Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, for the priest nodded. “Ah, yes. That is quite okay, my child. You see, the God of Fire protects his most trusted servants against the darkness and, even without light, we might travel it safely enough—though of course, we must always remain vigilant. For the enemies of the Light,” he said, meeting Torrik’s gaze in a way the retired spy didn’t like, “are many, and subtle and mysterious are their ways.”
Torrik was troubled by that. He had not fought in the Night War, had been little more than a child when it had taken place, but he had heard the stories often enough. Stories of magic and battles and the darkness given form and function. He had heard tales of Chosen Olliman and the other High Priests, of the blessing of their god that they wielded in his name, but never had he heard of anyone—even the Chosen—being able to walk in the darkness without a light to protect them.
“Still,” the bishop went on, and if he noticed any of Torrik’s concern, he did not show it, “you would do well to get the lanterns seen to as quickly as you can. It is not wise for a man—particularly a man with a wife and young son—to make such an easy target of himself.”
“Young son?” Torrik asked, his mind still trying to catch up as he struggled to remember if he had ever mentioned his son to Deckard. He didn’t think so, but the last few days had been the most stressful he’d had in many years, and he couldn’t be certain.
The man’s smile twitched at that, but it may have been no more than a sign of annoyance from a man who did not like to be questioned. “That’s right. And if I may ask, where were you heading?”
“The shed there, in that direction,” Torrik said, gesturing. “As I believe I told you, Bishop, I am a light merchant, and since the yard lanterns went out, I thought it would be wise to retrieve some, just in case.”
“Oh, you need not bother yourself,” Deckard said. “One of my priests will, of course, be happy to retrieve the items you need.”
“Bishop,” Torrik said, “forgive me, but I couldn’t ask that of you. Truly, if you’ll give me but a moment—”
“But I insist,” the man said. His smile was still in place, but there was something dangerous, something ominous about it now, and Torrik realized he had no choice. “After all, Torrik,” the bishop went on, “the Church owes you a debt, has apparently owed it to you for some time. The least we can do is to retrieve the materials you will need to keep your family safe for the night.” He gestured to one of the men with him, and the robed figure turned, disappearing into the darkness a moment later in the direction of the shed.
“There now,” Deckard said once he was gone, “we will see that your family is well taken care of, Torrik. That, you can trust in completely. Anyway…” He paused, glancing around at the darkness pervading the yard before turning back to Torrik. “Might we come in? I do not wish to intrude, of course, but though we have some defense that others do not possess against the darkness, still, there is no reason to tempt fate.” He leaned in then, a slight shifting of the body that made his eyes come only inches from Torrik’s own. “Is there?”
Torrik wanted to deny the man entry. After all, there was no question in his mind that the bishop was somehow tied up in the conspiracy, and even if he had been uncertain before, all doubt would have been banished at the sight of the seven men traveling in the darkness as if they were unafraid. As if they belonged to it. His thoughts raced as he sought to find some reason, some excuse, but nothing came, and the truth was it probably wouldn’t have mattered in any case. Six men, not including the bishop himself. All men who looked dangerous, who had about them an air of menace. If they wanted in the house, they were coming in either way, and there was nothing he could do to stop them.
So he smiled with as much sincerity as he could, bowing his head. “Forgive me, Bishop, of course, please come in. You do my house and my family much honor.”
The man’s face seemed to indicate that such words were only his due, and he walked into the house, followed by his men. Torrik hesitated at the door, frowning out into the night.
“Is there something amiss, Torrik?” the bishop asked, his concern obviously feigned.
“Your man,” the retired spy said. “I thought to leave the door open so that he might see the light and—”
“There is really no need,” Deckard said, smiling as if he was comforting a small child who had experienced a nightmare. The child, though, might awaken from the nightmare in which he found himself, while Torrik felt certain that he would not so easily banish whatever trouble he and his family were in. “As I think I’ve mentioned already, Amedan protects us, his loyal servants, his faithful, and there are few more faithful, more dedicated than Brother Orren.”
