by Carol Berg
Once the monks had snuffed the candles and retired to the dorter, a great chilly silence fell in the church. The vigil lamp gleamed emerald from the high altar. Brother Victor lay on the floor to my right. He had arrived late for Compline and reaped the same penance as mine. The chancellor had a slight whistle in his breathing that prevented any sensible thinking. Had I actually to remain in place for the full span of this vigil, the sound would surely drive me mad long before the bells rang for Matins.
When the bell tolled the day’s end, the time for all activities to cease and the monks to take to their beds, I rose from the floor as quietly as I could. Brother Victor did not stir as I padded down the aisle. His presence would not be happenstance. That the chancellor would be part of the abbot’s little plot did not surprise me, but it did give me pause. Luviar had not only been willing to sacrifice strangers to his “worthier cause,” but had yielded his own partisan to lashing, imprisonment, and humiliation. Why did I not heed my own warnings about holy men?
I hurried through the hedge maze and returned to the bench by the neglected pond, vowing to detach myself from this conspiracy as quickly as possible. No good could come from mixing religion and politics. And who could be less equipped than I to get in a fight over books? Did they think to stave off some threat to Navronne with almanacs and treatises on glassmaking? Build a bulwark of books against Hansker raiders, perhaps? That might be a use for the wretched things.
Night birds twittered. The sad little scrap of moon vanished in the west. No one came. I was on the verge of giving up, when light, steady footsteps approached from the direction of the cloisters. Closer. Then heavier, louder steps came running from two other directions at once. I spun like a potter’s wheel, but before I could see who was in such a hurry, some cursed villain dropped a sack over my head.
“Gatzé’s whore!” I shot up from the bench, pawing at the bag. A hempen drawstring held the rough cloth tight around my neck. I dragged at the rope, but succeeded only in strangling myself. Dust clogged my nostrils. The bag scratched my face and blocked my mouth. Hot. Close. Choking. I could not yell. Could not breathe. Terror welled up inside me like molten lava. No light. No air. Buried…
I flailed my arms and tried to twist away. My right arm slammed into solid flesh, and my left elbow crunched bone hard enough to elicit a curse. Two outsized hands caught my wrists and pinned them hard behind me. “Here now, just be still, monk.”
Jerking my shoulders and torso back and forth, I tried to use my size to some advantage, but the harder I struggled, the tighter the rope constricted my neck.
“Stop! Wait! There’s no need for force,” someone called. Pointlessly. No brutes would heed a man who spoke so softly.
I snarled and dragged them sideways. Feet tangled hopelessly in my gown, I toppled, dragging a heavy body down on top of me. My arms were wrenched back and up.
“Sentinels of the dark, he’s broke my foot!”
“Half a madman…what’s wrong with ’im? Hold on…” A heavy someone sat on me.
“Silence, all of you!” The soft voice whispered from somewhere in the spinning darkness. “Don’t hurt him, Furz. Get up. What are you thinking?”
“You told us to get him to the camp without him seeing where.” This from the brute who was twisting my arms from their sockets while I wriggled like a dying fish in a mudhole. His voice rumbled through my back and aching shoulders. “We heard he might be a danger.”
“A danger? He’s a monk! Get off him, and don’t hurt him anymore. We just need silence.”
As the weight rolled off my back, I wrenched one hand loose and tore at the bag. Dug in my knees and scrabbled forward in the muddy grass. Tried to shake free of the hands. At any moment I was going to heave up my guts or die or both. I groaned and writhed.
“What, in all holy—? Iero’s grace, just be still, Brother Valen.” A new voice penetrated my skull like a bolt from a crossbow. Not loud, but very clear. “We’ll take off the bag, if you’ll but close your eyes and be silent. This is a terrible mistake. Do you hear me, Brother? Please, just be still, close your eyes, and we’ll take it off.”
Swallowing my gorge, I nodded and tried to be still. My heart galloped like a king’s post messenger; blood thundered in my ears. Just let me breathe. Were spiders swarming over me, I would have remained still on his promise. I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Furz, get it off him,” said the newcomer. “Would you, please?”
