Morganne nodded enthusiastically, her face glowing with excitement. Without saying a word, she knelt down by the pile of books, her fingers trembling with anticipation. Gingerly she picked one up and placed it on her lap. She took a moment to relish the feel of the worn binding beneath her fingertips and breathe in the scent of old leather and must. Gently, she wiggled the rusty clasp loose, trying hard not to break it in the process. She opened the cover and turned to the first page of writing. She turned a few more pages before looking up with a crestfallen expression.
Shaking her head with disappointment Morganne confessed, “I should have expected as much. These books are ancient. They are written in the old tongue, which I cannot read. But I can tell you that they are religious books. There are symbols throughout for Aviad, Immar, and Emeth as well as for Varol and different high level prophets. If I may, I would like to go along when these are taken to the monks.”
Morganne sorted through the books, stacking them neatly and looking for any that might be newer. But even the books that seemed the newest were written in the old tongue. As disappointed as she was about not being able to decipher their contents herself, Morganne was still excited that they had been found, and hoped that the monks would share some of the knowledge they contained with her.
“We did bring back one other thing,” Glak said in a forbidding tone. “It is stowed behind the stable, though I am not sure the sight is suitable for innocent eyes.” He glanced in the direction of Morganne and Elowyn who understood that he meant them.
“What is it?” Morganne asked boldly.
“A slain beast. We brought it back in the hopes that we might learn more about what they are and how to defeat them more readily should we encounter them again.”
Elowyn grasped Morganne’s hand and squeezed it tightly. The thought of seeing the dead beast terrified her, and yet she felt compelled to look. There were many reasons to believe that the beasts were, in fact, those of her dream ...their description, their armor and weapons, and the sense Glak had expressed that they seemed not of this world, or this time. Even their smell connected them to the dark forces she had already encountered in the waking world. If these were indeed the beasts of her dream, that meant it had not been an ordinary dream after all, but rather a message, like the one she had experienced the night she slept in the ruined temple. She was not certain which frightened her more; having to look upon the face of a nightmare turned real, or facing the thought that Aviad might have spoken to her once again through her dreams. If He had, what was He trying to tell her?
The dream had been a horrific one, ending with her plummeting off a cliff’s edge. Was it a warning of her eventual fate, or were the events symbolic of something far more profound that she would need to search deep within her heart to uncover? There had been priests at the Temple whose gift it was to interpret prophetic dreams. She had no such gift. For her, the dream was a source of anxiety, a constant burden that she could not shake off, even in the bright of day with the faint warmth of the winter sun caressing her face. She had tried to give it away in the Festival fire along with all the other burdens she had carried with her from Tyroc. Yet its hold refused to release her. She realized that however much she loathed to look upon this new enemy, she must try. It might be her only chance to settle the questions spinning in her mind.
Elowyn gave Morganne a wide-eyed, pleading look. “I am afraid, but I must know,” she whispered in a quivering voice that she could barely control.
Morganne gritted her teeth and nodded. She had no desire to see the gruesome remains of a beast, but understood why Elowyn needed to.
“We would like to see it,” Morganne said firmly.
Glak turned to look at her with complete disbelief. “To what end?” he asked.
“Our reasons are our own,” she replied in an unyielding tone. Something about her expression and posture in that moment reminded Elowyn of their mother.
The room grew silent and there seemed to be nothing more to say. As Morganne expected, none dared to pry further into her affairs by asking more questions. Only Glak raised his rough eyebrows in a perplexed way and issued one final challenge by glancing at Wyman as if for approval. He knew these two newcomers better than any, and they seemed to be in his charge while they remained at the tavern. Wyman nodded in affirmation of his approval and everyone went to grab their cloaks.
Elowyn swallowed hard as she fastened her own cloak about her throat and draped the hood over her face. Her mouth was dry, her palms were sweaty, and her knees shook weakly. She clung to Morganne for support while her heart pounded fiercely in her chest. Even as she fought hard against her own fears, she could not help but notice the intensely curious look Glak tossed in their direction as the group filed out the back door of the tavern. No doubt he was puzzled by their insistence on viewing something so detestable. He felt obligated to shield them from such horrors, and it irritated him that they would not allow him to do so.
Elowyn stepped through the doorway into the brunt of a brutally cold gust of wind. It penetrated her cloak and made her gasp, but the shock somehow steadied her. She trailed behind the men, wading through the deep snow to the back of the stable where the last shield bundle rested. Drifts of snow had nearly buried it and had to be brushed aside before the ropes binding the coverings could be cut away. Morganne held Elowyn’s hand tightly but turned her own gaze away toward the mountain before the covering was pulled off. Even frozen, the rank odor of the beast was not diminished, making everyone moan and gag. Elowyn had squeezed her eyes shut as the beast was uncovered, gathering her courage to take a slow peek. But she quickly realized that the sooner she looked, the sooner she could get away from the smell, which was driving her close to panic once again.