“As you say, Bishop,” Torrik said, easing the door shut.
“Curious,” Deckard said, glancing around the room, his gaze drifting across the boxes which Elayna had spent the day packing. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Torrik, I am surprised to find that you’ve been packing. After all, I had been under the impression that you intended to stay in our lovely town for some time—were, in fact, looking to take up residence here permanently. Was I mistaken?”
Careful again, Torrik. He might be vain and arrogant, but beneath that exterior is something malicious and cruel and plotting. He could have said that something had come up with a cousin, perhaps, some family trouble that required him to pack up and leave unexpectedly, but he quickly dismissed the idea. After all, such an abrupt flight would be more than a little suspicious, certainly enough to confirm any suspicions—gods let them be suspicions only and not certainties—that the bishop had about Torrik’s identity. He laughed. “To be honest, Bishop, we haven’t fully unpacked yet from our arrival, and I don’t imagine we will. You see, we have only rented this house out for a time; the family who owns it will be back in a few days, I imagine, and we’ll be looking for another place to stay in Entin. If you have any suggestions, I’d love to hear them.”
“I see,” the older man said, still studying Torrik, searching for any sign of deceit. He would find none. Of that much, at least, Torrik was sure, for he had been well trained in dissembling, an unpleasant but necessary part of the job he’d once held, and he met the other man’s eyes confidently.
“Well,” the bishop said after a moment, and Torrik didn’t think he imagined the disappointment in the man’s tone, “I do wish you luck in your search. Unfortunately, we priests have little time for such mundane things, for there are other concerns which demand our attention, and we must trust our god to provide shelter for us.”
Torrik bowed his head. “You and your priests are, of course, a most holy example to those of us who wish to serve the God of Fire and Light but are inadequate to such a sanctified calling.”
“Indeed,” the older man answered, watching Torrik as if trying to decide whether or not he was being mocked. No worry of that, the retired spy thought. You are in my home. My wife and child are in the other room, and I have no time for games.
There were several seconds of silence then as the bishop studied him, and Torrik kept his eyes on the man, schooling his expression, while out of the corner of his gaze, he watched for any sudden movements from the other robed men. “Now then,” Deckard said abruptly, withdrawing a coin purse from his belt, “I suppose it is best that we pay you back what you are owed. I really do apologize for the tardiness of this payment, just as I apologize for the lateness of the hour. The last thing I wish to do is disturb your family on such a night. Speaking of,” he said, glancing around, as if he’d only just had the thought, “where are this wife and son of yours, I wonder?” He raised an eyebrow, “Not out traveling in the darkness, I hope. There are few errands worth venturing into the night.”
Torrik was just about to tell the man that his wife and son had gone to bed early in preparation of searching for a house the next day—the words were on the tip of his tongue—when suddenly the two appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, Elayna noticeably trying to hold
Alesh back. But his son let out a cry of, “Daddy!” and came running to him, embracing Torrik tightly.
Damnit, Torrik thought, and he met his wife’s eyes briefly, but long enough to see she had meant to keep their son away, but the normally well-behaved boy had apparently decided not to listen. Amedan be good, Torrik thought, why would you choose this moment, Alesh, of all moments, to defy your mother? “Forgive me, Bishop, Priests,” he said. “This is my son, Alesh. Alesh, this is Bishop Deckard. He and his priests do Amedan’s will, helping other people to come to the Light.”
The bishop knelt, smiling, and extended his hand to Alesh, but the boy recoiled as if the man held a dagger. “No,” Alesh said in a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a whimper.
Torrik’s heart began to race in his chest as the older man cocked his head, studying the boy curiously. “Y-you must forgive him, Bishop,” he said, not having to feign his worry, “my son is a good boy, but he is young and sometimes—”
“Oh, it is quite alright,” the older man said, but judging by the way his eyes were narrowed, it didn’t appear to be alright, not at all. “Hello, Alesh. It is a pleasure to meet you. My name, as your father told you, is Deckard.”
