagh ever to repay, yet by your grace, this debt is not made uncomfortable. Rest assured, we of Bilkar would never turn away those of Brannagh.”
“For which we are twice grateful.”
Even as she spoke to him, she watched his attention focus in that curious Bilkarian way on Daerwin’s injury as if the rest of the world, including her, had vanished from his thoughts.
After a moment, his steady focused gaze rose from the sheriff’s arm. “This injury is not what it seems.” He bowed. “You bring us challenge and we thank you. Come.”
He led them further into the abbey, past a large hall which, had she not looked, she would never have known was their training area, so silent were the monks in their sparring. So different, she mused, from the way her knights trained. The practice chamber at Brannagh was almost always brightly aclang with the clatter of swords, discussions and even banter between those sparring. Her knights… She shut out the memory.
Beyond the practice area was a room with a few simple but well constructed beds and chairs. Along the sides were cabinets with bottles, bandages and instruments neatly organized and labeled. Daylight streamed in through the almost transparent hide-covered windows above, chasing every shadow from the room.
“Our surgery,” said the abbot. “He should be comfortable here.”
Renda settled her father on one of the high beds. “My Lord Abbot, would it help you to know how this happened?”
“Yes,” he replied, gathering supplies from the shelves to bring to the sheriff’s bedside.
She nodded and drew up a chair beside her father’s bed. “Well,” she began, then stopped, scratching her head. Where to begin? The plague? Pegrine’s death? Cilder? Or just the morning’s strange battle in the glade?
“Do not trouble yourself, Lady Renda,” he said softly. He took a vial from the crate next to him and waved it under the sheriff’s nose. Instantly, the sheriff fell asleep. “We will look into the wound itself to see what happened and, more importantly, what continues to happen.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
He touched the sheriff’s arm and looked intently at the wound.
After a moment, the Bilkarian wiped the sweat from his brow, rubbing absently at his own arm, as if he had taken Daerwin’s pain to himself. “We had no idea… But you saw victory in the glade, and for that we are grateful.”
“Only a small victory, I’m afraid. At great cost.” Renda’s voice broke, and she looked away.
“So we saw. Our condolences.” The abbot examined the peripheral burns on the skin, the burned muscle and sinew. “We see a strange energy lodged in the bone like molten steel. You see, just there. It burns faster than the flesh can heal. It tries to burn into the very bone itself. We cannot dislodge it readily, but we can perhaps weaken it.” He ran his finger through the remains of the gooey salve on the sheriff’s arm and sniffed it. “No, this is incorrect,” he said at last. “It does no harm, but neither does it much good. A shame. The Dhanani have lost so much…”
She jumped at his words. “What did you say?”
He looked up in alarm, as if he had forgotten her presence completely. “Forgive us. We spoke unnecessarily.” He took a cloth and began wiping the remaining salve away from Daerwin’s wounds as gently as he could.
“Perhaps,” she said, suspicion lending an edge to her voice, “but I would know what you meant. An old Dhanani god fought against us in the glade.”
“Aye, we saw as much when we read his wound.”
“And this is His cardinal’s handiwork. Very powerful handiwork of a type we’ve never encountered before.”
“Aye, so we see.”
“Ancient Dhanani…”
He looked down uneasily. “Aye.”
“So when you say the Dhanani have lost so much…”
The abbot looked up at her. “We…know of this kind of power,” he said, returning his focus to the wound itself, “but never did we think to see it ourself.” The mix of reverence and fear in his voice worried her, as did his evasive tone. “We shall try to explain as we can,” he said, continuing his ministrations. He held up the cloth with which he had wiped away the salve. “This ointment is also Dhanani––it seems to us the crafting of their shaman, Aidan, pure and well made. It is created of the same power that raised the cardinal’s shield, much as a child’s primer is created of the same letters as a master’s poem. But they are by no means alike. This salve is crude and primitive, by comparison. It serves well as a general purpose analgesic and antiseptic, good for bites and poison nettles, even minor wounds, but against this type of injury, it is weak.” He nearly spat the word. “As useless as a mother’s kiss.”
She marked how deftly he changed the subject to avoid discussing how he knew of the ancient Dhanani power, but she dared not confront him or he might refuse to treat her father at all. At least he understood the wound and what had caused it, which was more than she had any right to expect. “You have a better means to treat it, then?”
