“Braeden justifies this arranged union first by the woman’s lineage and wealth in her own country, and second by saying that through her, he can bring new and much needed resources into Tyroc. He plans to tell the people that this will help stay the present catastrophe and keep it from spreading further, without placing an extraordinary burden on the rest of the realm. In the meantime, he has asked for a renewed pledge of support from every fiefdom under the authority of the Sovereign.
“We are to send not only an increased percentage of our harvests, but also our ore, and if need be, our fighting men. He promises rich rewards to those who will reaffirm their oaths and willingly make such small sacrifices for the good of the entire realm. And though there is an underlying sense of mistrust among many of the lords, how can any of us reasonably refuse such a request? It is not in anyone’s best interest that Tyroc fall into violence and chaos.”
“He has made similar requests of many monastic communities, particularly those in the west,” another man, named Kestrel interjected. He was older, with a graying beard, but in his younger years he had belonged to a group of knights from the west that had once served the line of Varol.
“Before Braeden went to the Temple in Tyroc, he was schooled under the abbot in Yewslea. He has some powerful allies there on whom he can call in favors when needed. The Temple priests and monks are largely from the Order of Aviad. They are academics and scholars, unaccustomed to the dirty work of ministering to the sick and the desperate. They have sequestered themselves into the Temple behind a wall of guards, poised to protect the treasures housed within from would-be looters. Though the abbey itself is also aligned with the Order of Aviad, its proximity to Emeth’s Shrine has made it advantageous to form close ties with the Order of Emeth, and a few fragile ties to the Order of Immar as well.
“Both of those monastic orders are far more accustomed to mixing in among the people, and are indeed called to do so by their own vows. Braeden is using his influence at the abbey to bring them together for the charitable cause of dealing with the poor and the sick in Tyroc. The monks will travel in small groups to Yewslea and Port’s Keep, where they can be brought into Tyroc by ship and avoid the dangers of the creatures surrounding the city. Both orders have also been promised rich rewards if they comply with his requests.”
“And what if they don’t?” asked a burly looking man sitting at the end of the table. His arms were folded across his chest and his brows were furrowed suspiciously. He had a thick brown beard and a battle-hardened demeanor.
“That is the question on all our minds, Hallan,” Fenrich replied. “Braeden’s promises to each of the lords were veiled with threatening undertones that did not escape our awareness. I know of two fiefdoms in particular that are going to struggle mightily under the weight of these new mandates. They are facing their own hardships and cannot spare the resources Braeden is demanding of them. Whether or not they reaffirm their oaths to the detriment of their own people, and what will become of them if they do not, remains to be seen. You can be certain that I and the other lords are watching the situation very carefully. We also wonder what will be demanded of cities like Minhaven, which are under the Sovereign’s direct authority and not part of a fiefdom.”
“Nothing beyond the standard tax has been asked of us yet, but I suspect it will come in time,” Glak answered grimly. “Have the creatures around Tyroc been sighted anywhere else?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” Tervaise replied. “But their number seems to be growing, and there are other strange creatures emerging from places like the Deep Woods, the ancient crypts, and the western mountains. Deep Lake still lies in ruin because the people there cannot seem to hold back the trolls, which continue to attack. They have pleaded with Braeden for help, but his only help has come in the form of advice—to abandon Deep Lake and seek refuge in a stronger place like Port’s Keep where so many have already gone.”
“Wyverns have been seen circling over the Midlands...” Hallan began.
“What?” Kestrel interrupted, his expression filled with horror and disbelief. “That’s not possible.”
“I would have said the same,” Hallan replied. “Yet there have been so many sightings that my lord is sending out a group of knights to find their lair and determine how many there are.”
