The Sleeping God (The Disinherited Prince Series Book 4)

by Guy Antibes

  “What?” Pol said, not knowing what the man referred to.

  “Your woman.”

  “Shira’s not mine to sell,” Pol said.

  “Of course she is. I saw the way she clutched onto you. Forty Pastors.”

  Pastors must have been gold coins. Pol wondered what Shira’s real worth would be, but she wasn’t for sale. The very idea shocked him.

  Shira returned with a green and blue plaid woolen scarf.

  “You’ve a good eye for color,” the man said.

  “I’d like to make yours black,” Shira said. She pulled Pol out of the shop. “The fool didn’t think I could hear him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You would be sorrier if you sold me.” Shira flicked her finger against Pol’s forehead.

  “Ah, but I’d be fifty or sixty Pastors richer,” Pol said.

  “He said forty,” Shira frowned. “Am I worth more?”

  Pol laughed. “We are in South Parsimol. That was his opening bid.” He cringed for her next attack, a kick to his ankle.

  She giggled and put her scarf around her neck. “I am priceless anyway.”

  “No, you’re not. I said you weren’t for sale. There is a difference.” Pol thought the elbow to his ribs was worth the comment.

  ~

  In addition to the gambling, drink must have been involved since Namion, Paki, and Kell had sneaked into their four-person room after Pol had gone to sleep.

  The three of them didn’t eat much at breakfast, which was appropriate, thought Pol, because there wasn’t much good about their morning meal. Namion hardly said a word and didn’t look very happy at all.

  Namion had them on the road before the town became busy. After an hour or so, he became a little more approachable.

  “Where did you get that ridiculous hat?” Namion said.

  “It is from Teriland.”

  “Wessek, actually,” Namion corrected. “Merchants will wear something like that. You might see magicians wearing something similar in other countries, and that includes the monastery where we will stay tonight, except a magician’s hat is usually black.”

  “Black being a magician’s color?”

  “Right,” Namion said. “That is a nice wide brim, though. It looks like it might rain again today, so I might be jealous before we reach Nazer Monastery.”

  “Are there powerful magicians in South Parsimol?” Shira asked.

  Namion shrugged. “Not really. The magicians in this country like mutual protection so they live in enclaves in a town and sometimes build monasteries. Their monasteries are true fortresses.”

  “And they will let us stay the night?” Shira asked.

  “We will see. I’m not so sure about you, come to think of it. I’ve never been there with a woman in tow.”

  “I’m in tow, am I?”

  “It’s merely a figure of speech. All of you are in tow, from my perspective,” Namion said.

  Pol wondered how really true Namion’s statement was. The Seeker generally acted as if they were a burden.

  “The shopkeeper wanted to buy me,” Shira said. “Are women a commodity in South Parsimol?”

  Namion nodded. “Here and Botarra, too. As long as you are escorted there is absolutely nothing to worry about if your companion doesn’t agree to a sale.”

  “Slavery!” Shira made a face.

  “For what it’s worth, a woman does have recourse if she is treated badly. The contract can be rescinded and the man punished if there is proven abuse.”

  Pol thought about that. “But what if the man claims there isn’t any?”

  “That’s what magicians are for in Volian countries. They make sure the truth is told,” Namion said.

  “Stay with me,” Pol said to Shira.

