Kiver thought Gregor’s head was about to explode from everything going on inside it. His soul hurt for Irital, and his eyes could barely take any more. It was a surprise he’d never noticed any of what they were seeing before. And why had Lord Rolf, who’d brought Gregor with him on his campaigns from a young age, forgotten to tell him about the people living in his country? Why had the masters who so zealously instilled the knowledge of long-dead saints, legendary battles, and religious laws skipped over the serfs who worked for the good of the Order and the cloisters? They were the people the Order was supposed to protect, and they’d neglected them.
Kiver den Lange glanced with pity at his dejected friend, though he didn’t have the nerve to say anything. There probably wasn’t anything he could have said that would have cheered him up, anyway. From the duke’s face, Lange could tell that he felt betrayed. Hurt. Gregor’s worldview, which had for so many years been built around the ideals of service to god and the Order, not to mention the precepts of the Holy Book, was starting to look mistaken. Just one quick look outside his normal horizons, and all the ideas Gregor had so recently been ready to kill for were no longer immutably truths. And the ruler of Highligland himself felt like an idiot.
It was Kiver’s suspicion that Voldhard stayed away from Artanna and her Ennian because he needed space, needed to breathe, needed to get his thoughts in order, and needed to come to terms with himself and his rage. He was turning over everything he’d seen, thinking about what to do next, how to apply the experience he was gaining. But Gregor couldn’t let the Vagran see him like that. Anyone but her, who always compared him to his father. Everyone knew the comparison with Lord Rolf wasn’t in his younger son’s favor, and Gregor may have been hungering to change that. He just didn’t know how.
But one thing Kiver den Lange knew for sure: Gregor didn’t want Artanna to see in his eyes how right she was.
***
The duke’s motley band spent the night in an inn right next to the city wall. It was a cheap spot for travelers stopping by Roggdor on their journey along the Gatson way, which was a busy, if unfriendly and dangerous road.
The innkeeper was cold, the girls were less than pleasant, the food was terrible, and the ale was diluted. The travelers almost got into a fight with some Gatsons, even—Gregor’s temper flared up at exactly the wrong time. But thanks to Artanna and Jert, the conflict was avoided. They bought the southerners some drinks, apologized, and raised their mugs in a sign of reconciliation. And it was worth it—the Hundred leader couldn’t wait for a warm night, even in that shabby inn. It was much better than a view of the faraway stars, lying on a bed of last year’s leaves in a forest clearing. Even with all the bed bugs.
Somehow, Artanna managed to wrangle a separate room out of the innkeeper. Kiver’s intuition told him she’d paid more than the agreed-upon sum, adding some from her own pocket. Regardless of the fact that the mercenary woman was trying to show the duke what simple Highligland life was like, he realized that they were still protecting him to an extent. Artanna always did her best to land their group better conditions if the option was there. Of course, she might have been doing it for herself—life in rich, peaceful Givoi may have turned her soft. But whatever her real motives, nobody complained.
It was a quiet morning in Roggdor. They woke up early, quickly got their things together, and were about to set off without breakfast. Gregor couldn’t hide how much he wanted to be back home. Artanna stepped downstairs to buy food for the journey, and the men headed over to the stable once they were ready.
But the mercenary woman wasn’t alone when she returned.
Gregor, Kiver, and Jert stared suspiciously at the Vagran’s companion, a skinny young woman, still really just a girl, with striking blue eyes and a thick braid of dirty brown hair peeking out from under her hood.
“This is Elga,” Artanna said. “She asked to accompany us to Ellisdor, says she needs to see the duke about something. Just imagine—the duke himself!”
Voldhard raised his brows in surprise, though he didn’t say anything.
“Forgive me, good gentlemen,” the girl said as she attempted a bow. “I need to get to Ellisdor as soon as possible, and it’s dangerous for a woman to travel alone. Curse all these Gatson mercenaries! By the Keeper’s mercy, allow me to ride with you. I do have a horse, though it isn’t any match for yours. And don’t worry, I can pay! There’s a copper coin and a little silver in my purse.”