Laniel took a crate of vials and instruments as well as a stack of clean cloths and gauze from a nearby cabinet and brought it to the table. “We have stronger analgesics and antiseptics. These and rest are what he needs most.”
She stood and paced across the room. She found it hard to conceal her impatience. “Laniel, you’ve seen for yourself. What caused this wound is a very dangerous and powerful business, and I am fairly certain that we did not defeat it. We lose ground against
it every moment we waste here.” She looked around at the walls like a caged animal. “We must not stay. We must rejoin the fight. We have no time for dabbing his brow with wet cloths and feeding him broth. We must have him healed at once or all is lost!” She did not like the sound of panic in her voice. “I must know, have you a more direct means to combat this or no?”
Anger crept into Laniel’s voice. “You followers of the other gods become so spoiled by Their wasteful displays of power, and so peevish when that power is no longer at your beck and call. Are They your gods or your servants?” He angrily bit at the edge of a strip of Bremondine silk to tear it. “A wonder, it is, that your weak bodies even remember how to heal themselves, what with the constant intervention of your gods ere you so much as sneeze! Bodies as weak as your minds!”
Weak. The word struck a warning in her mind. In the sudden ringing silence, Renda only stared at him. She knew she must have sounded like an ungrateful brat even as the words left her lips, but she could not help herself. The abbot’s anger was surely justified. “My Lord Abbot, please forgive me. I should not have––”
But Laniel’s anger was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “These simple treatments, the dabbing of his brow and the feeding of broth, as you say, are all we of Bilkar have to bolster his own ability to heal. Were the wound of any other type, it would be more than enough, but in this case…” He dabbed the silk into a mixture of herbs and oils and twisted it into a thin strip. Then he laid it into the burn on the sheriff’s arm. It seemed to melt into the wound, just as it always had on the battlefield. Instantly, the edges of Daerwin’s flesh started wrapping itself around the silk, bonding to it and extending across it, as they should. The wound appeared to be knitting itself together, using the silk as a lattice. But as the silk was drawn deeper into the wound, suddenly it burned away as if it had touched the cardinal’s shield itself, leaving the wound as raw and oozing as before. The sheriff groaned softly in his sleep.
Laniel squeezed another dose of something Renda did not recognize deep into the wound before binding Daerwin’s arm loosely with gauze. “It is as you see. Nor do we believe any other priest has any means of treating it more effectively than we, considering the nature of the wound. I’faith, another god’s priest might even feed it by invoking the power of his god against it. This is…not like other injuries. You may not believe it, but you chose wisely, coming to us.”
Renda nodded, grateful for his gracious acceptance of her contrition. “Thank you. Truly. And for your care of my father, I am in your debt. But what of this wound? Will he lose the use of his arm?”
Laniel scowled at the arm, considering. “We think most likely not. We must watch how the wound heals, of course. How long it lasts depends on many things, but we marked how the silk burned away. The fire seems to weaken. We should not expect it to burn for more than another day or two, not unless the wound is renewed, but that two days’ burn could irreversibly damage his arm if we do not mind it closely. For this reason, you and your father should stay. By morning, we should know more.”
“Morning?” She blew out a frustrated breath and counseled herself to calm. She had already angered Laniel once with her impatience. “We had planned to go to Windale to gather Ker––the Viscount and the knights with him.”
Laniel nodded. “Most wise. Where do you go from there?”
She stopped short, slightly surprised at his question. Her meaning was that they were not at leisure to linger and that they needed to be away. It was not an invitation to discuss their plans. She considered carefully. She had seen nothing to make her suspicious of him in the way she’d been suspicious of Valmerous. But why would he ask where they were going? She looked around at the doors to the surgery.
“We are quite alone,” he said, lowering his voice. “The monks are finishing their morning chores and preparing for the meal. We understand your fear, but we serve only Bilkar. We would know your plan that we may help find efficient answer to your concerns. Upon my word as Laniel, six hundred seven and twentieth Abbot of Bilkar on Syon.”
She looked up at him in surprise. Bilkarians did not offer such oaths lightly. Then again, she thought of Cilder and of Valmerous. What oaths had they offered in their bound gods’ names while serving Xorden?
No. She could drive herself mad second guessing herself at every turn. Her instincts had brought her here, and they had told her to trust Laniel. She only hoped they would not betray her.
“My father told me ere we left the castle that, regardless of the outcome against Valmerous, any of us that survive must achieve the coast and make our way to Byrandia.”