“This is by far the worst news we have yet heard,” Kestrel said. “In all the old stories, the wyverns were tools of the enemy, used to destroy entire villages and lay crop fields to waste. They were particularly destructive in the west—it is not by chance that the region around Emeth’s Shrine has never regained the vitality it once had in Varol’s day. Their name alone strikes a paralyzing fear in the hearts of my brethren there, for arrows and spears glance lightly off their tough hides and no man since Varol has dared to stand against one with sword and shield. Only by the power of Varol’s staff were their kind finally vanquished. But the staff was broken and its remnants lost long ago. Without it we have little hope of stemming a resurgence of such beasts. And if the wyverns were not utterly destroyed, as we have thought all this time, where have they been hiding?”
“And what other horrors from the past have been hiding with them?” Fenrich asked.
The room grew quiet as each pondered the answer to this question and tried to grasp the full ramifications of this new development.
“Perhaps I should pay more attention to the traveling monks,” Fenrich continued. “To be honest, I have largely disregarded their message until now due to all the problems they cause in the villages. They have haunted the markets, the village greens, the community wells...proclaiming loudly that Alazoth has been released and that an impending darkness will soon overtake the world if men will not rise up to fight him. At times they have come close to inciting riots and have had to be forcibly removed. Until now, I thought they were merely a half-crazed group of zealots. We’ve certainly seen such groups before—spreading fear to serve their own purposes, their predictions of doom coming to naught. But maybe these monks are different and they know something the rest of us do not.”
“If the monks you speak of are from the Guardians of the Ancients, I can tell you they are well-respected in my region,” Kestrel said. “And though the abbot and the Temple have tried of late to discredit them, I can tell you that the monks at the abbey support them, and their followers are increasing by the day.”
“What they say is true,” Morganne suddenly spoke out with confidence.
“How do you know this?” Hallan asked.
“First, because they attest to events that I have witnessed with my own eyes; second because their words echo the tomes of the Prophets. What better authority do we have against which to judge their truthfulness?”
“Glak told us that you have been translating the tomes from the mountains. Most remarkable,” Fenrich said. “Do you know yet who placed them there?”
“I found a brief notation from one of the scribes saying that the Prophets themselves, knowing that their days were ending, carved out the small room and placed the tomes inside in an attempt to preserve them. They passed on knowledge of its location to a small group of monks who, years later, founded the Guardians of the Ancients. Even before the Great War ended, these monks had the foresight to gather and protect vast collections of tomes and relics that the Prophets were leaving behind.
“The group of tomes the Kinship found was just one of many that the Guardians knew about and continued to safeguard from the enemy throughout the remainder of the war. In their day, these mountains were a safe haven—a sacred and holy place that few had the resources or endurance to reach. The beasts had not yet come here, and no one thought that anything could defile what they called “Aviad’s Mountain” even should they try. But something must have gone wrong...something that they either did not anticipate or could not stop, and men had to fight to keep this region out of the enemy’s grasp.”
“Aye,” Kestrel interjected. “Varol’s order knows that part of the history well enough to m
ourn it. The final battle of the Great War was indeed here. And it was here that our greatest treasure—Varol’s staff—was destroyed. The battle, and the war, may have been won that day, but in the process we lost not only a direct descendant of Varol, but also the most powerful weapon we’ve ever had against the Shadow. Do any of the tomes say what became of its remnants?”
“Not that I’ve found yet,” Morganne confessed. “But it seems that nothing has been added to this collection of tomes since the war ended. The writings I have been slowly deciphering are so old that no one has set eyes on them for probably hundreds of years. I suspect that in the aftermath of the war, the location of the tomes was forgotten—perhaps those few who knew of it were killed. Otherwise I would think that the Guardians would have continued to hide tomes there, or at the least come to claim them when the mountains ceased to be the safe haven they once were. Though these texts are old, they should not be dismissed as irrelevant. They warn of events that seem to be coming to pass before our eyes, including the sudden return of what the scribes call ‘malevolent beasts from the depths of the abyss.’”
