“Not necessarily,” Dagorat said with a gentle shake of his head. “The Orb could’ve been passed to an accomplice to carry away.” He folded his arms. “If the thief ran off himself, he may as well proclaim his guilt from the rooftops. Makes it much easier to be caught, and no thief wants that.”
“I still think you’re jumping to conclusions to blame Roderick,” Cyril said.
“I didn’t blame him. Just pointing out that still being here doesn’t presume innocence for anyone.”
Maynard released a huff and pinched the bridge of his nose. “A moment, please. I need time to think.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, staring at nothing. Liberon took the opportunity to pour tea and pass the cups around. After a long moment, the abbot came back to himself and focused on Dagorat. “How confident are you about an accomplice?”
“I’m almost certain. The thief wouldn’t run, but also couldn’t risk keeping the Orb around. Why go through all the trouble of stealing the Orb only to have someone find it in his possession? No. It had to be removed from the abbey.”
“Oh, my.” Maynard brought his hand to his heart. “One thief is distressing enough, but now there are more.”
“And more questions, too. Was one of your brothers the thief or the accomplice? And how did they pull this trick off? I’ll have a better answer for you after we walk the route.”
Felix lifted his chin. “What makes you think we’ll be walking the route? After all, we hardly know you. And what we do know is…distressing, to say the least.” He folded his arms and sat back with an air that dared anyone to disagree.
Dagorat sighed inwardly. He grew weary of being judged by his past. Cyril should have never said anything. Well, they had best hash it out now and get it over with. “I’m sorry.” He pierced each of the monks in turn with a scathing glance. “Is there another master rogue in this room?”
Cyril shot Felix a stern stare. “I, for one, have every faith in Dagorat’s ability, integrity and honor. I’ll stake my reputation on it. Will you accept our help, or not?” The mage glared around the room, and one by one, the monks nodded approval, Felix last. “Good. Now, where were we?”
“They prepared the Sanctellum for their services, locked the outer doors, and went to wake the other monks.” Dagorat plopped on Maynard’s desk. The abbot hastily yanked some papers away from the invading posterior.
“What happened after you woke everyone?” Dagorat asked.
“We went back to the Sanctellum. I stood by the entrance of the room, as usual, and greeted my brothers as they entered.”
“I stayed inside, counting and checking names from our list,” Felix added. “Once all were present, I rang the bell and Brother Maynard closed the doors. That’s the signal to begin the ceremonial prayers and meditations.”
Maynard picked up the story. “The procedure and ceremony went quite normally. I fetched the Orb and brought it to the Sanctellum. Once the rites were concluded, I returned underground and put it properly away. I had no reason to suspect anything.”
Dagorat leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand. This meant the thief stole the Orb after the ceremony, when all the monks were back out roaming the monastery. Which also meant any one of them could’ve been the thief in disguise. But if all the monks stayed locked in the Sanctellum whenever Maynard fetched the Orb, none could have followed him to trace the route. No, someone must have been lurking out there.
He stared long and hard at Felix. Everything rested upon his accounting in the Sanctellum. Did he falsify the attendance list? Dagorat picked up his tea and sipped, expecting a soothing, mildly bitter taste. But the overbearing sweetness made him wince. “Ugh. This must be yours,” he said to Cyril. The two swapped teacups.
Staring down at the cup in his hand, a thought struck him. The drinks tasted so different, but looked identical. In the same way, any man wearing a brown robe could pass for a monk. His suspicion of Felix waned now that he understood how easily a disguise might fool the librarian. Yet, no matter how hard he tried to logically think his way through this, his mind kept going back to Roderick. Something familiar about the odd monk kept nagging at him.
A hand tapped him on the shoulder. He glanced at Cyril. “Did you say something?”
“Have you not heard a word I’ve said?”
“Umm…no.”
“We’re going to the Sanctellum. Then we’ll walk the route to the Orb’s antechamber.”
