Storm of Divine Light

by Ernesto San Giacomo

  Dagorat escorted the man to the consultation room and motioned for him to take a seat, but he hesitated. The well-dressed new client gazed around the room and fidgeted with his lapels. He bore a resemblance to Abernathy the bookseller: thin and tall, with crane-like movements. His hairline receded, and he possessed a sophisticated manner which gave the impression of a high level of education. Not too different from most of Cyril’s visitors.

  At first, Dagorat had disliked the idea of Cyril having clients, thinking it better to remain isolated. Over time, though, he’d come to realize the patrons provided a powerful tool for maintaining his anonymity. He employed a simple tactic: play the role of a common servant. The noble and wealthy visitors were prisoners of their social trappings. They took no notice of servants, and considered it beneath them to pay any attention to a hireling, let alone speak to one.

  Patrons never suspected the humble servant Dagorat once had another name. A name he had tried to bury; an infamous name which struck terror into the hearts of travelers and merchants alike. Blackmond Moonshadow, the most notorious rogue who ever wreaked havoc upon the distant Kingdom of Easterly.

  Books and artifacts from around the known world cluttered the consultation room. Jalkenese dancing figurines decorated the exquisitely carved Mentirian bookcases. In contrast, Cyril’s chair and desk bore a rustic Easterlain feel, as did the writing set. For the people of Easterly, pragmatism in design reigned over any thought of delicate artistry. Three rare Elven chairs flanked the other side of the desk. Two beautiful landscapes adorned the walls. One showed an overhead view of Mentiria nestled near the Bay of Ravenna. Surely the artist had to climb high into the Bear Claw Mountains to see the city from such a vantage point. The second depicted the towers near the main gate of Ethelton, the royal seat of Easterly, rising above the great plain.

  Draped in a green-and-brown scholar’s robe, Cyril stood next to his high-backed leather chair. The two moose antlers adorning it gave the subtle impression of a pair of wings above his head whenever he sat.

  The strange client took a step toward Cyril and extended his hand. Dagorat brandished Frostbite, sprang between them and snarled, “Keep your distance!” No amount of guilt ever prevented him from keeping his guard up. “You’re an Easterlain.”

  First the visitor froze in place, and then backed away toward his appointed chair. “It’s true. I do originally hail from Easterly.” He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his face. “What a horrid morning this has been. I implore you, put away your suspicions and hear me.” His eyes glistened, as if he were about to shed tears. “How did you know I’m from Easterly?”

  “You extended your hand,” Dagorat said.

  “Why would that be suspicious?”

  “A true Mentirian would’ve bowed. And I have good reason to distrust foreigners.”

  An uneasy pause ensued as Cyril and Dagorat stared at the man, waiting for a response. At a loss for words, their guest shifted his gaze from one to the other. “Please,” he asked, “why must your first reaction always be either suspicion or violence?”

  “You caught our attention,” Cyril said. “Or more precisely, the wrong kind of attention.”

  “Then you mentioned a theft. The whole reason we were out today was the hope of hearing news of such an event,” Dagorat said.

  The man cocked his head. “But you couldn’t possibly know about it.” He pointed toward the street. “Only two other monks and I know what has transpired.”

  “We have our ways of learning things,” Cyril said.

  Dagorat furrowed his brow, unable to believe this over-emotional man posed a threat, despite his origins. He whispered to Cyril, “He said meeting with you could cause a scandal. It’s possible he really is a monk.”

  Cyril poured a glass of Mentirian brandy and pushed it across the desk. “We’re getting nowhere. Let’s begin again.”

  With a grateful look and a shaking hand, their distraught guest took the glass and gulped every drop. He stood and bowed, saying, “Cyril the Wise, I’m so honored to meet you.”

  After returning the bow, Cyril sat. “You still have me at a disadvantage, my good man.”

  The stranger sank into one of the Elven chairs. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry for all the secrecy. I usually wear a monk’s robes. I’m Brother Maynard, you see.”

  “I’ve heard of you. You’re the abbot of the monastery,” Cyril said.