  Shira didn’t look very playful at the moment. “You’ve never had to worry about that, especially now.

  ~~~

  Chapter Six

  ~

  Pol had never seen a fortified building like Nazer Monastery. The towers were squat with wide pancake-shaped roofs. The stones were a light greenish-gray with black mortar. As they rode closer, Pol could sense the patterns of rock and mortar were reinforced with magic, similar to the wards that Shira had showed him at Tesna Monastery months ago.

  “Should I change my features?” Shira asked Namion as they approached the monastery.

  “You can assume a disguise, can’t you?”

  Shira nodded.

  “Then it wouldn’t hurt. Your clothes are mostly from Eastril, so I don’t see it matters one way or another,” Namion said. “I’ve got to introduce us.”

  Pol watched Shira turn back into Shro. She clamped her lips shut from the pain, but then blinked away a few tears and smiled. “No holding hands,” Shira said.

  Pol raised his own. “I won’t. No hitting, flicking, or kicking, okay?”

  Shira as Shro narrowed her eyes. “I can’t guarantee that,” she said as the hooves of the horses in front began to clop on the wooden drawbridge.

  Namion dismounted and disappeared through a door in the massive gate. The gates soon spread apart, and their party rode into a large courtyard, bigger than the one in Deftnis.

  Monks with close-cropped hair watched on in curiosity as Pol’s group were directed to stables.

  “We will groom our own horses,” Namion said. “I told them that four of us are from Deftnis and one from Tesna.” Namion nodded to Shira. I’ve been here often enough that I vouched for our escorts as well. We won’t be here long, but they will expect their hospitality to be paid back in stories. I’m sure you four can oblige?”

  Paki nodded enthusiastically. “I’m a great story-teller.”

  “Just remember, Shira is Shro, right?” Pol said.

  “Of course,” Paki nodded to Shira, “Shro. Your secret is safe with me.”

  Pol could see a fleeting expression of panic on Shira’s face. If Paki said something wrong, Shira’s adventures as a girl would just add to the story, he hoped.

  They settled down in two-person cells. Pol and Shira shared the same one at her insistence. They sat across from each other.

  “You can skip dinner if you wish,” Pol said. “Then we leave this place, and none will be the wiser.”

  Shira’s foot shot forward and connected with Pol’s shin. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  Pol leaned over and rubbed his newest bruise. “It was only a suggestion, meant in good will.”

  “I’ll ‘good will’ you,” Shira said in the lower voice she had always used as Shro, her male persona. “I’ll not hide from anybody.”

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  “You did too ask me, and I rejected your request.” She grimaced, but she didn’t change back from Shro.

  Why did Shira torment him at inopportune times? Pol shook his head. “Very well. You trust Paki more than I do.”

  ~

  The escorts mixed with the monks in the large refectory. Namion, Pol, and his friends sat at a table close to the dais where the leaders sat.

  They had already passed through a meal line and filled their plates with plain food. It smelled good to Pol after a day’s ride. Lamb, rice, and cut-up vegetables in a savory sauce made his mouth water. Women dressed in bright colors, a contrast to the gray-robed monks, served the food and drink. Pol didn’t worry about the water, but still purified his and Shira’s with his magic, lifting the impurities up out of the cups, and letting them flitter to the floor.

  His act caught the eyes of the head monk. Pol didn’t know if he was an abbot or what they called the monk in charge in South Parsimol.

  “A magician in our midst?” the monk said in accented Eastrilian. “Brother Namion said that you were from Deftnis Monastery on Eastril. We know of Deftnis. What rank did you achieve? You couldn’t have been there long.”

  “I wear a gray cord, sir.” Pol replied in Parsimolian, probably just as heavily accented, but Pol wouldn’t be able to tell.

  “A gray? That is amazing. Brot
her Namion, isn’t that your rank?”

  Namion bowed at the question. “It is, sir. Pol is a prodigy. Kell Digbee and Paki Horstel are both novice-ranked magicians.”

  The monk nodded knowingly. “Brother Pol purified his water,” the monk told the others at the head of the table. “I am not offended by your act of caution. Rather, I am humbled that two magicians of great strength grace our meal this evening. And you, Shinkyan, what rank are you?”

  Shira colored at being pointed out. “I was a mere novice at Tesna Monastery in South Salvan.”

  “Ah. I sense a story, do I not?” the monk said. “How did a Shinkyan magician end up with four Deftnis monks?”