The group departed, and Maynard led the way to the Sanctellum doors with the others close behind. Even in the empty hallway, the abbot kept his voice down. “After closing these doors, I walk this corridor until I come to the Scriptorium. The first door on the left. I go through there, and then through an inner door to the binding room.”
They trooped down the hall, and Dagorat motioned for them to pause before they entered the Scriptorium. He cracked open the door. Its hinges did not squeak. The scratching of quills on thick vellum paper spilled into the corridor. Dagorat pushed the door open farther and poked his head inside for a quick scan. Another door on the west wall caught his attention. “You walk through the Scriptorium and then through that door on the right?” he whispered.
Maynard offered a soft grunt of agreement. “That’s the binding room.”
Dagorat pulled his head back and studied the corridor. “Is the next door on the left also to the binding room?”
“Yes, it is.”
“So the Scriptorium and the binding room each have an entrance from the corridor, and there’s a connecting door between them.” Quietly, he shut the Scriptorium door, and the group proceeded up the hall to the binding room entry. Two more doors stood opposite the binding room, on the right side of the hall.
“I wait in the binding room for three minutes, and then I go through here.” Maynard motioned toward the doors on the right. “If someone were following me, he wouldn’t be able to discern which one I used after leaving the binding room.”
“Where do these two lead?” Dagorat asked.
Maynard pointed to the door on the right. “This is where we keep our library records.” Then he grabbed the handle of the left one. “And this leads to the reading room.” He opened it and led the group into a quiet, well-lit room containing a number of desks for monks to read and study. Maynard brought them to another door on the back wall. “That leads to the library. It’s always locked unless a librarian is on duty.” Near a tall bookcase in the corner sat a small statue of Queen Etheldreda on a pedestal.
“Lock the door, Brother,” Maynard told Felix. The librarian did as asked.
“Since we’re locking the door,” Dagorat said, “I suppose there’s a secret entrance in here, leading to a passage.” Maynard’s and Felix’s eyes widened. Dagorat surveyed the room, then stepped over to the statue of Queen Etheldreda. He tried to tilt the statue, but neither it nor the pedestal budged. Next, he examined a small space between the feet of Etheldreda and the base, barely wide enough for a piece of vellum. “A bit too obvious, Brother.” As he rotated the statue, a soft click came from the bookcase on the left. Dagorat turned the statue another ninety degrees and followed the sound. The bookcase had opened ever so slightly. He pushed on its edge and it swung away on a well-oiled hinge, revealing a descending spiral staircase. Interesting construction. The statue and bookcase could be opened over and over again, and never leave a mark.
“This leads to the tunnels under the library,” Liberon said as he started down the stairs. “We keep our rarest scrolls and books down there.”
Felix removed a pair of lanterns from the wall, passed one to Liberon, and waited to be last. At the bottom, Liberon, with his youthful strength, raised a lever and the bookcase closed behind them. He led the way into a labyrinth of hallways. In every direction, cul-de-sacs of shelves held stacks upon stacks of books and scrolls. And Dagorat had thought Abernathy’s was well-stocked.
Maynard took the lead and threaded his way to a niche no different from all the rest. Everyone crammed into
the small space behind him. He reached behind a stack of scrolls, toggled a small wooden peg, and pulled on the shelf’s right inner edge with hooked fingers. A panel swung open without a sound. “This is the Orb’s antechamber.”
Dagorat shook his head. Too damn easy. No traps or sequence of levers. No ground glass or luminescent powder on the floor to mark the shoes of a culprit. Such a powerful artifact entrusted to people who had no idea how to properly guard it. How mind boggling.
“Now, how do you get back to the Sanctellum?” Cyril asked.
“This way.” The abbot led them back to the center of the maze, where all the tunnels converged. From there, he took the group to a different staircase. “At the top of this is another secret door that leads to the vestrain. Its one regular door leads back to the Sanctellum. I bring the Orb into the vestrain and then enter the holy place from there. After the ceremony, I do the whole route in reverse.”
“When he reopens the outer doors of the Sanctellum, I know the Orb is safe and our brethren are allowed to leave,” Felix added.