  “Quite right.” He focused on Dagorat. “Of course, I’m also dreadfully sorry for the false impression I made upon you earlier.”

  I threw this man against a wall, put a knife to his throat, bruised his head, and he’s apologizing to me? “I’m the one who should apologize, Brother.”

  Cyril shot Dagorat a disparaging glare. “Just what exactly did you do?”

  “Later. I’ll tell you later.” He moved to Cyril’s side and addressed the abbot. “There are a few things I’d like you to clarify before we start. You said in the alley you can’t be seen in public with Cyril. If that’s the case, why have two monks following us, with you close behind?”

  “Yes, it was quite the series of errors. The two monks are Brothers Felix and Liberon, my chief librarian and his assistant. They had the same idea as I – to hire you for counsel concerning an extremely grave matter. I was just as surprised to find them across from your home this morning as they were to see me.” Maynard poured himself another glass of brandy. “We saw you enter the Sword and Anvil. So, I went into the tavern in hope of approaching you inside. Once there, however, I became acutely aware of too many prying eyes and ears. Therefore I thought it best to follow at a safe distance, and if an opportunity arose, then I would make myself known to you. If no such opening presented itself, I’d at least know when you had returned home. Having two monks between us seemed a good idea, because if you had taken notice of them, who would ever attribute,” he gazed at Dagorat, then continued much more slowly, “nefarious or malevolent motives to a monk.”

  Dagorat shook his head. “I did.”

  “Yes, in retrospect, it was somewhat clumsy and ill-conceived, I admit. But we’re monks, after all, and not accustomed to such things.” He turned to Cyril. “I hope this proves to you that your services are desperately needed.”

  “How incredibly ingenious. Monks disguised as monks,” Dagorat said.

  “Imagine all the long hours of scheming to conceive of such an idea,” Cyril said. “Very well. I’m more curious about what services are needed than this morning’s chase.”

  Maynard fidgeted with his handkerchief. “I’m not even sure how to begin.” He raised his glass and finished it off.

  “You said something was stolen. Why don’t you start there?” Cyril said.

  The abbot took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Someone has stolen the – the Orb of the First Light.”

  Cyril sprang up from his seat, eyes wide and jaw open in disbelief. Dagorat was confused. What was this Orb thing? He’d never heard of it before. Then, with softness and reverence, the mage uttered a word Dagorat did not recognize. “Ishikor.”

  Maynard closed his eyes as if in mourning and bowed his head.

  “By Korak’s blistered soles! Stolen from where, and when?” Cyril said with frantic urgency.

  “From Farmstead Abbey, early this morning. Brother Felix brought it to my attention.”

  “The Orb of the First Light…only a mile from my home?” Cyril stroked his goatee and paced behind his desk.

  “Even some of the most educated don’t know about certain recent events concerning the Orb,” Maynard said.

  Cyril wrung his hands. “As I recall, the Orb was kept in Ethelton after the Elven king, Hladomir, gifted it to Queen Etheldreda. There it stayed, locked away deep within the confines of her palace.”

  “An Elven king gave something valuable to a human ruler?” Dagorat asked. “What about the old saying, ‘Dwarves and Elves keep to themselves’?”

  Maynard gave a faint smile and picked up the story. “But Easterly
was never a safe place for such a treasure. They’ve suffered invasions and unrest for centuries. I’ve even heard things about recent incursions by some truly foul creatures near the northern frontier.”

  “Incur –” Dagorat tried to interrupt again, but a sharp glare from his mentor stilled his tongue. Barely. He’d been born in Dun Targhill, one of the small, scattered farming hamlets near the frontier. And he still had family living in the village. His father had passed years ago and his brother had married and moved to another town, but his mother and sister had kept the house.

  The abbot leaned back in his chair. “Of course, there are other threats as well. For example, three years ago, most of Easterly’s merchants and local nobility were still being terrorized by that notorious highwayman, Blackmond Moonshadow.”

  Dagorat turned his back to Maynard and bit his lip to stop himself from laughing out loud. He pretended to clean a figurine until he regained his composure.