Kiver glanced questioningly at Gregor.
“You’ll need your money in Ellisdor,” Voldhard said. “Gillenai told us to help our neighbors, so please, come with us. And in return, you can tell us what you need to see Lord Gregor himself about.”
Elga nodded happily and started untying her nag.
“Praise the Keeper, some good people, at last! I promise I won’t be a burden.”
Jert chuckled quietly, understanding what Gregor was going for, and scratched the overgrown stubble on his face. Kiver couldn’t have cared less—he only cared about his lord’s safety. With the conversation over, the group left the city.
A couple hours later, when the sun was starting to get to them, they stopped to rest. Artanna pulled some fresh bread, hard cheese, and dried meat out of her saddle bags. Elga, who hadn’t said a word, went over to the Vagran.
“Here are some herb biscuits, dried berries, and onion bulbs.” She timidly held a sack out to Artanna. “If you don’t need money, at least let me share my food. The biscuits are wonderful, I swear! It’s my great-great-grandmother’s recipe, and they’re really filling. We always live on them in the bad years, and I’ve had nothing else since Ultsfeld. That was the last time I had a hot meal.”
“All right, let’s give them a try.” The mercenary woman broke off a piece and popped it in her mouth. “Screw me, these really are good. Hey, guys, get over here! Our friend can cook.”
Kiver, making himself taster, discreetly tried the food and made sure it wasn’t poisoned before giving a handful of the biscuits to his lord. Gregor swallowed them and licked his fingers.
“Elga, you should be a cook! They’re delicious.”
The girl blushed. Jert exchanged glances with Artanna and took another handful of the biscuits.
“Well, as long as we’re talking, child, why don’t you tell us what’s taking you to Ellisdor,” Artanna said to Elga.
Voldhard and Kiver sat down on a fallen trunk. Nearby, there was the remains of a fire—they weren’t the first travelers to make use of that spot.
The girl’s face darkened.
“I don’t think Lord Gregor will give me an audience, but it doesn’t hurt to try.”
“I have friends in the castle guard,” Kiver said. “And they have friends, too… You tell us, and we’ll see if we can help.”
“In Ultsfeld barony there’s a little place called Gailbro. Heard of it? That’s where I’m from,” Elga started, breaking off a piece of biscuit. “For a long time, the village belonged to Gnatius the Humble’s manor, and everyone there was a cloister serf. Then, about fifty years ago, the community came up with enough money to buy their freedom. It took them a long time. My ancestors were among them, and they bought their freedom from everyone—the clergy, the baron, and they even sent the duke gold. That’s the way it works: you break free from one, and another takes their place higher up the chain. That’s why they had to make sure everyone was happy before they could get their papers.”
“And what’s going on in Gailbro now?” Gregor asked.
“My father was the village elder and traded wool. His father and grandfather before him, too. Our family has a lot of land in the village, some of it bought, some inherited from distant relatives… But the main thing is that the trade is good. Ultsfeld is close, Givoi isn’t that far away, there’s the Gatson way… But the cloister is always trying to take our land back. While my father and grandfather were alive, they stood up for Gailbro, and the church couldn’t do anything. But a few months ago, my father gave his soul
up to god. I have no brothers, just me and my little sisters. And that’s when it started… I’m too young, I don’t understand business, a woman shouldn’t be trading, and all ignoring the fact that I’ve been around accounts since I was in my mother’s womb. Nobody believes in me. They’re all big talkers, but when it comes to doing, they stick their tongues in their butts and have nothing to say. There’s nobody to push back against the clergy. If I can’t do anything, I don’t know what will happen.”
“Shouldn’t the community talk to the baron of Ultsfeld? You must pay taxes to him,” Artanna said.
“Lord Halvend? We already tried that,” Elga sighed. “He won’t do anything for us, says he doesn’t want a fight with the monks. He couldn’t care less about us, which is why I’m on my way to talk to the duke.”
