“I see,” said Jacques. “I only thought because of your look that you might have been—well, it’s of no import. Do you hail from Dijvois?”
“Listen, Jacques, I don’t mean to be rude. But my throat is parched, and my lips feel dry enough to crumble. You wouldn’t have something on hand that I might drink, would you?”
“I fear I come empty-handed. Though, my brothers have only just finished their morning prayers and gather this very moment to break their fasts. If you would join us, you would be welcome to your fill.”
Sal’s insides turned over, as if answering the monk’s inquiry. “I would greatly appreciate a fine meal.”
The monk smiled. Despite the man’s hard features, it was a comforting smile that put Sal’s frayed nerves at ease. “I dare say, no such thing as a fine meal has been served within the walls of Knöldrus frater since the passing of our dear abbot. That is not to say it is not passing fare. It does serve to fill the belly. Although, the first man to suggest a more palatable menu would have my vote in the upcoming election, that he would.”
Sal couldn’t help but smile. He liked Jacques. Speaking with the man was rather like sitting by a warm hearth on a rainy day.
“When you’ve dressed, join me in the hall, and I’ll guide you to the frater.” After placing Sal’s clothing at the foot of the bed, the monk turned and stepped from the room.
As Sal dismounted the bed, he felt unsteady, weak with exhaustion. A meal would serve nicely, but what he truly needed was a cap. He dressed quickly and joined the monk in the hallway.
Motioning for him to follow, Jacques headed for the opposite end of the hall. They crossed a lawn and entered a high-ceilinged building.
“The frater,” said Jacques.
The frater was the size of a great hall, more suited to a king than men of the cloth. The ceiling was timber, blackened by years of oven smoke. It was filled with tables and benches that seated row after row of monks.
“Knöldrus is the largest monastery in the kingdom of Nelgand” Jacques said proudly, gesturing to the rows of monks seated at the tables. “There are over four hundred brothers in service of our holy order living within these walls.”
“Ahem,” coughed a slender monk standing in Sal’s immediate path. The man was tall, his close-set eyes and hooked nose resembled a predatory bird. “I see the skeever lives,” he said in a shrill voice. “How long must we suffer his presence, Jacques?”
Jacques crossed his thickly muscled arms. “Such coarse terms are beneath a brother of the order, Leobald. Now make way, we are ready to break our fast.”
The hawkish monk narrowed his eyes to thin slits. Sneering in disgust, he shouldered past Sal and exited the frater.
“Never you mind Brother Leobald,” said Jacques reassuringly. “Amid the politics of the monastery, some of us forget our order exists to serve. Even though Knöldrus Abbey is within the city walls, we tend to remain isolated from the general population, and isolation will brew fear in the bellies of suspicious men.”
Sal unclenched his fist, wondering what would have happened if he had punched Leobald in the back of his tonsured head. Instead, Sal gritted his teeth and adjusted his shirt. When something suddenly occurred to him. His hand snapped to his collar. The locket, it was gone. With everything that had happened, he’d not even thought to check for it.
“Jacques,” Sal said, doing his best to keep the panic from his voice, “when you took me in, was I wearing a locket? ”
“Ah, yes, I’d nearly forgotten. I put the little pendant in a safe place while you slept. When we’ve finished breaking our fast, we shall return to the infirmary.” Jacques led him through the vast hall, nodding to those who greeted him. “Good morrow, my brothers,” said Jacques, taking a seat across from a pair of monks. He patted the empty spot next to him on the bench, signaling for Sal to follow suit. “What news from the brewery, Brother Tanao?”
A podgy, red-faced monk looked up from his porridge. He had a nose of burst purple veins and eyelids that drooped, giving him a melancholy look. Wiping his thick, grey mustache with the sleeve of his robe, he said, “A new harvest was brought in just this morning. With this new batch finishing later in the week, I presume the abbey stores will be full come winter.”
“Supposing Tanao doesn’t drink it all first,” said a mousy, buck-toothed monk seated across from Sal.