  After a stroke of his goatee, Cyril said, “I remember hearing about him. As I recall, he was a rather hasty fellow. Never thinking things over before acting or speaking.” He settled back into his chair.

  “Anyway, the last public display of the Orb was supposedly spectacular,” Maynard said.

  “Yes, mounted to the top of Queen Etheldreda’s throne for her Golden Jubilee. The throne was raised high on a litter, and Her Majesty paraded through the streets. The Orb’s brilliant light reflecting from her great crown shone down upon her, so that all witnessed her golden glory,” Cyril said.

  “Ah, so you’ve read The Easterly Chronicles by Smythson Barret.” Maynard leaned forward eagerly. “Then you must have also read about earlier references to the Orb in Chadwicke’s The Wars of King Faldyr!”

  “Yes, but after Etheldreda, the trail unfortunately comes to an end.”

  “Hardly the case. Would you like me to give you the extra details?”

  Cyril moved closer. “By all means.”

  “Well, you see, Queen…” The abbot stopped and glanced sidelong at Dagorat. “Erm, may I request some tea, please?”

  The abbot’s acting ability lacked skill. Dagorat suppressed an annoyed sigh, knowing full well he didn’t really want tea. Rather, he simply wanted Dagorat out of the room before discussing the Orb. A wry expression from Cyril signaled that he, too, noticed the monk’s hesitation. “Yes, I wouldn’t mind some tea myself. And I suppose your companions are waiting outside?”

  Maynard affirmed Cyril’s assumption with a quick dip of his chin.

  “Bring the other two in here quietly, and then I think a full pot of tea is in order,” Cyril said to Dagorat.

  The “servant” bowed and departed to fetch the visitors. As “quietly” served as another one of their key words, he led the two waiting monks through the side entrance of the house and to the consultation room.

  “This is Brother Felix, our librarian,” Maynard said. The older monk bowed, showing off his bald head and making his sizeable paunch sag toward the floor. “And this is Brother Liberon.” The young monk also bowed to his hosts. Slender and muscular, this one must be thirty years younger than the other two, a boy just coming into manhood.

  Cyril studied the three in turn, sizing them up, then abruptly addressed the young one. “Are you an acolyte? Or have you taken your final solemn vows?”

  Liberon straightened up with a hint of pride. “I’ve taken the final vows.”

  “Yes, an acolyte could never serve as my munaron,” Felix said.

  Dagorat tilted his head. “Munaron?”

  “That means assistant.” Cyril stood and scrutinized the monks. “Since the three of you are Brothers of the Order, I’m going to request the Reconciliatory Seal from all of you.” He swiveled his attention back to Dagorat. “The tea, please.”

  Even Cyril wanted him out of the room. He pinched his lips and headed to the kitchen, where he lit a fire, put up water, and waited for the kettle to whistle. At least he restrained himself from slamming the door.

  During his years with Cyril in Mentiria, Dagorat had learned how to play into the pretenses of wealthy merchants and noblemen. He feigned a sullen expression while avoiding their eyes, or gesture with an outstretched hand for them to follow or sit. Surly or arrogant patrons proved to be an unusually fun experience; Dagorat reveled in the knowledge that he had the skills to turn any one of them into a pauper by the next day.

  Soon the kettle called. Dutifully, he made up a tray, placed it on the cart, and wheeled it to the room. He knocked on the door and waited for the conversation to pause, then entered to find the monks staring at him, still and silent. Fear had returned to Maynard’s eyes. What had happened?

  Cyril motioned for Dagorat to sit next to him and said, “It’s all right, you can speak your mind. I want to help them, and we need you.”

  He placed the tray on the desk, poured five cups of tea, grabbed a stool from the corner, and plopped next to Cyril. The monks added honey to their tea and sipped.

  “Tell me, Brother Maynard, is the Orb ever put on display?” Cyril asked.

  “Yes, we take it out twice a year, on Solstice mornings. We pray, meditate, and venerate it at a private ceremony within the monastery.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “We put the Orb back into its secret antechamber until the next Solstice.”

