Calcifer

by E. R. F. Jordan

  “I, The Seer, see something near, and its color is… white,” Julius declared. They had taken to playing games in the eight days since leaving the library, and even Mel, as serious as she was, admitted it helped to pass the time.

  “Julius, that’s not even remotely fair!” Mel said, playfully wounded. “Everything in the gods-forsaken woods is white.”

  “You have to guess––those are the rules!”

  Mel groaned and began to list. “The snow?”

  “No.”

  “The trees?”

  “No.”

  “The sky.”

  “Nuh-uh.” Julius grinned. He had his eye on the fringe of Mel’s jacket, which was lined with white fur. It was also conveniently nestled out of her eyesight, provided she didn’t turn her head backwards, like an owl. He figured this round of the game would carry them to at least their next camping spot.

  “A dog.”

  “No, I don’t––wait, where do you see a dog?” Julius, looked back to the woods, following Mel’s eyes until he saw the black figure in the distance, sitting and watching amongst the trees. Thinking back to the night in the woods, Julius set off in a lopsided trot. It didn’t move, only wagging its tail patiently and sniffing at the air. It was almost certainly the same dog––it had the same mangy coat, and a little nip of its right ear missing. It let out a quiet bark, as if in recognition, then turned and began to walk back into the forest at a leisurely pace. After a few feet, it looked back; its gaze seemed to say, are you with me?

  “That’s a Monastery dog,” Mel said, slightly out of breath. “At least, it matches Aspen’s description.”

  “Maybe he knows the way home?” Julius offered. He shouted to the dog, “Fido! Home?” The dog’s tail perked up, and it stomped its feet impatiently. The pair looked at each other, shrugged, and followed the dog––whom he had already begun to think of affectionately as Fido––in its tiny footsteps.

  An hour of walking brought them to a steep slope, which Fido took with no trouble. Mel and Julius, on the other hand, took more careful steps, bracing themselves on the trees for support on the snow’s slippery surface. They could hear running water nearby––Julius surmised this was the creek Aspen had mentioned. “Lousy monks should put in a foot bridge,” He mumbled, low enough to avoid a scolding.

  Sure enough, they reached Lake Shina within an hour. The lake’s frozen surface stretched out for the better part of a mile, and that was only what they could see––it seemed to continue around a bend of trees. The shore of the lake plateaued into what could’ve been a beach in warmer weather, making a wide, flat path around the water’s perimeter. But the lake itself was only part of the beauty––nestled on the opposite shore, capped with snow, was an old stone fortress, its single tower in constant vigil out over the forest. Its construction was wide and short, in many places obscured by trees, but in that it commanded a sort of secret power, like a chest of forgotten treasures. Neither of them felt the need to point out the obvious; this was Saint Shina’s Monastery.

  Fido began to paw at the snow, trotting a few steps along the shore. Evidently, he was anxious to get home. They set off, hearts full with the satisfying sensation of the Monastery growing larger with every step.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  Mel was the first to notice the robed figure on the lake shore. She gestured silently at Julius, who nodded and kept a hand near his sword, scrutinizing their immediate surroundings. As they grew nearer, she noted that the figure was wearing all blue, save the white fur cuffs and silver buttons of their heavy robe. Their hair was long and black, pulled back in a tight braid.

  It was the figure who made the first move, turning to them as they grew closer. “Welcome,” She called, puffing out a cloud of hazy breath. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  Julius glanced to Mel warily, but she shook her head and took the lead. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Can I ask how you knew we were coming?”

  She looked momentarily surprised. “Your friend wrote ahead––Bachman, I think?” The tension between the party melted away.

  “Of course!” Mel said, relieved. “With your policy of maintaining isolation, we were unsure whether you had even received the letter.” Julius let his hand fall away from the sword at his side, and joined the two in a proper circle.

  “Did you send Fido?” He asked.

  “Fido?” The woman said.