  Paki raised his hand. “I know the story!”

  The monk smiled mildly. “I’m sure you do, Brother Paki or Brother Kell, but I want to hear the story from the Shinkyan.”

  “I am called Shro.” Shira bowed to the monk, speaking in Parsimolian.

  “After you have had your fill, we would like to hear your story, if you would. Your Parsimolian accent is unique, and I look forward to hearing it more. Eat up!”

  Dinner’s end came too soon for Pol. Shira hardly said a word.

  “Tell them what we did until we reached Borstall, then I’ll take over,” Pol said.

  “Only if I choose to let you take over,” Shira said.

  Pol bit his lower lip. She sounded tense. “If you choose, of course.” Pol gave her a little bow.

  The monk stood. “Shro? Will you stand and tell us your tale?”

  Pol noticed that the women servers lined up along a wall to hear the story.

  She rose and began her story with being called to the Queen’s chambers in Shinkya. Pol had never heard her experience just before arriving at the Tesnan monastery. She clung to the fiction of her merchant father. Pol knew that was part of her cover story. He was a bit disappointed that he didn’t get an insight into Shinkya, something that he now thought of as a nugget.

  Her voice was interesting in Parsimolian. To him, she sounded more feminine than when she spoke Eastrilian. Paki and Kell muttered to themselves since they understood little of what Shira said.

  Pol could see the monks were enthralled with Shira’s words. Even Namion looked on with a great deal of interest. When she mentioned Pol’s healing skills, the monks turned their heads appraisingly at Pol, but then she continued on, and told them the entire story up to when they fled from Borstall, including Pol’s role in his father’s funeral pyre.

  She bowed to them all and sat down. The monks clapped their hands on the table in appreciation.

  “So we have a mysterious Shinkyan spy and a magician-prince among us,” the head monk said.

  “I was disinherited. Shro made that clear.”

  “Once a prince, always a prince on this continent. And I also see that Shro is a powerful magician in her own right.”

  Pol’s heart fell. They could tell Shro was a female probably better than he could.

  The monk raised his hand. “Fear not. The food that you have eaten, and the linen that you sleep on tonight, were prepared by the wives of our monks, including my own lady. We are a liberal order. Brother Namion doesn’t know that, but it’s true. We often keep our ladies hidden from others. There are social issues that the monastery must observe. However, it is better that you not shed your disguise until you leave,” the monk said. “I am sure that all of us have plenty to do tomorrow. If you would bring your plates and utensils to the food line for our lovely servers, you may return to your cells to rest. Brother Namion informed me that you wanted an early start, so you could enjoy your midday meal in our beloved capital.”

  Pol could detect a trace of sarcasm in the monk’s description of tomorrow’s destination.

  Once in their room, Pol plopped down on his bed. Shira paced from wall to wall in the small room.

  “Did I do wrong?” she said.

  Pol shook his head and took her hand. “Not at all. I enjoyed the story from your perspective. It’s the first time I’ve heard our story start in Shinkya.”

  She colored. “It wasn’t quite the truth.” She didn’t say what wasn’t true.

  “I know, but I’m not going to ask for the correct version. All I know is that you are here with me and our adventure continues.”

  Shira smiled with some relief. “I realized that I’d rather be caught out by the monk than have Paki slip up.”

  Pol couldn’t help but grin. “He really, really wanted to spin a tale, didn’t he?”

  Shira sat down facing Pol and nodded. “Who knows what fable would have come out of his mouth?”

  ~

  They woke to rain pelting onto the tiny window of their cell. Breakfast was so early that few monks joined them in the refectory. Namion had already finished his meal and talked quietly to a few of the escorts.

  “Quite a story,” Namion said, sitting down at their table. “A few monks asked if you were for sale when I first walked in this morning,” he said to Shira.

  “So they protect their wives and girlfriends, but still think of women as chattel,” Shira said.

  Namion shrugged. “A Parsimolian woman would think it a compliment, and in the monk’s eyes, it is. I never really heard your story told from front to back like that. You two went through a lot.”

  Pol nodded. “We did.”

  “I can see why you are together. You are much alike, yet different. That should make for a good match,” Namion said.

  “Match?” Shira eyebrows rose. “We aren’t pledged or anything,” she said defensively.