“They jumped him,” said the soft-voiced one in quiet anger. “They weren’t supposed to—”
The decisive man interrupted with tested patience. “You should have waited. I told you that Gildas and I would see to this.”
I did not hear the response, for the bag was snatched away just then. Cool air bathed my face as I craned my neck upward, gulping great mouthfuls. Soon I was breathing normally, and sensations beyond suffocation returned. Rocks gouged my belly. My shoulders burned. My chin stung. My left foot, caught in my gown, was bent at an angle the Creator did not intend. I shifted to ease the strain, but the hands only gripped my limbs tighter, and a heavy knee crushed my chest into the ground.
Was every untoward event in all the world linked to Brother Gildas? Perhaps the whispering villain was Jullian, who seemed to be in the thick of these sordid matters as well. Instinct screamed at me to look on my attackers, so I could identify them if I lived or curse them as I died, but this mindless terror of suffocation kept my eyes tight shut and my tongue silent. I lowered my cheek to the muddy grass and inhaled the sweet scent of earth.
What foolish thoughts run through our heads in times of fear and peril. My cowl and gown were heavy with mud, clinging to my skin. Brother Sebastian would scold. I had no spare garments yet, as my height meant they had to be made new. So rid yourself of this sodden wool and you’ll get a full breath, said my unbidden thoughts. Everywhere my bare skin touched earth—face, one knee and thigh—felt free. The earth embraced me, warm and alive and forgiving…
“Release him, Furz,” said the decisive man, no denizen of heaven or hell, but entirely human and standing over my head. “We’ll guide him to the camp ourselves.”
“It’s taken the two of us to hold him.” The thugs growled in concert. “You’re a fool to let him go. The blighting monk’s got a gatzé in him.”
“Did you never consider that a man attacked from behind and smothered with a grain sack might take offense—even a Karish monk? Please, do as I ask.”
The weight came off my back, and thick fingers released my wrists. I rolled to my side and curled my arms in front of me, thanking every god for the gifts of air and unbroken bones, promising anew to reform my ways. Slowly I sat up on my heels, unwilling to push my luck by standing up. The two brutes hovered close enough to block the breeze, and this man, though firm and confident, was not their commander. Too much politeness from him, asking and saying please. And from the brutes mere obedience, no honorifics or respect. Obedience was sufficient, but without respect, I’d not rely on it.
As my heart slowed, my flush of gratitude yielded to the more usual mix of emotions I felt after a fight—embarrassment and anger. For all my height and natural strength, I’d never developed much technique. I’d had no combat training when I was young enough to develop true skill. Pureblood families valued physical prowess like speed and strength, and refinements such as grace and agility, but they had no use for fighting skills. Only barbarians or madmen would dare assault a pureblood. The Registry saw to that.
“We’ve no wish to harm you, Brother,” said the man who had let me breathe, my friend forever. “Somehow these two became confused. They understood that we did not wish you to see where you were being taken and mistook our concern. I would explain why such secrecy is necessary, but that will be clear soon enough, and we need to move quickly. Someone might have heard your shout, and explanations would be awkward. So please understand this binding will be just for your eyes. Just your eyes.”
When the cloth touched my face, I c
ame near rising bodily off the ground. But before I could lash out, I comprehended what he’d said. Only the eyes. Not nose or mouth.
The blindfold in place, the clear-voiced man clasped arms with me and helped me to my feet. Average in height, perhaps a head shorter than me by the sound and feel of him. “We’ve a goodly walk ahead of us. Will your leg wound be a hindrance?”
I spat mud, wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and shook my head.
“Please believe me, Brother, we’ve no ill intent.”
Such silliness required a response. I kept my voice as low as his. “Suffocating a fellow and twisting his limbs from their sockets is a poor introduction for those with good intents. Does the abbot know you treat his novices so?”
“Abbot Luviar will be extremely displeased”—as soon as he spoke, I felt his good humor, warm enough to dry my sodden cowl—“and I promise, we shall do our best to remedy our failing. One moment…”
Lighter footsteps came up on my left side—the whisperer. Their movements stirred up the faint scent of wintergreen.