  “Oh––I call him Fido. I don’t know what his name really is,” Julius explained. “This dog led us here, from the woods. We figured he was one of yours.” He turned to indicate Fido, but the dog was gone. Even his paw-prints, delicate in the snow, were vague enough to be unrecognizable. “Oh. Well, there was a dog. Never mind.”

  The woman seemed momentarily shaken, but forged ahead, a polite smile reappearing on her face. “My name is Netsa. I am the Head of Acolytes at Saint Shina’s Monastery. It is our pleasure to welcome you as honored guests.” She struck off a short bow.

  “Head of Acolytes,” Julius mused. “What does that entail, exactly?”

  “Well,” Netsa began, perking up instantly, “The Head of Acolytes is responsible for organizing the lesser acolytes into schedules––we take turns cooking, cleaning, and foraging. Promotes well-roundedness.” She turned and began to scurry back to the Monastery at an alarming pace––she took two steps in the span of Mel’s one. “The acolytes are also divided into two classes, which alternate in historical studies and prayer. There is also a subset of disciples assigned to caring for the full monks of the Way of Shina, who–” She continued her rapid lecture for the entire walk back to the Monastery, which spanned upwards of twenty minutes. Is this what I sound like? Mel thought with a touch of guilt.

  The entrance to the Monastery was situated in a rounded topiary garden, trimmed into mint-green braids. The plants themselves were a variety with which Mel wasn’t familiar, but she found their ability to flourish in the cold was remarkable. The ground was fitted with stone panels, which matched the walls of the shrine itself––dull gray, worn by centuries of water and ice. As the sun dipped into the border of the forest canopy, the garden took on an ethereal quality; for a moment, Mel had no trouble understanding how the monks and acolytes found spiritual peace in their isolation here.

  Netsa passed through with the carelessness of habit, and Mel, wishing she could linger, trotted to keep up. They passed through a set of large doors and stopped in the shrine’s foyer, a room furnished with wooden panels and sky-blue wallpaper. There were also a number of lockboxes. Netsa pointed them out to Julius. “Weapons,” She said simply, “are not permitted.” Julius, with an expression that suggested he would rather get in the lockbox himself, carefully stowed away his sword in the box closest to the door. “Acolytes are allowed small arms on foraging days, and only outdoors––for self-defense, you understand. There were a number of incidents involving a bear, and––well, I’d rather not get into it.” Then she was off again, around the corner and down another hall. Mel and Julius looked to each other.

  “Does this feel weird to you?” Julius asked.

  “It feels foreign,” Mel admitted, “but that doesn’t mean it’s suspect. Give it some time––we may be here for a while.”

  When they caught up to Netsa, it seemed as if she’d hardly noticed their absence, as she launched back into her perpetual monologue. “To your left––these massive doors here––you see the Meditation Hall. This is where the higher order of monks practices the disciplines of Shina. They sit in this hall for months at a time; some of the highest magnitude will not leave for years. They embody perfect isolation, and therefore perfect enlightenment; from the world, and from their senses.”

  “What do they do in there? Just sit?” Julius asked.

  Netsa looked at her condescendingly. “They don’t do anything. If they were doing something, they wouldn’t be meditating. Moving on.” Mel felt Julius’ glare without looking, and put out a hand. She felt his hand grasp hers in a f
rustrated squeeze. They reached an intersection. “Left is the kitchens and the mess hall; right is the personal dormitories; ahead loops back to the entrance, where you will find some assorted other rooms. This used to be the steadfast of an old Amoran lordship; there were many rooms the monks found no purpose to fill once they settled here.” Netsa seemed ready to continue speaking, but Mel interjected, seizing the rare pause.

  “I’m sure Bachman’s letter outlined our purpose in coming here. Can you direct me to Calcifer’s study? I understand if he’s busy at the moment, but I would like to at least know my way there.”