“D-E-C-K-A-R-D,” Alesh said, spelling each letter out individually.
“That’s right,” the man said, smiling, “and my, aren’t you a clever boy? You see, my companions and I,”—he paused, gesturing to the other robed men—“are servants of the Light and of His Holiness, Amedan, the Bringer of the Flame.”
“No,” Alesh said again, hugging his father tighter, and cringing away from the bishop and the other priests.
“Alesh,” Torrik scolded, “don’t be disrespectful to the bishop. Sorry, sir,” he said, “I—”
“A pleasure to meet you, Bishop,” Torrik’s wife said, hurrying forward and curtseying before the man, pulling his attention away from Alesh. “My name is Elayna.”
“And a beautiful name it is,” the older man said, studying Torrik’s wife with a lust that did not belong on a priest’s face. He offered his ring-be-decked hand to her, and she hesitated for only a fraction of a second before taking it and giving the knuckles the barest of kisses.
The bishop leaned back, sniffing the air. “Ah, but something smells quite…delicious.”
“Bread, sir Bishop,” Elayna said, stepping back to stand with her husband and child. “And some meat and a berry pie.”
The older man raised an eyebrow. “Well, now, if this is a regular feast in your household, Torrik, then it seems you have been a bit…modest about your own fortunes.”
“Not a regular meal at all, Bishop,” Torrik said. “Only, my family has had a trying few weeks—traveling, as you no doubt are aware, takes its toll—and we thought we might celebrate finding a lovely town that we could stay in.”
“Ah, yes,” Deckard said, his eyes still on Elayna, “a fine town indeed.”
Silence then, the two groups—the bishop and his men and Torrik and his family—watching each other. “Well,” the bishop said, sighing heavily, “I suppose that we have bothered you and your family long enough. How much did you say the debt was again?”
Torrik told him and watched as the bishop counted out a dawn and several dusks, placing each carefully on the table. He flashed a benign smile that never touched his eyes. “Now then, I hope that settles our debt, such as it was. And,” he said, drawing out another golden coin and laying the Dawn with the rest of the pile, adding half again the total amount, “a bit more. For your troubles.”
“Bishop,” Torrik said, “thank you, but there’s really no nee—”
“Nonsense,” the older man said. “We servants of the Light must watch out for each other when we can. A coin we can spare…” He paused, glancing in the direction of the kitchen, a slow smile on his face. “…A meal which we might use to feed others. All, of course, serve Amedan.”
The last thing Torrik wanted was to ask the bishop to stay for dinner. More than anything, he wanted the man and his priests—or whatever they were—gone and away from his family as quickly as possible. But the older man was looking at him expectantly, almost challengingly, that small smile still on his face. And why not? If Torrik really were just a merchant of modest wealth, he would be overjoyed at the prospect of so important a personage sharing a meal with him and his family. The trap had been neatly laid, and the bishop knew it. “Bishop Deckard,” Torrik said, “I wonder, if it isn’t too forward of me, would you and your priests like to stay for dinner?”
The older man’s grin widened. “Oh, that is very kind of you. But there are seven of us, after all, and I would not wish to put your dear, pretty wife through any more trouble on our account.” He turned to look at Elayna expectantly, and she gave him a tight smile.
“That is quite alright, Bishop,” she said, glancing at Alesh, and Torrik knew she was remembering, as he was himself, the way their son had continually insisted she make more food while preparing the night’s meal. “I’m certain we will have enough for all of us.”
“Well,” Deckard said, nodding, “I suppose that settles it, then. It would be ill done, should I and my compatriots refuse such a kind invitation.”
“And it’s our pleasure,” Torrik said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I think I’d best go check on the man you sent to the shed.”