Tanao scoffed and puffed out his chest as he fixed the mousy monk with a withering look. “I seem to recall I was not the only one in the brewhouse before dawn’s break. On more important business, have you heard the morning count?” the podgy monk asked, turning back to Jacques. “They are saying Leobald has acquired ten new votes.”
“Another ten votes won’t win him the office,” said the mousy monk. “The man is still a horse’s ass.”
“Still, it is troubling news,” said the red-faced Tanao. “It shows he is gaining support. I need not remind you, if Leobald becomes abbot, it would spell trouble for us all.”
A young acolyte arrived at Jacques’s signal. On his tray, he carried a stack of wooden bowls and a pot of porridge. Rich, buttery aromas wafted from the steaming pot. Jacques took two bowls and filled them with the cream-colored slop, then handed Sal a bowl and a wooden spoon. Sal was no stranger to breaking his fast with porridge. Still, he’d never much liked the stuff.
“And who is Leobald’s opposition?” Sal asked, growing rather interested in the talk of the monastic elections. After all, abbots served for life, it was a rare thing for any citizen of Dijvois to witness more than one election for the abbot of Knöldrus Abbey .
“Brother Martin and Brother Henry,” said Jacques.
“Martin is too old,” said the mousy monk, “and Henry has the wit of a dung heap. Neither will gain more votes than Leobald. Jacques here is the best fit for the job. Though, he has shrugged off our best efforts at persuasion. I have begun to suspect his mother is a mule. After all, he certainly bears the look, does he not?”
Tanao looked at Sal as though he had only just noticed him. “And who might this young man be?” said the red-faced monk.
“This is Salvatori Lorenzo,” said Jacques, “a guest of the infirmary.”
“Found him praying on his face in the cathedral, I did,” said the young, mousy monk.
“You—I mean, thank you. I owe you a great debt.”
“Pay your gratitude to the Lord that is Light. It was he that saved your hide, not I.”
“Right,” said Sal, a touch uncomfortable.
“The names Philip, by the way. Salvatori Lorenzo, did you say?”
Sal nodded. Like Sal himself, Philip looked to be of Pairgu stock. Nineteen, if he was a day. Philip was short and slender, with a pair of bucked-teeth that gave him a somewhat rodent-like appearance.
The pudgy, red-faced monk, Tanao, squinted his droopy eyelids and looked Sal up and down. “Gentle-born, I’ve no doubt.”
Jacques looked at Sal with one eyebrow cocked, as though asking a silent question.
“Not of the Dijvois gentry,” said Philip.
“You know every noble in the city, do you?” asked Tanao.
“Aye, well, I’m one of them, aren’t I?”
“Not any longer,” said Jacques. “You took our vows, and now you bear but one name.”
Philip looked abashed, his young face turning nearly as red as that of Brother Tanao. “Noble or initiate, I’ve sense enough to know Lorenzo is not a name of the Dijvois gentry. They’re merchant class.”
“Ah, but by his features, I would have thought—but no matter,” said Tanao .
Philip snapped a finger. “Lorenzo, Stefano Lorenzo, no?”
“My uncle.”
“Ah, but I knew the name was familiar,” said Philip.
The mention of his uncle cast a spell of silence over the table, as it always did when the name Stefano Lorenzo was spoken aloud.
“Why is it you’re not running for abbot?” Sal asked Jacques in an attempt to break the silence.
“A sorted answer is the best I can give. I’ve never been much of a man for leading. It’s true, I garner the respect of some, and the position of abbot is an honorable post, but many and more know my true passions lie with my work in the infirmary and my work for the Lord that is Light. If I were to be elected, my life would be filled with bureaucracy and beadledom, long days and short nights. When it is all considered, I feel my life is better spent where I am.”
“And if you don’t enter your name in the running, the lives of the men at this table could very likely be filled with emptying chamber pots,” said Philip.
“Surely that couldn’t happen,” said Sal.
“Ah, but it could,” said Philip. “You see, abbot is an elected position. As the highest authority within the abbey, it is only appropriate that my brothers and I have a say as to who will wear the collar of office. Aside from our abbot, the rest of the positions of the Enlightened Council are appointed and revoked by the abbot himself.”