“What do they tell you at the cloister?” Voldhard asked, his attentive gaze fixed on the girl.
“The same thing they always say… The village is ownerless, and they can’t have that. They claim they have… What do they call it? Hold on… Oh, historical rights to our land, that’s it! And they call us freethinkers and troublemakers. But that not true at all. They’re practically calling us heretics, and all because we want to plant what we want, and not what they tell us. The trade in the free villages is always better, too—we don’t drive away foreigners or atheists. As long as they don’t bother us, we’re fine with them. But that’s not the way it is in the cloister’s lands.”
“Okay, but why did the community send you to the duke when they could have written a petition?” Gregor asked.
“Ha!” Elga laughed mirthlessly before biting into an onion bulb. “There’s nobody to write the paper. That’s the way it is—the village has its Shrine. The Shrine has a master. The master has aides, and they’re the ones who draw up papers. I could write it myself, but the clergy are supposed to stamp it. And ever since the whole mess started, the masters have been refusing to help. They pray, they practice their rites, but they won’t actually do anything. It looks like they made a deal with the cloister. So, that’s why I have to go myself—it’s better than wasting time on paper. I feel better, too.”
Artanna pulled out a skin of water and took a few swallows.
“What exactly is the cloister threatening?”
“They’re going to accuse us of being heretics, what else?” Elga replied with a shrug. “They say if we’re not peaceful about it, they’ll excommunicate our entire village, send brother protectors, and burn it all down with the people inside. There are already rumors going around the neighboring villages thanks to them about how renounced the Keeper, and that’s why we let atheists and followers of other beliefs come in the gates. Everyone’s refusing to trade with us. It’s bad.”
Voldhard frowned.
“And what are you expecting from Lord Gregor?” he asked thoughtfully.
Elga grimaced.
“I doubt I’ll even see him, to be honest. They say he’s a busy man, always traveling. But I heard you can talk to Baron Aldor, his aide. He might listen, and he’ll get in the duke’s ear if it’s important. So, I’m going to tell him that the monks are going against the laws of god and man, ask him for help. I know I’ll have to wait a while, but I’m not leaving Ellisdor without an answer.” The girl thumped a fist on the tree trunk decisively.
“I think it’ll work. You’re a fighter, that much is obvious,” Gregor said, wiping his hands on his pants. “By the way, what are your thoughts on the duke?”
Voldhard’s question elicited a slight smile from Artanna. Jert chuckled knowingly and headed over to the horses.
“I don’t have time to think about him, good man,” Elga replied. “All I care about is not burning to death as a heretic when they herd everyone in the village into a barn. But they say Lord Gregor is a good man, even if he did use to be a monk. We can’t stand them—you can understand why. Whatever they say about us, we’ve always loved and worshiped the Keeper in Gailbro. We’re hard workers, not heretics.”
Elga stood up.
“I’ll help you,” Gregor said quietly.
“You’ve already helped me, good man,” the elder’s daughter said with a heavy sigh. “Everything else is in god’s hands.”
Chapter 32. Missolen
“I’m begging you, tell me you’re on her trail.”
Demos studied Master Yun’s face, the latter lounging unapologetically on his favorite settee. It was clear that Archella’s spy had hurried back to Missolen—he hadn’t even washed the dirt from the road off his clothes, and his boots, which were nearly worn through, left dirty tracks on the clean mosaic floor.
Yun looked haggard, if calm.
Okay, so, he found something.
“Could I have some water?” the man asked. “I haven’t eaten or drunk all day. There wasn’t time in Azi—I just changed horses and kept going.”
Demos nodded to Lahel, who handed Yun a pitcher. The spy ignored the cup on the table, put the pitcher straight to his mouth, and took several thirsty gulps.
“Well?”