“Byrandia! We envy you this challenge! Did he say why?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “He did not share the meat of his thoughts with me ere he was injured, and he has not been able to speak much since. He did say something of a prophecy, but nothing of substance.”
Laniel shook his head and smiled.
“We of Bilkar do not partake of prophecies or predestination. Bilkar holds Man accountable for his choices, a thing impossible if Man has none.”
Part of her envied the terrible freedom and responsibility that went with such a philosophy. But as the war hero bound by prophecy, she had ended the Five Hundred Years War, as foretold. She had no choice but to believe in prophecy and by extension predestination.
But then, until now, she had not considered that if she was indeed bound by the prophecy, then all her choices, her strategies, her heroic deeds, everything she had done to win the war had meant nothing. She might as well have stood afield naked and unarmed. She would still have lived. She would still have won. She was never free to fail, and so she was not accountable for the success.
She felt dizzy at this realization, dangerously so, as if she stood at the edge of a great dark chasm and teetered at its brink.
No.
The prophecy said a hero would come and end the war, but it had not protected her, and it had not dictated her actions. She had chosen her actions at every point. The potential for failure had been real, the potential for death had been real. If she had failed at any point, if she had been killed, then she would not have been its fulfillment, and the world would have waited for its real hero. That answer felt hollow to her and unsatisfying, but she could not say precisely why. Regardless, a new battle was joined, and she could not be distracted with self pity.
“For this reason,” Laniel continued, “at the God’s Rebellion, B’radik did not grace us with a portion of Her prophecy.” He looked at her sadly. “We fear we will not be much use to you in understanding.”
“I understand.” She sighed, turning her thoughts back to her father. “Besides, for all of me, it could be just fever dreams and nonsense. For the moment, I choose not to dwell on what little he said––”
…Guardian last…witcher son…prophecy…coming, banishèd…
“—lest I draw a false conclusion,” she said, willing the words from her mind. “Nevertheless, from his tone, I very much have a sense of urgency about reaching the coast. So while I understand that it would be best for us to stay here until he is healed…”
Laniel rose to his feet. “You do not wish to lose the time. Understood. But be at peace. We of Bilkar will save you time and care for your father. Consider, Lady. Your goal is a port to the east––Brannford is closer than Pyran, so even a bit south? Windale takes you out of your way north and west a day’s ride at least.”
“Aye, it does,” she agreed. “But we must have those knights. We lost so many at Brannagh.” Her voice nearly broke again with the memory, and she took a deep breath.
“We will send messengers to summon Windale to you here. It approaches noon now, so they should reach Windale by sunset. Windale will arm and provision his people tonight and they can make their ways here in the morning. We can use that time to tend your father’s wounds and care for your horses, one of whom is nearly lame with exhaustion. You will be able to rest and gather your wits for the coming journey,
and from here, you can go directly to Brannford.” He seemed rather pleased with himself. “This is the most efficient path, praise Bilkar.”
Laniel might still be in service to Xorden for all she knew. If so, allowing him this delay kept him off his guard and let him believe he had fooled her. It might buy them enough time for the sheriff to heal at least a little ere Xorden could spring His attack, which He would certainly launch immediately were she to refuse. If Laniel was completely honest, if Windale’s men actually did arrive in the morning as promised, then the slight delay would indeed save them a day’s ride. Still, she would be watchful tonight.
“With your permission?”
She looked at her father who was sleeping peacefully and smiled to Laniel. “With our gratitude, Abbot.”
Four
The foothills of the Fraugham Mountains, East of Graymonde
The Dhanani drew his white horse up at the crossroads, feeling fatigue, terror, and confusion rippling through the animal’s muscles. Since the night he stole the horse from a hitching post outside a roadside tavern on his way to Castle Brannagh so very long ago, he’d only seen it the way his father had seen him, always failing, always disappointing. Then again, before Chul had taken him from the post outside the tavern in Farras, he had been a blacksmith’s horse, and for all that he was still young, he’d grown used to no more than carrying his old master at a gentle pace from his home to the tavern and back again each night, with grazing between. No wonder, then, that he spent so much of his time with Chul baffled and winded, and for the first time, the boy reached a gentle hand down to stroke the horse’s lathered shoulder. He was not the only one who had been frightened and bewildered last night.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I have failed you. But stay a while, and I will make you the finest Dhanani warhorse the world has ever seen, and you will finally earn a name for yourself. I promise.”
Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) Page 6