“Therein lies the rub,” said Tanao. “All the power lies with he who wears the collar of office, and as such, it is imperative that Jacques enters himself in the election.”
“What you men seem to forget is that Leobald must first win the election. As you said, young Philip, abbot is an elected position. Leobald seems to think that, as prior, he will simply step into the position of abbot as though it is his rightful inheritance,” said Jacques. “I’ll admit, there are fools among our order who would vote for such a man, but do you truly believe the fools outnumber those among us with sense?”
“Many men of sound mind have pledged Leobald their votes,” said Philip.
“Pledges mean nothing. They are only words,” Jacques snapped, the first crack in his limestone demeanor. “Until the stones are cast, nothing is set. Keep in mind, when the last election was held, our brothers did not elect Leobald. They chose abbot Tarquin, who proved to be one of the most amiable men to ever wear the collar.”
“Aye, it’s true, our brothers ought to elect a man worthy of the position. A man of strong will, good sense, and a humble heart,” said Tanao. “Yet, no such man has put forth his name, and when there are no good options, men will reach for the familiar. You know this as well as I, Jacques. As prior, Leobald has naturally been looked to as the transitory abbot and will remain so until the election. If things go smoothly until the time of the election, the brothers may say to themselves that things should stay as they are. They may know in their hearts Leobald is rotten to his black core, but they may forgive this fault if he can give them more of the same.”
Jacques sighed and put his face in his hands dramatically. He drew in a breath, sat up tall, and turned to Sal. “Master Salvatori, I must apologize on behalf of my companions. It seems they forget themselves, even in the presence of an honored guest. Let us be done speaking of politics, my brothers.”
Sal spooned another mouthful of porridge, his hand shaking involuntarily, his body weak and craving something with a hunger that food could not fill. What he wouldn’t do for skeev was anyone’s guess. “Forgive my ignorance, but what happened to the last abbot?”
Jacques took on a somber expression, and Tanao busied himself with his food, but Philip scooted to the edge of the bench, elbows on the table as he leaned close to Sal and rubbed his palms together. “Sickness of the belly, consumption, wasn’t it, Jacques?”
Jacques looked away, his eyes seeming to have welled up. “It began as a sickness of the belly, but when he developed a persistent cough, I knew what I was dealing with. Though, by then, it seems it was too late. Soon after I relayed my discoveries to the Enlightened Council, the sickness took our abbot swifter than anything I’ve experienced in my years as Master Infirmarer. ”
“Well, there’ve been rumors,” said Philip conspiratorially. “In the initiate housing, some of the other boys—”
“Philip!” said Tanao, placing his spoon on the table and fixing the mousy monk with a leer like a mad dog. “You do forget yourself in our company. Put a hand on that shaved spot atop your empty skull and keep in mind, the Lord that is Light sees all from above. Would you profess your servitude to our Lord with your talents as rumormonger?”
Philip opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say, they would never know. At that moment, commotion spread through the gathered monks like the rush of a storm over calm water.
When the message reached their table, it was delivered by a little monk with a lazy eye. “Prior Leobald has asked that the masters of the Enlightened Council gather at the orchard.”
“A most unusual request,” said Jacques, arching an eyebrow.
“Does the prior not know this is the hour at which we break our fast? I will join him when I’ve had my fill,” said Tanao, raising his hand to summon one of the serving boys.
“I’d not keep the prior waiting,” said the little monk with the wandering eye. “It seems to be a matter of urgency.”
“Very well,” said Jacques, standing. “Come, Master Brewer. It seems we are required in the orchard.”
Tanao stood, scowling. “Would that I’d broken my fast in the brewhouse, where dodgy eyed imps seldom come with summonses from their master.”
“Light’s blessing upon you, Brother Tanao,” said the little monk with the wandering eye.
As the two monks began to walk away, Sal felt a pang of anxiety. He wasn’t going to let Jacques out of his sight until he got his locket back. He stood, and when no one stopped him or said a word in protest, Sal followed the two masters out the frater doors.