“Thank you. Just a second.” Yun wiped his mouth with his sleeve, smearing dirt all over his face, and pulled a piece of paper folded four times out of his shirt. But he was in no hurry to hand it to his client. Demos decided not to kick the tired traveler out of his usual spot, instead grimacing from the pain in his low back as he settled into the chair across from him.
“Let’s hear it.”
Yun nodded and frowned in concentration.
“First, I got in contact with some of ours and made inquiries around Targos. But there was nothing to find out in Gaienkh or Tirai about the woman. So, I told the locals to keep an eye out, deciding to check into the information I’d already gotten. In the process, I found out that Sauli really had been doing a poor job.”
That’s strange. He used to be very detail-oriented, though, to be fair, Archella wouldn’t have gotten rid of a valued employee for no reason…
“Details,” Demos said.
“Believe it or not, but my instinct led me to Ulfiss.” The spy held up his hands, showing his helplessness. “It was like my feet started walking there on their own, which happens sometimes. My intuition is almost always on the money. This time, it was right again.”
You don’t suffer from a lack of modesty, at least.
The treasurer leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and placed his chin on his folded hands.
“What did you find?” he asked, trying to keep his impatience at bay.
“The woman wasn’t there, of course. But I was able to speak with the novices and nuns. They’re not so innocent, let me tell you,” Yun said with a ribald smile that elicited a heavy sigh from Demos. “If I hadn’t been in a hurry, I probably would have stuck around for a while. They don’t have real men there—you should have seen how hungry they were, how they looked at my…”
The spy slapped his codpiece.
“Profligate nuns, a dashing hero, makes sense. Did they tell you anything actually interesting?”
“What didn’t they tell me?” Yun laughed. “Lots of nonsense, but I get paid to sift through all that. It turns out that there really was a Tanal at the Ulfiss cloister. I didn’t show the portrait you gave me to the girl who mentioned that, so she wasn’t able to say for sure, but her description was right on the money. That’s our woman. She even spoke with a southern accent.”
Are we finally on her tail?
“You said she ‘was’ there?”
“Yep. She spent about a dozen days there, so we missed each other.”
Demos shook his head.
“Not the best news.”
Master Yun took another few swigs from the pitcher.
“That’s not all, Your Grace,” he said when he finished. “The cloisters are all inventoried—everything from candlewax to the number of iron beads they have for rosaries. Of course, that means they count heads—novices, pilgrims, esteemed guests… A good prior would definitely take care of planning, reporting, and
accounting.”
Demos nodded eagerly.
“I was able to get into the closed part of the cloister and wander the corridors. A little skill, fussing with the locks, a drop of luck, and I was where I need to be. Happily, they use the imperial language to do their reporting in Ulfiss, and that made figuring out the books easy. I’m not good at the ancient language.”
I’ll bet even a lot of the monks in a hole like Ulfiss wouldn’t understand the dead language. They probably just recite memorized prayers.
“Are you going to keep wasting my time or finally tell me something worthwhile?” Demos asked.
Yun handed the piece of paper to Demos.
“I didn’t tear out any pages—there was enough time to copy down what I needed. Look,” the spy said, pointing at a line. “Here’s Tanal’s name. She showed up twelve days after the emperor died. And then, twenty-five days later, the name disappeared from the ledgers. I checked all of them I could.”
“That doesn’t give us anything yet.”
“Why not? We know that your Tanal really was in Ulfiss. The next question is what made her leave so quickly.”
The brutal cold? It doesn’t get hot in Osvendis even in summer, and Izara’s used to a southern climate. Still, that’s probably not the reason.
“Again, nothing specific. I was expecting more, Master Yun—you’re starting to disappoint me.”
The spy held up a finger.
“But that’s not all! The day our mysterious runaway’s name disappeared from the ledgers, Master Tillius again set off for the capital. The strange part is that he doesn’t usually make the trip more often than once every two moons, spending the rest of his time going to Belfur and back. The Osvendis capital is much closer. But this time, he headed specifically for Missolen.”
Tillius. Odett Evasye talked about him, and Renar did, too. I need that damn Tillius.
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