Dagorat studied Maynard. “You were followed.”
“But that’s impossible and you know it. You just walked the route with me.”
“Yes, it’d be hard to track you the whole way in a single morning. However, to follow you for part of the route one year, and more of it on the next Solstice, sounds possible. With the thief learning more each time, until he pieced the entire path together. That rules out an intruder; he would’ve had to break in too many times, and wouldn’t be familiar enough with the layout of the place to pull this off. Now I’m firmly convinced it was someone from the inside.”
The abbot’s jaw dropped and he held open his palms. “How? There has never been anyone around when I’m retrieving the Orb.”
Dagorat snorted. “Remember the alley this morning? When you took your face away from that wall and thought you were alone? I was right next to you the entire time. All rogues have their own special methods.”
Maynard became still. A gasp escaped him as his hand sprang to cover his mouth, and then slipped down to his heart. “Yes. Now I understand how a rogue duped us so easily.”
Cyril chimed in. “Not just rogues. There are others who are wise in the ways of guile and deception.” He gave a quizzical tilt of his head as he and Maynard stared at each other. “You already harbor suspicions about who stole the Orb.”
“I don’t recall telling you about that.” Maynard’s eyes narrowed.
“No? Earlier, you spoke about incursions from the north in Easterly.”
The abbot narrowed his eyes. “You understood my suspicion.”
Cyril agreed with a curt nod. “Skirmishes would lull Easterly into believing the invaders are not a great force. But once possessing the Orb, they will unleash the full power of their host.”
Maynard took a deep breath. “Then you know of whom I spoke.”
“Yes. They are foul indeed.”
“Let’s not talk here. We’ll continue in my study.”
“Just one more thing,” Dagorat said. “If there were attacks, then why move the Orb from Easterly in the first place? Wouldn’t it have been safer staying put?”
The monks all exchanged confounded looks. “I don’t know,” Maynard said.
***
On the walk back, Maynard and Cyril made strained small talk about the Solstice and its significance to different peoples. A casual conversation would make everything seem normal, if anyone overheard. Back in the study, the group took their seats as Maynard collapsed into the chair behind his desk. He addressed Liberon. “Bring some refreshments, Brother.” The monk bowed and departed on his task.
“I’m familiar with the utter evil practiced by the Golgent,” Cyril told Maynard.
“The Golgent? They’re real?” Dagorat said. He had heard of the Golgent during his childhood in Easterly. But they were a fairy tale meant to scare children into behaving properly. Thinking back, he remembered when he filled the family sugar bowl with salt. How he’d laughed at the twisted expressions of his parents and siblings as they sipped their salted tea. But when confronted by his father later, he had to admit to it; otherwise the Golgent monsters would steal him away in the night. The memory amused him now, but at the time, he’d been terrified.
Maynard and Cyril stared at him. “How could you be from Easterly and not know of the Golgent?” Cyril asked. He wiped his brow. “Oh, yes. Sometimes I forget how young you are. Their attacks had fallen away to nothing by the time you were growing up.”
“They’re as real as you and I,” Maynard said. “You may regard them as our opposites. Just as we revel in the Light, they exist for darkness and shadow.”
Dagorat squirmed, recalling his thoughts before they’d left for the monastery. I like shadows; does that make me evil, too? Most people were more comfortable in daylight, which under some circumstances made them easier to fool. For Dagorat, making others see what he wanted them to see, or ignore whatever he wished them to pass over, possessed a certain entertaining quality. He resisted the urge to chuckle as he remembered the times when he’d nearly given his presence away by laughing out loud.
Cyril sighed heavily. “When I think about the atrocities they’ve committed…the deaths, the destruction…it’s almost unspeakable. And they will go to any lengths to secure greater wealth and power. Yes, Golgent agents have likely taken the Orb. I’d wondered why they had become reclusive in recent years. Perhaps they’ve simply been gathering their strength.”