Morganne continued to share more of what she had found in the tomes, but the question of how to use this knowledge to fight back the Shadow remained unanswered. She held onto hope that unlike the monks, these men would not be content to sit back and wait. They all agreed that it would be important to stay in touch by courier as much as possible over the months ahead. All eyes would be on Braeden, on the upcoming wedding of Darik and Isana...and on the fearsome creatures that seemed to be slowly emerging from the darkest crevasses of the earth.
Thieves and Taxes
The Festival of Life had begun—a quiet, reverent, and particularly important festival to the monastic community of Minhaven, whose order was dedicated to Immar. They believed, as so many did, that that this was the place where Aviad’s first tear had fallen, and that Immar’s body had been broken against the jagged peaks overlooking the village. The opening of the festival contained none of the raucous, energetic merriment of the Winter Festival. This was a somber time, full of reverence as men mourned the corruption of Aviad’s creation and the pain of Immar’s sacrifice.
The monks rose with the sun on the first day and walked together in silence out of the village. Their journey ended at the edge of a small ravine that plunged below the base of one of the mountain peaks. Tradition held that the impact of the fallen tear had formed it. At times pious men who made pilgrimage there swore that they had seen the water at the bottom of the ravine turn red before their eyes. The monks approached it one by one to petition Aviad with prayers of atonement. Each poured a vial of wine into the ravine in remembrance of Immar’s suffering before joining one another in song as they made their return journey.
The melody of their song was simple, but strong and haunting, with harmonies building slowly, layer upon layer, until they were so tightly woven together that no one voice could be distinguished from the others. The monks passed beneath Morganne and Elowyn’s window early in the afternoon, and through the open shutters, their strong, clear voices filled the room.
Elowyn thought their song seemed to belong more to the heavenly realm of Aviad than to the earth, its captivating power making her scalp tingle and her arms break out in goose bumps. Morganne at first sunk to her knees in awed silence, then ran out to follow the procession through the village. Never had Minhaven been so still and quiet. No one dared to break the flow of the monks’ music, which cried out like an anguished prayer from their lips directly to the listening ear of Aviad.
No one worked, including Wyman, who closed the tavern. Fasting was the order of the day. They ate only vegetable broth with salted fish that Idna had made the day before, dry bread, and raw vegetables. People drifted in and out of the chapel, where the monks continued a litany of musical prayers. Their songs, dedicated to Immar, would not cease until the next sunrise. They rotated in and out so seamlessly that there was never a break in the music, not even for a moment. Morganne spent a great many hours huddled in the dank chapel, enrapt and seemingly lost in her own unspoken prayers.
Elowyn stayed for a while, but had difficulty sitting still for very long on the hard wooden seats. She found herself drifting away from the village, seeking out the Ancients in her own solitary way. She walked across the open field behind Morganne’s shop, where she had first met Cailean, and down the well-worn path that led to the sea. Tyroc’s coastline had been flat and sandy, crammed full of docks, boats, and smelly fishmonger’s stalls. Minhaven’s shoreline was very different—rocky and treacherous, with only a few small docks and no harbor. Getting supplies and people back and forth by boat was difficult, even when the weather was calm.
But the sea’s fearsome beauty was captivating. Powerful waves continuously crashed against the rocks, sending plumes of spray far up into the air. When the tide went out, it left shallow pools behind, full of glistening seaweed, twists of driftwood, shells, and sometimes fish. Those who dared to brave the frigid waters would sometimes wade out and catch them with nets. One had to be careful not to get caught too far from shore when the tide returned, for fear of getting stranded and swept out to sea.
Elowyn came here when she most needed time for quiet reflection. The rhythmic pulse of the waves and the lonely calls of the sea birds were mesmerizing. When she allowed her churning thoughts to ebb away with the retreating sea, she usually found treasures in the calm that was left behind; moments of clarity that she gathered as speedily as she could before the dark waters of uncertainty reclaimed them.