  “I didn’t say you were, but you two are definitely in a relationship.”

  Pol rolled that over in his mind. “Yes. We are in some kind of relationship.” That earned Pol a pinch. He didn’t have his chainmail shirt on, so it really hurt.

  “I will admit that Pol is mine until further notice.”

  Namion just grinned. “Whatever you say, your Highness.”

  “What?” Shira said, a bit breathlessly.

  “The way you treat Pol. It’s as if he is your love slave, and you are the Queen of Torture.”

  She relaxed a bit. “Yes, yes. He is my slave. I quite agree.” That earned him another pinch.

  Her reaction to the word ‘Highness’ only confirmed to Pol that Shira had to be of noble birth, or what passed for that in Shinkya with its matriarchal society and the early death of men with magical power. He kept his suspicions to himself. The truth might come out at another time, but his side hurt enough for a morning.

  They left without any fanfare. None of the monastery leadership saw them off, and that suited Pol. His put on his new hat and endured more abuse from Paki and Kell. He got the last laugh as the waterproofing and the wide brim offered a surprising amount of protection from the rain.

  “We’ll have to hurry while the roads are passable,” Namion said. “The road is paved closer to Demina.”

  The dreary countryside became more populated once they came to a crossroads. They turned onto a paved highway, built four or five feet above the surrounding area. The horses seemed to move a little faster on the stone surface, and the rain began to wash away the mud that had splattered on them all.

  Their escorts left them at another crossroads. Namion gave them a small heavy bag. Even though they might be associates of Namion in some way, they were paid guards. Pol felt relieved that the men left. He suspected that they would return to their camp in the west and again take up preying on travelers rather than protecting them.

  “The rain is letting up,” Shira said, now looking normal. He hadn’t noticed when she had changed her face, but he hadn’t done much more than concentrate on the road during the miserable morning.

  “Thank goodness,” Kell said. He took off his hat and wrung it. Water dripped down onto his pant leg. He laughed at himself. “I didn’t mean to do that.” He shaped his round hat with a short brim and put it back on his head. Kell had become the most even-tempered of their party on the trip, unless there was gambling invol
ved.

  “Fog ahead,” Namion said. “Gather around me.”

  A bank of grayness swallowed up the road. Pol used his locating senses. “I don’t see anyone ahead of us, but that can change at our current pace.”

  “Locating?” Namion closed his eyes. “You are right. We’ll slow down a bit. Make sure you see the horse ahead of you. I will lead us, and we will travel in single file until the fog lifts, or we arrive in Demina. Pol, you take the rear and pass word if anyone comes from behind.”

  They continued to move at a good pace, thought Pol, considering he could barely make out Namion at the head of their column. His location sense detected a number of riders.

  “A large unit coming quickly from behind!” Pol shouted into the murky air.

  “To the side of the road.” Namion said as he moved the column to the right. He kept them going at a slower pace, so they wouldn’t fall off the elevated roadway.

  Pol heard the clatter of hooves and iron-shod wheels as the sound of riders increased. First a unit of eight or ten soldiers in two columns rode past them, followed in a few minutes by many more riders and a string of carriages.

  The carriages were very ornate and must have carried high-ranking South Parsimolians. Namion had stopped ahead, and the group was forced to remain on the edge of the road. Pol looked down the steep slope to the ground level five or six feet below.

  The clatter lessened, and another, longer double column brought up the rear. In a few moments the fog had dampened all sound, and they were alone on the road again.

  “That was the Pastor of South Parsimol. If I’m not mistaken, the Pontifer of Botarra traveled with him,” Namion called out as they picked up speed.

  “Who is the Pontifer of Botarra?” Paki asked. Pol could barely hear him up ahead.

  “He is the ruler of Botarra. It’s not a good thing for those two to get too close,” Namion said. The Seeker sounded worried.

  ~~~

  Chapter Seven

  ~

  The fog had lifted by the time they reached their destination. Demina sported flat roofs over the guard towers on the city walls, reminiscent of the monastery. The Pastor evidently patrolled the areas closer to the city, since there were many carts, carriages, and other conveyances in line with them to get through Demina’s gates.