Everyone sat in silence for a long moment, until Maynard spoke to Dagorat. “When I first heard about your exploits years ago in Easterly, I must admit I wondered if you were in service to the Golgent.”
The bluntness of the confession startled him. “How could you possibly think that of me?”
“You did disrupt every Easterlain’s way of life.”
Dagorat shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and then raised his chin. He had always regarded his previous life of crime as an aid to the poor and unfortunate. “I nicked from those who had too much, and offered it to those who had too little.”
Maynard sat up straight and stared at him. “Exactly my point. Do you realize that your philosophy and rationale reflect the Golgent way of thinking? They deceive good people, making them do evil in the name of a noble purpose. In the process, they cause chaos, confusion, and disruption. Tell me, how did you shape your principles regarding thievery? Was it your own notion, or did someone educate you?”
Dagorat folded his arms. Who did this monk think he was? “My father educated me. He taught me many things, including not treating the poor with scorn.”
Cyril placed his hand on Maynard’s shoulder. “Tell me, Brother. Will young Liberon bring us fruit tarts?”
Maynard glared a moment longer, then visibly relaxed, his attention on the mage. Good. Much more of that and Dagorat may have punched the abbot in the nose.
“Yes, today is something of a celebration for us as well. Remember, everything has to appear normal to my brethren,” Maynard said.
Dagorat lost himself in thought while the others chatted. Clearly, Maynard didn’t trust him. And why should he? Even the wary trust generally afforded to complete strangers was denied to a thief like Blackmond Moonshadow.
“Did someone teach you?” Maynard’s words swirled in Dagorat’s mind. His father had been the most important figure in his young life, but Hamish the blacksmith had also taught him many things. He used to come by the farm and share his ale.
“…Korak’s treatise on the people of the Red Desert,” Cyril said to Maynard.
Did Hamish instill my hatred for the nobles of Easterly? The blacksmith usually stopped by while his father was out selling produce at the farmers’ market. He would always tell stories about greedy noblemen or merchants, cursing their displays of wealth.
“…missionary days when I spent some time there,” Maynard said.
Hamish once showed him how to fix the wheelbarrow handle, bad-mouthing the nobility th
e entire time. “Now, if the Count needs something repaired, he don’t get his hands dirty. He has his own woodsmith, paid from taxes he robs from us folk.” When his father came home, they showed him the repaired handle. Hamish told Father he’d given him a good lesson, and winked at Dagorat. He hadn’t thought much about the wink at the time, but he did now. Was the lesson about the repair or about the nobility? How many of his own attitudes had Hamish influenced?
Cyril brought him back to the present. “Dagorat?”
“What? I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”
“I asked you if you had any more ideas about the theft.”
That was twice today he’d been caught daydreaming. He rebuked himself, willed his mind to concentrate on the moment, and focused on Maynard. “You see, Brother, your route might prevent an amateur from finding the Orb. If an unskilled rogue tried to follow you into the Scriptorium, he’d open the door slowly and quietly, and discover the room was empty. Thus confounding him as to where you went from there.”
Felix tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. Maynard rubbed his forehead.
Dagorat continued. “Every stop along your route would become quite a puzzle for an average thief to solve. However, it sounds like the Golgent didn’t hire an amateur, and I’m sure the price was enough to make a master rogue take a year or two to study and plan the theft.”
The monks gazed at the floor.
“A professional thief with a lot of patience and determination joined your order and lived here for a year. In that time he learned the layout of Farmstead Abbey. The first time he tried to find the Orb, he must have hidden in the corridor. Once you entered the Scriptorium he waited for you to emerge from the binding room, and watched you go into the reading room.”
“How did he know I’d come out of the binding room?”
“He didn’t. If you didn’t come out, then he’d hide in the Scriptorium during the next Solstice to learn the next step on the route. However, you did emerge, and then entered the reading room. So before the next Solstice, he had six months to probe around the reading room to find the mechanism which opens the door to the tunnels. If he found no secret passage, then he would know the Orb was somewhere in the library behind that locked door.”
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