“I am going to give your arm to my companion,” said my friend. “He will guide you safely to our meeting place, while I dispatch these two oxen back to our camp and make sure nothing like this happens again. I’ll join you before you begin.”
Smaller hands took a firm hold on my elbow and forearm. “Tell me if I go too fast.”
It occurred to me that I could snatch my arm from this one’s grip, rip the cursed rag from my face, and run away. I could tell Abbot Luviar that his friends had dreadful manners and I would not put up with them, not even to get my questions answered. But I didn’t. Once I could breathe, the whole business was altogether intriguing. Much more interesting than Compline texts or the structure of virtue.
My guide used my crooked arm as a rudder, leading me along the gravel path, northward I guessed, for the breeze which had veered southerly all week was at my back. We turned once, and then again, and the surface under my sandals became paving stone. Scents of incense and ephrain from my right and the bulk of stone told me when we passed the church. We changed direction, veering around it, and when we had gone far enough that the church no longer blocked the breeze from my cheek, the path began to rise. The wind smelled of fish and river wrack, tinged by coming frost. My companion smelled of horses and woodsmoke and something…
“Careful, the pavement’s broken.” And then, “Left.”
In the distance behind me, the abbey bell rang. One peal. The first hour past day’s end.
“Steps here,” said my guide, after a while. “Three downward, then stop for a moment.”
Stone steps, not squared paving. Older, then. Out of the way. When I halted, my arm was released. Iron clanked softly—a latch. Oiled hinges. The hands took my arm again and guided me through the gate. We crossed flowing water on a sturdy plank bridge and then took a dirt path. The terrain leveled out, the damp tendrils of fog yielded to a cold dry breeze, and my guide picked up the pace.
Strange to experience the night as a blind man must. Birds flapping away, disturbed from a nest in the grass. Scuttering creatures. Wet grass, stagnant pools. A loon crying out the world’s sorrow. The path had been well trod, a narrow trough in the turf, sticky mud in its bottom, its drier, sloping sides little wider than my big feet. So my guide’s feet must tread the grass, while I walked the path. Or perhaps…I listened. The light footsteps squelched and scuffed much as my own steps did. Ah, a cart track, then, two troughs parallel.
Pleased with that deduction, I turned my attention to the person beside me. Listened more. Felt the hand on my arm shift to get a better hold, one finger now touching the skin of my wrist. I remembered. Inhaled. Considered. Felt my face crease into a grin. “So, Squire Corin, does the Thane of Erasku know you’re a girl?”
She halted. Yanked her hands from my arm. Stepped away. Said nothing. If we hadn’t already startled the moorhens, the force of her shock might have done it.
“I’ve not had this tonsure my whole life, you know,” I said. “And the world is not kind to girls on their own, so you’re not the first I’ve encountered in youth’s attire.” The world was little kinder to boys on their own.
She held silent and left me standing in the middle of a stubbled grain field blindfolded, without anything to hold on to. I didn’t think I ought to reach for her. She was probably terrified enough already.
“I’ll say, you had me mightily confused until today. But cutting your hair off might help. The braid leads a man’s eye into thoughts of touching—Uh…my eye, that is. Perhaps not others.” I shut my mouth and held out my arm.
She grasped my wrist and elbow, more firmly than before, and strode out at a faster pace. We’d walked two hundred quercae before she spoke. “You’re wearing a blindfold.” Her unmuted voice was mellow and richly colored, more like a dulcian than a flute. I’d made a mistake. She was slight, certainly, but a woman grown, not a girl. “How did I give it away?”
I considered the evidence. “Well, you and your friends aren’t monks. And after the abbot’s talk with me, I didn’t think your party belonged to any of our unsavory princes. That meant you were either someone altogether new or the thane’s men…Well, all right, I guessed. As for you in particular…You whispered when you truly wanted to yell at those men. That was part of it. And you trusted a monk not to hurt you. Which meant you’ve clearly not been at the game too long—you mustn’t trust anyone. And even when I was…suffocating…whenever you spoke, I thought Jullian was with us, though I knew at the same time he wasn’t. You see, in the refectory I sit next to Jullian, whom I’ll assume you know, and Gerard, the other lad. You don’t—please, forgive me if I offend you—you don’t smell at all the same.” Excitement would have only worsened the boys’ ripe stink.