Elowyn squinted one eye open just enough to ascertain where the face was. It was only the face she desired to see and not the carnage of the mauled body. Slowly, she opened her eyes. The rest of the world dissolved away. She did not hear the sounds of the men talking, or feel the cold, or notice any other thing in that moment. Nothing remained but her and the dead, frozen face of the beast lying in the snow. Its leathery, blotchy skin, was the sickly yellow-purple color of an old bruise. The half-open mouth revealed human-like teeth that were blackened and rotting. Fiery-red eyes, like those of the Hounds, seemed to be fixed on her, sending strong chills through her body that had nothing to do with the wind. She knew there was no life behind them and yet every instinct pressed her to fly with all her strength. Worst of all, protruding from its forehead like an ugly scar, was a circular shaped brand with a curved line running through the center. Elowyn’s knees suddenly found their strength. Without even being fully conscious of what she was doing, she wrenched her hand out of Morganne’s grasp and plunged as fast as she could through the snow to the fragile safety of the tavern.
Ashes to Flame
The bells were ringing the hour. Their low, haunting tone resonated out from the lofty stone belfry, breaking the stillness of a cold, gray morning. The streets were empty as Wyman and Morganne attempted to move through them in a small horse drawn cart. They bumped and skidded across crunching snow that had been softened by the sun and re-frozen countless times over. The road was now nothing more than a swath of icy ruts that were nearly impossible to navigate. Morganne did not care how badly she was jostled and hoisted out of her seat, yet she winced each time, concerned only that their fragile load had been secured well enough to absorb the shock. She and Wyman together had agreed to deliver the books the Kinship had brought back from the mountains.
Once they had made it through the main streets of the village, they turned onto the narrow road that led to the sprawling cluster of buildings and fields that made up Minhaven’s small monastic community. On either side of the road lay the open fields where Morganne and Elowyn had walked freely not so long ago. Now they were hidden under a deep ocean of snow that only the wind played in, forming wave shaped drifts and kicking up powdery spray high into the air. There were few tree
s to diminish the force of the wind’s bitter gusts coming inland from the coast. Morganne covered her face with her hood and huddled shivering under her cloak as the cart jolted forward. She was relieved when they finally came to a simple stone building, so plain that she could not tell what its function was.
Wyman helped her out of the cart and guided her inside. At first, Morganne could see nothing but blackness as her eyes had already become accustomed to the glare of daylight against the intense whiteness of the snow. She could hear the slight movements of another presence in the room, but the presence did not speak, and so she waited for her eyes to slowly adjust to the dimness of the light. It took a few moments for her to realize that she was standing in a small chapel.
Several rows of crudely carved wooden benches were laid out between her and a single square table at the front of the room. A plain ceramic chalice rested on top of it. The presence she had heard turned out to be a monk in a rough brown robe, who had just set about filling the chalice as they walked in. A wild mass of curly brown hair peeked out rebelliously from beneath the edges of his hood. He was clean-shaven, with a wide flattened nose and full sensitive lips. His gentle brown eyes were set just slightly too wide apart. He had an interesting, though not unpleasant looking face.
Morganne and Wyman stood in silence while the monk finished the ceremonial task of preparing the altar, kneeling before it and chanting a soft prayer. The chapel had no embellishments and was noticeably stark to Morganne, who was accustomed to the elaborately decorated temple in Tyroc. There were no statues or windows of colored glass, no paintings, wall hangings, or fixtures with candles hanging from the ceiling. The walls were plain and dirt smudged with long cracks and bare patches. Simple iron candle holders had been driven into the undressed wooden beams that supported the structure. Each one held a thick stumpy candle, its once molded form now twisted into knobby shapes by wax drippings. There was no other source of light. And though the building protected them from the unbearable chill of the wind, there was no source of heat. Morganne could see her own breath in the dim light. She suspected that the chapel had very few visitors at this time of the year unless the monks themselves used it.
When the monk had finished praying he rose and came forward with a solemn smile to welcome them.
“Greetings, Jadon,” Wyman said. “I trust you got my message about the books?”
“Aye, we would be pleased to have them,” the monk replied. “But this is no place to house objects of such value. Follow me with your cart and I will show you where they must go.”
Morganne braced herself against the cold as Wyman opened the chapel door and she plunged headlong into the wind once more. The monk helped Wyman guide the horses further down the narrow road, past some larger, more inviting looking buildings whose hearth fires were spewing smoke into the sky. The open fields abruptly ended into rocky hillsides dotted with ancient, swaying pines. Wyman halted before a gate blocking the road, which Jadon opened, allowing them to pass through. Morganne was keenly aware that they were now entering an area where only the monks were typically permitted to go.
To their left were small clusters of cottages connected by walking paths where the monks lived together. Jadon led them past the cottages to a large stone building pressed against the cliff’s edge. Morganne could hear the roar of waves breaking against the sheer coastline below. Wyman tied the horses securely and began to unload the cart, handing Morganne and Jadon a bundle of books each to carry. Before leading Morganne and Wyman inside, Jadon cautioned them that this was an hour of prayer for the monks and asked that they enter the building in silence.