  Netsa’s expression became apologetic, although of a decidedly false variety. “I’m very sorry, but you arrived at a rather inconvenient time. Calcifer is currently a few days’ ride east, dealing with a rather severe infection in one of the mountain villages. He may not be back for a matter of weeks.” Mel felt her heart, which was finally close to whole, deflate slightly. More waiting. “In these exceptional circumstances, I feel it would be acceptable to write a letter to a member of our own order outside the Monastery walls––as a physician, Calcifer is all but exempt from our policy of seclusion anyway. I will meet with the First Adherent to discuss the matter at his earliest convenience.”

  “I’m guessing the First Adherent is in charge here?” Julius said, earning another glare from Netsa.

  “In crude terms, yes, he’s ‘in charge’,” She said. “The First Adherent, Gallant, is a monk of the higher order who has sacrificed his own opportunity at enlightenment to watch over the Monastery and guide the spiritual paths of the acolytes.” Her eyes danced around Mel’s nervously as she said this, making her wonder if perhaps their relationship wasn’t as officious as she put on. A wild impulse to say something danced across her head, but she tamed it until the moment passed.

  “Well, you know what they say about teachers,” Julius prodded. Mel turned and gave him a glare of her own. She could tell the two would be in perpetual conflict––and, while she wasn’t yet fond of Netsa herself, it would be necessary to live in at least partial harmony. She wasn’t losing her chance––not this close. She expressed all of these thoughts in one simple phrase;

  “Behave.”

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  By the time a pair of polite but nervous looking acolytes led them to the private dormitories, the sun had all but vanished. Julius noted that there were no torches in the fortress; between sunlight and moonlight, there was an hour of dark stillness in the Monastery. Then the moon took hold, and his small, square room was bathed in muted white.

  He ran a finger down the glass pane of the dorm window, a streak of cold shooting up his arm. From this elevated perspective, he could see across the blanket of snow that comprised a lawn and into the obscurity of the forest, where a nest of birds he suspected to be the infamous knackerals were settling in for a cold night. To his surprise, he found the thought of trading places with those birds quite welcome––they could get a warm night inside, and he could return to the freedom of the open wilderness. It occurred to him that he felt very naked without his sword, as if it were the avatar of his agency, and it could not coexist with his newfound shelter. The idea of waking up the next morning without it felt very foreign; he wondered how he had done it at home for so many years.

  A flicker of movement caught his eye. On the snowy lawn of the Monastery, a furry black figure stood in stark contrast to the snow around him. Although he knew it could be any of the Monastery’s kennel, he felt a deeply sure that it was Fido. He pried open the glass window and poked his head outside.

  “Hey!” Julius called softly, as to not wake the acolytes. The dog didn’t move. He tried a whistle, and received a companionable tail wag, but otherwise Fido stayed put. If he had felt even reasonably sure he could land on his good leg, he might’ve dropped out of the window; but the surface of the snow was hard and slippery––he could tell by the way it reflected the moonlight. He would probably break a few more bones dropping from this height.

  Suddenly, there was a shout, slurred with sleep, from a window at a lower level. Julius saw a scrawny arm, sleeve rolled up to the shoulder, waggling a fist furiously at Fido, accompanied by more shouts. Fido, evidently not caring for this behavior, turned and trotted back into the forest, where he promptly disappeared amongst the shadows.

  Julius closed the window and crossed the room, sitting on the edge of his bed––which, in this case, was most of the bed. Religiously small, he thought. If only there were a religion that embraced simple pleasures instead of denouncing them––that was one he could get on board with. He tried to lay comfortably and found limited success, eyes roaming the eggshell-white ceiling for hours before sleep could touch him. All the while he thought about Fido, and his deepening sensation of unease; once more, he wished he could’ve had his sword at his side.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  GARDEN SNAKES. THE FIRST ADHERENT.

  In the first of what would be many restless nights at the Monastery, Mel awoke to the sharp crack of the door striking the wall. She jerked upright, still fully dressed from the night before, vestiges of the burning villages in her dreams already fading. A single candle cast the room in dim red, the only source of light in the dark hour between the setting moon and sunrise. The figure of a woman looked down at her, and even in the faint candlelight Mel could read her distress.