“I don’t smell—” She convulsed with laughter, as alive as the good earth around us. Only a moment; then she closed it all up again. “Sweet Arrosa, save me. Of all things.”
“I won’t tell anyone. But you should be careful. You’ll give yourself away.”
“Thane Stearc knows,” she said. “And Abbot Luviar and Brother Gildas.”
“Ah…and the secretary…Gram…that’s who else was back there in the gardens, right? He knows.” Brutes would care no more for the commands of sickly secretaries than for the commands of pretty youths. And I’d smelled wintergreen, a medicament used for all sorts of ailments.
“He knows,” she said. Her voice was well controlled, but she really shouldn’t be holding on to people’s arms if she wanted to keep secrets. I’d felt far less anger from the brutes pinning my wrists than from her slender fingers touching my sleeve.
“And disapproves, I’d guess,” I said.
“I cannot come to the abbey as a maiden. Saint Ophir’s Rule permits only vowed celibate women or matrons in company with their husbands to stay in their guesthouse. The abbot dares not except me, lest he be called to account. So I take on this loathsome disguise. If the thane grunts and growls a bit for allowing me to play his squire, so be it. I won’t be left out. And if Stearc and the abbot agree, the opinions of others do not matter.”
I dearly wanted to ask, Why does his opinion make you so angry, if it does not matter? And, Is his grunting and growling the only price the thane exacts from you? But she was cocked like a crossbow again. Best avoid such personal matters until I knew her better.
“As you can imagine, I am afire with curiosity about what I’m doing in the middle of the night with devious monks and mysterious maidens and people who insist I cannot look upon the lands of my home abbey. But Father Abbot bade me trust him, thus I’ve little hope of soothing that curiosity. So, another question…”
Abbot Luviar had declared himself neutral in the royal war. I doubted that, preferring to believe in his “deviant” support of a Pretender. Yet even if the child Pretender was wholly myth and Abbot Luviar but a skillful liar manipulating me in service of one of the three princes, I could not believe his chosen lord to be Osriel the Bastard. More
and more I needed to understand what I had seen and felt in that unnatural assault on Gillarine.
“As you serve the Thane of Erasku, perhaps you could tell me something of Prince Osriel and his powers.”
She gasped as if I’d planted my fist in her gut. “Holy gods! How—? Why would you speak of him…the vile beast…the damned soul? Here in the night…when we are unprotected.”
She dragged me faster. Before I could ask what protection we might need, the path kicked steeply upward, as if a mountain had been roaming the fields and decided to plop itself at our feet like a friendly hound. A gust of wind swirled around us, billowing my damp cowl and flapping the hood in my face. Soon rocks gouged my feet. Roots. Evergreens. Moss. Where the devil were we? I could not imagine we’d come so far as the eastern ridge.
I stumbled, flailing in the dark.
“Careful…” She caught me before I fell and steadied me. Then she proceeded a bit slower. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. It’s just that Lord Stearc is his own man. My lord bows to no master who sets himself up to rival Magrog in his cruelties.”
“I didn’t mean to give offense. One of the brothers told me that Lord Stearc holds no allegiance to the Bastard Prince. I just assumed, since Erasku is an Evanori hold, you would know the truth of the cursed land and its sovereign. When he slaughtered the Moriangi at Gillarine, I saw such sights…faces in the night…”
“Even the land cannot compel loyalty to a monster like Osriel of Evanore.” She spat as if the very taste of his name poisoned her. “Everything you hear of him is true. He twists magic into depravity, taints all that is good in the world. I’ll not speak of him lest my tongue blacken and rot.”
We talked no more for a while. She was bound up in anger and fear and purpose. I was trying not to trip and crack my head on the shin-high rocks that seemed to have sprouted from the hillside like hedge beans.