  Dagorat held up a finger. “How many know the location of the antechamber?”

  “Only Brother Felix and I.”

  “Obviously, there’s someone else,” Dagorat said.

  “Yes, but how? I don’t know how,” Maynard said, wringing his hands. “All movement of the Orb involves a long and complicated procedure that no one’s allowed to witness.”

  “It would help if I knew something about this Orb.”

  “I’ll tell you its history later,” Cyril said. “We’ve wasted too much time already.” He stared at Maynard. “Tell us the procedure.”

  The abbot took a small scroll from inside his coat and unfurled it to show a floor plan of the abbey. As he explained the procedure, he traced his route with a finger. “All the monks and acolytes gather in the Sanctellum, here. Brother Felix counts them to ensure all are present. Then I leave through the main doors and traverse a series of hallways, rooms, and hidden doors until I get to the underground section of the library. I go to the bookcase on the west wall and open the door to the secret antechamber. Then I take the Orb and carry it up this staircase here, which leads back to the preparatory room behind the Sanctellum.” Maynard pointed at a set of stairs on the map. “As you can see, it has two doors – one hidden door to the underground, and the other leading directly to the Sanctellum. I use the second door to emerge directly behind the altar with the Orb. We conduct the sacred ceremony, and afterward, I follow the same path in reverse to put the Orb back in its place.”

  “When Brother Maynard returns and knocks on the main door of the Sanctellum, everyone can leave,” Felix said.

  “Sounds secure on the surface, but if someone’s determined enough …well, nothing is truly safe,” Dagorat said. His mind raced. Their recounting raised new questions. “You did return it after the ceremony this morning?”

  “Of course,” Maynard said.

  “Do you ever take it out for any other reason?”

  Maynard placed a hand on his chest. “Certainly not.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have discovered the theft until the Winter Solstice.”

  The monks shot wide-eyed glances at each other. Even Cyril raised an eyebrow, apparently not having detected the flaw in their tale.

  “See, I told you this was the place to seek answers,” Liberon said to Felix.

  “Brother Liberon,” Maynard said, “I believe this is where you enter the story. And since you seem so eager to speak…”

  Liberon squirmed in his seat and folded his hands on his lap. “I never knew the secret place of the Orb. But this morning, I noticed a number of books and scrolls in disarray in one corner beneath the library. They looked hastily
and randomly placed.”

  “And then he told me about it,” Felix said. “I went to the area in question, and was aghast when I saw it was the antechamber which housed the Orb. I immediately sought out Brother Maynard.”

  Dagorat tapped a finger against his lips. “We have to go there and see for ourselves. I need to see everything and walk the route with you.”

  Worried faces answered his request. Dagorat’s jaw twitched.

  Maynard took a deep breath. “We’ve shown you a map and explained more than I’m comfortable revealing.”

  “A map doesn’t show me the different places where a master thief could hide and spy on you. And I’m bothered by the messy scrolls that helped you discover the theft. This had to be a very professional job. That thief invested a lot of time and patience in order to steal it. Yet, leaving the scrolls in such condition is something only a bumbling fool would do. It doesn’t make sense.”

  After a moment, the three monks all rose and bowed, and then arranged to meet them at the monastery within the hour. Dagorat showed the visitors to the side entrance and told them to stay away from alleys and shortcuts. “Go straight to the monastery, no stopping.” The three bowed again and scurried off.

  Odd, how readily they’d obeyed him. He wondered again about what had transpired while he prepared the tea. Dagorat headed back to the consultation room, where he found Cyril paging through one of his old books. He sat down and made himself another cup of tea. “Well?” he asked, expecting the mage to readily grasp the wealth of questions in that one word.

  “Well, what?” Cyril said.

  He stared at the mage, not knowing if Cyril made a playful jest, or if he really couldn’t discern the many questions on Dagorat’s mind. Sigh. “First you have me leave the room, then when I come back in, they’re frightened of me, and then they let me sit in, reveal their secrets, and let me question them. It has something to do with that Reconciliatory thing, right?”