Elowyn had been spending more and more time helping the monks with their garden of late. They were very different from the priests and monks she had known in Tyroc. Certainly they were more approachable, and easier to understand. They used songs and simple stories to teach rather than tomes and complicated liturgy. Their way of life was humble. They prayed, sang, and worked hard tending their fields, gardens and flocks of animals. They provided charity to the community in the form of medicine and hospitality for those in dire need. They owned nothing more than was necessary to sustain themselves, but what they had, they were grateful for and shared openly.
No matter what sort of tempest was raging against their walls, the monks remained steadfast, always praising the Ancients in plenty, and in want. They were remarkably disciplined, and wholly at peace. At times, that seemed to aggravate Morganne, who mistook their apparent inaction for indifference. But Elowyn was beginning to understand their ways and wished that she could face the storms of her own life with such calm assurance of Aviad’s willingness to temper them for her sake.
She listened intently to the songs they sang while working. More than just beautiful music, they contained some of the stories she knew from Gareth’s primer, along with many others she did not know. Some of them were even children’s songs, sung for her benefit though she did not realize it at the time. Her favorite turned out to be a strange little tune about an egg, because it finally allowed her to understand how Aviad could also be Immar and Emeth, distinct yet one.
Elowyn had always loved Aviad and tried to follow Gareth’s teachings as she understood them, though often his words and ideas had gone beyond what her young mind could possibly grasp. Yet even without fully understanding his words, she had managed to find the truth of Aviad’s being in the world around her. Every rock, every tree, every droplet of water cried out as witnesses to the sovereignty of the one who had created them. But she had never truly reflected on Immar, and how his sacrifice had saved humanity from the Shadow’s eternal grasp. There was much that she still did not understand, yet somehow she knew that the monks of Minhaven would be vigilant and willing teachers should she care to listen.
As Elowyn sat looking over the water, something suddenly caused her to stand up and stare in disbelief. Further down the coast, she saw floating lights. They hovered over an area that was particularly difficult to reach because of its sheer cliffs and tangled brush. There was no way for her to get closer. She strained h
er eyes, trying to figure out the source of the mysterious lights, though in her heart she already knew. She had sensed the wisps following her of late, as she had begun to press further into the wilds, away from the safety of Minhaven.
Before now she had caught only fleeting glimpses of their presence. As soon as her gaze focused in their direction, they quickly hid themselves into dark pockets of the forest, leaving her to wrestle with her own doubts. But today they were showing themselves openly to her in the growing dusk, from far across the water where she could not chase after them. She could not help but wonder why. Elowyn looked around. No one else was about to witness the wisps’ strange beauty. She wished that they were close enough for her to hear their lovely musical voices again, and yet at the same time, she held them in fearful respect. She had seen what they were capable of, and of course, she had not forgotten her disturbing dream. When the wisps finally vanished into the depths of the wilderness, their departure left her feeling cold and lonely. Elowyn turned away from the shore and walked back to the village in the waning daylight.
The time of fasting lasted three days in all. Many of Minhaven’s shops remained closed, and no one worked either fields or garden, or did any kind of taxing labor. But the usually empty chapel was crowded with villagers both day and night, as the monks continued to tell stories of the Ancients with songs and plays, and in long rhythmic prayers that flowed like poetry. Elowyn hoped to see Cailean, but much to her disappointment, he and his father did not come into the village.
After the three days of reflection and fasting, there finally came a day of celebration, when everyone gathered together at the village green just before dawn. The monks lifted a joyous song of praise to the heavens, with the beauty of the mountains behind them, and the rising sun before them. The story was finally told of Immar’s victory over death, the curse under which humanity had suffered since the Shadow first lured men’s hearts away from Aviad’s light. In the promise of Immar was the greatest of all hopes, and all loves. For humanity’s sake, He had willingly endured the pain of a violent, physical death, and had borne the burden of human brokenness. On behalf of all, He alone had answered the just demands of divine law, and saved his followers from the wrath that should have been poured out upon them.
Ancient Voices: Into the Depths Page 19