  “I apologize for waking you, Amelia Saul,” The figure’s silvery voice said. “I see now that you’re alright.”

  “Besides a minor heart attack, yes, I’m alright,” She replied, somewhat louder than intended. “Why wouldn’t I be?” The figure started and stopped, seemingly unsure on how to proceed––or how she was allowed to proceed. Mel tossed the blanket back and stood with her, letting the cold of the morning numb her adrenaline-fueled nerves.

  Finally, she decided on a safe piece of information. “There was a break-in. The cook saw two figures scaling the wall of the Monastery, hoods drawn. Being so close to when you arrived, we worried that they were here for you.”

  “Are they Lhord soldiers?” A third voice said from the doorway. Julius stepped into the light of the candle, bags of sleep around his eyes but otherwise battle-sharp. Mel noticed that he, too, was dressed in clothes from the night prior––it seemed neither of them were quick to give up the habits of their travels. “Red plate, or maybe red furs?”

  “It is possible,” The woman said. “I am not privy to that information.”

  “Has anyone else been informed?” Mel asked, plucking the jacket from the end of her bed and pulling it on.

  “Netsa knows. She asked me to check on you. I was coming for you next,” She gestured to Julius, “but it appears you’re a light sleeper.”

  “Side effect of sleeping indoors,” He confirmed.

  “We were about to inform the First Adherent of the incident,” She said.

  “Perhaps we should join you,” Mel added. “If we are responsible for drawing the Lhord’s Army so far north, we would like to apologize personally and offer whatever we can.” The woman considered this quickly, then nodded and moved back into the hallway, gesturing for the two of them to follow.

  When they arrived at the doors to the First Adherent’s chamber, which was settled in an alcove across from the Meditation Hall, Netsa was already waiting for them, hands wringing together nervously. As she caught sight of them, her posture relaxed, some of the strain in her expression leaking away. Mel felt an inkling of warmth for Netsa; she did seem genuinely worried for their well-being. Perhaps her initial assessment of the woman could use some revision.

  “It is good to see you are both well,” She said, with the stilted tone of someone who didn’t often express their sympathies. “A few things before we meet with Gallant; the First Adherent is required to observe certain formalities––you will understand when you enter––as dictated by tradition; the First Adherent is a gracious soul for sacrificing his personal enlightenment, and so should not be under an
y circumstances questioned; and finally, the First Adherent reaches out to you––you do not reach out to him, except through myself.” Her recitations complete, Netsa seemed considerably more comfortable, scrutinizing gaze and all. She turned to the tall red door of the chamber, which featured no knob to enter from the outside, and knocked. The heavy sound rang out in the empty stone hall.

  There was a sharp click, and the door swung open with slow gravity, revealing the First Adherent’s chamber. The room was rectangular, longer than it was wide, with bare walls and creaky wooden floorboards. At the far end, a row of rough-looking mats were arranged in an audience for a single, larger mat; on this, the magisterial First Adherent watched them enter, cloaked in a hundred layers of blue robes and surrounded by as many candles. As they approached, Mel recognized what Netsa must have meant by ‘certain formalities’; the First Adherent’s face was obscured by a featureless clay mask, painted an unceremonious white. Netsa led the two of them to the rough-hewn mats, where they kneeled in front of Gallant silently––the acolyte had at some point vanished.

  “You may speak.” Gallant’s voice, low and resonant, filled the chamber like water. It affected such silky evenness that Mel was unsure whether to call it confidence or indifference.

  Netsa cleared her throat and began to explain, her speech harsh by comparison. “There were two intruders in the west wing this evening. The cook spotted them, but denies any more involvement; coincidentally, they were also knocked unconscious with a frying pan.” Mel stifled a bubble of absurd laughter. “They admit to being Lhord sympathizers––but that’s all. We’ve temporarily situated them in two old cells in the lower level.” She bowed her head and waited for his response.