Jacques and Tanao joined another cluster of three monks. The group crossed the yard and made for the orchard, where they saw another group of seven monks some ways into the trees. The others were gathered about the massive trunk of a pardimon tree. Soon to be twelve strong, they made up the entire Enlightened Council .
As they neared the massive tree, its gnarled, leafless branches spotted black by carrion birds, a distant scream sounded in Sal’s head.
He nearly dropped to his knees. Terror gripped him by the throat with an icy hand. His heart set to racing, his legs weak and shaking. There was something familiar about the pardimon tree, something horribly familiar.
The monks nearest the tree had begun shouting, and it sounded as though a scuffle might break out.
“What is the meaning of this?” said Jacques.
The gathered monks began to part in order to make way for Jacques, who, it seemed, was a rather big deal, even amongst the Enlightened Council.
Sal had never wanted a cap of skeev more than at that very moment. Everything inside him said to run, to be as far from that place as he could get, but he couldn’t move. His feet were planted to the spot.
As the monks made way for Jacques and the other newcomers, Sal caught a glimpse of what they’d gathered about. A black heap lying on the ground. No, not black, brown, a man in drab brown robes—a monk.
“Brother Dennis,” said Tanao breathlessly.
Jacques knelt to examine the body closely.
Others gasped, one man’s breath caught, another began to break down and sob there and then.
Sal felt a tightness in his throat and a hollow pit in his stomach. Something nagged at him, a familiarity he could not pinpoint. A terrible sinking feeling, ominous as black storm clouds on the horizon.
“A demon walks amongst us, brothers,” said Leobald in a loud, shrill voice. “I have summoned you here today to witness for yourselves, and so, there can be no denying the truth. Before you is the victim of a violent and senseless act.”
“Strangled,” said Jacques. “A garrote.”
“Brother Dennis,” said a tall monk. “One of the initiates reported him missing at the morning prayers. ”
“This was not brought to my attention,” said Leobald.
“I’d not thought it to be of import,” said the tall monk defensively.
“It is not uncommon for an initiate to miss the morning prayers,” said Tanao. “As they are often undisciplined.”
“Your failure to recognize authority is not the issue at hand,” said Prior Leobald. “Someone has violated our laws of sanctuary, despoiled holy ground.”
“My concern lies, not with the ground, but with the taking of a life,” said Jacques. “This boy was our brother, a member of our order. We should not concern ourselves with the theological implications, but those that pertain to corporeal matters. Our concern, my brothers, should be for the safety of the flock.”
The collected group began to mutter their ascent.
“The only way to guarantee the safety of the flock,” said Leobald bitterly, “is for the shepherds to beat back the wolves. Our path is clear, brothers, it has been illuminated for us by the Lord that is Light. We must hunt for this wolf that has infiltrated our walls. We must kill this wolf and hang his pelt above our gates as a sign to others who would think our sheep ripe for the taking.”
“But how can we know?” said one of the monks.
“A servant of Sacrull cannot conceal himself among the righteous for long,” said Leobald. “We must be vigilant. We must be aware of all that which may seem queer, if only in the slightest. We must—” Leobald stopped speaking as his scanning gaze fell on Sal. “What in Light’s name is this creature doing here?”
The others seemed only then to notice Sal.
“Salvatori is my guest,” said Jacques. “He has come at my invitation.”
“He has come to view his night-work in the light of day!” said Prior Leobald, his eyes burning with something like realization. “I want him seized.”
No one moved. The eleven others seemed as shocked as Sal.
Yet, an instant later, two of the monks began to close toward Sal with the clear intent of subduing him.
Before anyone else answered the prior’s call, Sal ran for it .
He fled the orchard, crossed the yard, cut through the cloister, and burst through the transept of the cathedral. Taking a sharp turn, he sprinted, disregarding shouts of protest that rang through the nave.
Once he’d pushed past the cathedral’s oak doors and out the Abbey Gate, Sal felt the elation of freedom, but he didn’t stop. He ran down the cobblestone street, fast as his feet would take him, giving no regard to where he went, so long as it was away from Knöldrus Abbey and the corpse beneath the massive pardimon tree.
The Hand That Takes Page 25