The outer door opened into a small anteroom that was just barely enough for the three of them to squeeze into. The large wooden double doors on the other side of the anteroom spilled them out into a long corridor that stretched to both their left and right down the length of the building. The inner wall of the corridor was not closed off, but was made up of a series of connecting archways that opened onto a large chapel that was the central room of the building. There the monks of the community knelt together in prayer, singing their devotions aloud in a haunting chant that left Morganne’s skin tingling. She longed in that moment to drop her load and kneel with them, but knew that would be strictly forbidden.
Instead, she silently followed Jadon along the corridor until it turned sharply to the right. There were now closed doorways along the wall to her left, but the chapel was still on her right side in full view through the archways. She could not help but watch the monks with a wistful eye, even though she felt a certain amount of guilt doing so. She was an outsider, gazing intently upon a private ceremony not meant for her to watch.
Jadon finally halted before one of the doors and opened it, releasing a rush of stale air that must have been held captive there for quite some time. He ushered them in, lighting a dim lamp and closing the door behind them. Sagging, half-empty wooden shelves lined the back wall of the dismal room. The few books they contained were not in much better shape, some standing up straight, others carelessly tossed on their sides. None of the leather bindings or clasps looked as though they had been oiled in recent memory. In the corner sat a dusty scribe’s table with an inkwell that was conspicuously dry, and the hearth had long been cold. Morganne tried unsuccessfully to mask her disappointment. She bristled protectively at the thought of leaving these most rare and valuable books in the monks’ keeping, as though she was knowingly abandoning them to a neglectful master.
“I’m afraid we don’t have much time for scribing or studying texts here,” Jadon said apologetically in response to Morganne’s dejected expression. “Only a very few of our brothers can read and even fewer know the old language. Even so, this gift you have brought us is a remarkable one. Please express our most sincere gratitude to the Kinship for recovering these sacred texts.”
“What will happen to them?” Morganne asked earnestly.
“I will see what they contain and catalog them. We may have our scribe make copies of any texts that are of particular interest before sending them to other communities in our order that might benefit from the knowledge they contain.” Jadon’s soft-spoken response lacked any sense of urgency, bordering on complete disinterest.
“How long will that take?” Morganne knew that it was not her place to ask such a question and hoped that her boldness would be forgiven, but she felt the need to press this monk into taking the books seriously.
Jadon gave her a look of amused curiosity and said, “It is unusual for a seamstress to take an interest in such mundane monastic chores. Why does it matter to you how long it takes us to catalog a few shelves’ worth of old texts?”
Infuriated by his seeming lack of concern, there were many things Morganne wished she could say in response. But she knew that she must choose her answer carefully, so as not to reveal too much about what she knew or where she had come from.
“I am hoping they contain information about the many strange beasts that have begun to appear here and in other parts of the world, perhaps even tell us how to defeat them. Such knowledge could be useful to the Kinship as they continue their fight.”
“Ah, yes, the Kinship,” Jadon responded guardedly. “Several of the men are still here recovering from their injuries, though they seem loathe to speak of the beasts, even to us. In what way do you think old religious tomes such as these could be of use to warriors fighting beasts of flesh and blood?”
Startled by the question, Morganne hesitated before she answered. Surely this monk did not need to be schooled in the old stories, such as those in Gareth’s primer. Was this a test of some sort? She did not know where this monk’s allegiance might lie. Would he have been ousted from the Temple with Gareth and the others, or would he have taken part with those who were responsible for throwing them out? There was only one way to know.
“There are some,” she said cautiously, “who believe that the sudden emergence of beasts from ancient lore was foretold in prophecy. They also say that th
e beasts’ appearance is an earthly sign of a great spiritual battle being waged between Aviad and the Shadow, possibly the most important battle in more than an age.” Morganne’s words seemed to hang suspended on the air as she held her breath in anticipation of Jadon’s response. She studied his face intently, hoping he would reveal his loyalties in some way.
“Nothing is more likely,” the monk responded in an off-handed way that made Morganne think he must be either completely unaware of the turmoil going on in Tyroc’s temple, or indifferent to it.
“There are many ways in which prophecy and the realm of the spirit reveal themselves to us,” he continued in the soft tone of a master teaching a young and inexperienced apprentice. “Most do not have the eyes to recognize such significant moments in time, even with the guidance of spiritual texts. I doubt that you will find any easy answers within their pages. Even so, I assure you that we will look them over as soon as we can, but right now, we have many displaced villagers in our care. Most came to us with nothing. Some are ill, others injured, and all are hungry twice a day. Their needs are immediate, and we are called by Immar, and by the oaths of our Order, to care for the poor and the weak. When the spring thaw allows our guests to depart, these books will still be here. No doubt they have been buried in the mountain for a very long time. Their secrets will keep a little while longer.”
“Are you not concerned about the danger the beasts may pose to Minhaven?” Morganne pressed. “I heard that they killed all of the villagers at Solis. The poor and the weak were not spared, and neither were the monks. If the beasts are indeed minions of the Shadow, resurrected from the pages of our oldest history, it will take more than arms and armor to save us.”
“Aye,” Jadon finally grew serious. “Someone has taught you well.”
“I once studied under a teacher who had great spiritual wisdom,” Morganne continued. “He told me that knowledge is our greatest weapon against the Shadow Spirits, far greater than the sword could ever be.”
Ancient Voices: Into the Depths Page 8