“Oh, you need not trouble yourself,” the other man said. “Brother Orren is a true follower of the Light, and he will return with the materials you need soon enough.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Bishop, but he has been gone for some time now. Perhaps, just a quick look—”
“There is no need.” The older man’s voice was forceful, almost angry, and when Torrik turned away from the door he saw the man’s smile was nowhere in evidence.
As if he realized it, Deckard’s stern expression changed in an instant, and he gave Torrik a wink. “We would not want to offend Brother Orren by making him believe we did not trust him to accomplish so simple a task, would we?”
“Of course not,” Torrik said, and while on the outside he appeared calm enough, his mind was full of questions, the obvious answers of which he did not like.
A few minutes later they were all seated at the large table. They each began to eat in near silence and Torrik, trained to be observant, and now in his anxiety even more so than normal, noticed how none of the priests—including the bishop himself—partook of the vegetables or the berry pie his wife had made, choosing instead to eat exclusively of the meat. A coincidence, or a sign of something more?
He was still thinking on it when the bishop, who had barely touched his food, leaned back, setting his utensils down carefully on his plate. “So, Elayna,” he said, nodding his head to her, “how is it being married to a merchant, I wonder?”
She smiled. “It is good, Bishop, thank you for asking. Torrik is a good man, a kind one, and I cannot ask for more than that.”
“Indeed,” Deckard said in a bored drawl. “And, from what I understand, your family travels regularly, is that right?”
The last was addressed to Torrik, who nodded. “Yes, Bishop Deckard. We sell lights, as I believe I’ve mentioned, and in our travels we sometimes acquire curiosities that while common place and of little value in some regions, will fetch a high price in others, as people are willing to pay to avoid having to make the trip themselves.”
“A nice way to supplement your income then,” the older man said thoughtfully. “Tell me, Torrik,” he said, “are there any other methods you use to make a little extra coin?”
Alarm bells rang in Torrik’s mind. The question had been asked simply enough, but he knew it for what it was—a trap, carefully prepared and carefully laid, one which he would fall into should he say the wrong thing, so he resisted the urge to say no and shrugged instead. “Small things, Bishop. We sometimes carry letters for people, correspondences from one family member to another who has moved away, that sort of thing.”
A look of annoyance fla
shed across the older man’s features, and Torrik knew, in that moment, he had managed to avoid the man’s trap. A second later, the bishop had his façade of joviality in place once more. “Yes, I suppose that makes sense. Letters from a family member to a family member, from a friend to a friend, checking in to see how they are getting on. That sort of thing.”
“Exactly so, Bishop Deckard.”
“Letters,” the old man went on as if Torrik hadn’t spoken, “like the one Brother Ulem sent you.” He turned at the last, meeting the retired spy’s gaze, his own eyes dancing with undeniable triumph.
Torrik froze, his eyes taking in the six robed men who had all stopped eating at the bishop’s words and were now watching him with dull, blank expressions. Seven men in all, seven who, if the two he had killed in Ulem’s house were any indication, were not averse to fighting and had some skill in it. Seven men. Too many. Even had Torrik been in his prime—which he was far from—still it would have been too many.
He hesitated, resisting the urge to pull the blade he had secreted at his waist, as his thoughts raced furiously, going over the contents of the letter that Ulem had sent him. In his mind, he pulled up an image of the letter from where he’d read it little more than two weeks ago, making use of a memory trained to forget little.
Friend,
The town of Entin has seen some troubles of late.
Your assistance, should you be able, is needed,
For in small places, sometimes great darkness can grow.
Come, if you can.
And after that, scrawled across the bottom of the letter like a signature were the words that had drawn Torrik and his family to this place. Words that, in their writing, asked him to become a man he had thought to leave behind. We carry the Light.
“Torrik?” the Bishop said, and there was no missing the satisfaction in his voice. “You look as if something is bothering you.”
Be the man you once were, now if ever, Torrik thought. Be that man, or your family will suffer for it. “Forgive me, Bishop,” he said, “but I…I am only surprised, that’s all.”
The Forging of Dawn Page 9