“She left.” Pathka’s gravelly voice reverberated; apparently he didn’t share her worry. “Maybe looking for sustenance. Laying eggs is work.”
Tess could hardly take her eyes off the egg. Its light seemed to swirl and sing, like the surface of a river.
“It’s her blood that makes it glow,” said Pathka, anticipating Tess’s question. “It will probably fade as it dries.”
They watched in silence. “Pathka,” Tess said at last, “I’m afraid…I need to go—”
“Wait until she comes back,” said Pathka. “Look Anathuthia in the eye, and then tell me you have any desire to be anywhere else.”
Tess shifted, wincing. “You don’t understand. I fell down here…underprepared. Water’s almost gone. I want to…not die of thirst.”
“Oh, is that all?” said Pathka, perking up. “Wait here. I’ll find a spur to the surface.”
The egg’s glow had nearly faded by the time Pathka returned. Kindly, he’d made Tess a torch. “I’ve found a way up that doesn’t involve crawling across the ceiling,” he said. “Follow.”
He led her to a tunnel that seemed artificial, to Tess’s surprise; chiseled steps curled upward in a spiral. “Maybe this was once a mine,” Pathka speculated. “The chamber might have held useful minerals. Saltpeter? Is that used in St. Ogdo’s fire?”
Tess didn’t know her knightly lore and wasn’t sure. She mounted the stairs alone.
She emerged, jelly-legged after a long climb, into a decorated grotto. Above the arched doorway was carved in an archaic script: PAU-HENOA’S GATE.
Tess knew that name: it was the pagans’ trickster god, who’d gone under the earth to fetch the sun. Maybe this was where the world had given birth to daylight.
Or maybe those pagans had glimpsed a World Serpent’s egg.
The inscription notwithstanding, the grotto had been converted into a shrine to St. Prue—Santi Prudia, in Ninysh—complete with altar, bas-reliefs of her life story, and dried flowers on the floor. A hand-painted sign forbade anyone but the abbot and priors to descend the stairs, which were dark and slippery and led to a meditation chamber containing absolutely no treasure of any kind. Tess wondered whether that last protestation made people want to check and see. There were contrarians in this world, and she should know.
Apparently there were also monks who knew about Anathuthia. This was much more surprising.
Outside loomed their massive monastery, surrounded by a wall. Tess made out an orchard on the other side, and more outbuildings than she could be bothered to count. The bell for whatever monks did at twilight began to ring, and she heard pattering feet and snatches of song. She skirted the compound toward the setting sun until she reached the gates and saw that the monastery, like the shrine, was dedicated to Santi Prudia. These monks would be historians and archivists, but if she was hungry, they surely wouldn’t turn her away.
The earth grumbled again. Tess steadied herself, gritting her teeth against the pain in her side, and then knocked at the bronze-bossed monastery doors.
A panel in the door slid to one side, and a pair of long-lashed hazel eyes peered at Tess through a grating. “You knocked?” said a nasal tenor. “Or was that the earth?”
Tess affected a pious mien. “Bless you, Brother, I was passing by…and I was—”
“Terrified by earthquakes? Wise man. Go back where you came from.” The panel snapped sharply shut.
Tess, irritated, knocked again. The panel opened ominously slowly, no eyes visible now, only the darkness at the heart of the gatehouse. When Tess drew nearer to squint into the gloom, the monk popped up and startled her. “Go away. I won’t be nice a third time.”
“You haven’t been nice once!” She had to catch her breath. “Is this how your order treats…hungry and indigent? Your fellow churchmen? I’m a…seminarian.”
The eyes blinked, and she heard a mumble that might have been “Damn it.” The door swung open and there stood a scrawny, slouching monk, maybe five or six years her senior, in a blue cassock. His sharp nose might’ve looked decisive if the rest of his face hadn’t looked so resigned; it was the lone dissenter, and a little depressed about it. “Come in, then. And for the record: you don’t look like a seminarian. You look like a wiseacre.” He stepped aside to let Tess in. “I’m Frai Moldi—for when you report me to the abbot. What do you call yourself, Brother?”
“Jacomo,” said Tess. She extended her hand, and Frai Moldi scowled. Only then did she notice that his right sleeve was empty, tied in a knot to keep it out of his way. “I beg your pardon,” she said, quickly offering her left instead. He took her up on the offer, never quite losing his skeptical expression. She grimaced; her left arm connected directly to her aching ribs.
All she wanted was some food and water, but Frai Moldi wouldn’t hear of handing her a loaf and letting her continue on her way—no, no, he couldn’t treat a seminarian so shabbily (except the ones from St. Abaster’s; those fellows could hang). He had to offer her a bed, at least. Tess protested—Pathka would surely worry if she was gone all night—but it became quickly clear that there would be no food forthcoming unless she let Frai Moldi show her the dormitories first. She followed him into the depths of the monastery, to a narrow cell.
“We have all the fine monastic amenities: narrow cot, paneless window, unpadded kneeler,” he said, pointing them out. “We’re not big self-flagellators here, but I can get you a knotted rope if you need one.”
Tess chuckled, painfully; Frai Moldi shot her a sharp look. “Sorry,” she said, her face reddening. “I assumed you were joking.”
“I suppose I was,” he said dismally. “I’m not used to anyone finding it funny.”
They made a brief stop at the well so Tess could wash up—her face and hands were filthy, and there was grit in her hair—and then Frai Moldi led her to the refectory, a vast hall where the monks held communal meals. The bell, half an hour ago, had been for supper, but no one was eating yet. The abbot, seated at the top of the room with the priors and the most senior monks, was still holding forth on the Disquisitions of Santi Prudia.
“ ‘We build history every day, anew,’ saith Santi Prudia, but what does it mean?” the abbot was saying as they entered. Frai Moldi picked his way between long monk-filled benches, leading Tess toward the far end of the room. The only empty seats were behind the novices, who refused to shift and let Moldi sit ahead of them. A silent struggle ensued, which Moldi lost. He flipped a rude gesture at his uppity juniors, taking care that the head table couldn’t see, and then grudgingly sat at the end with Tess.
One of the novices, eyes bulging in outrage, raised his hand for attention.
“Knowledge is nothing,” said the abbot, ignoring the hand. An iron-haired, crease-faced senior monk, sighing heavily, rose and came toward the back of the hall; the sermon continued, unstoppable: “Interpretation gives knowledge value, but it must evolve as new knowledge emerges.”
“What are you doing?” hissed the senior monk, who’d instantly identified Frai Moldi as the problem. “You have gate duty.”
“Visitor,” Moldi whispered loudly, pointing at Tess. “Should I have let him starve?”
The senior monk sat beside Moldi, and they held a conversation with their faces until the end of the sermon. Tess watched, fascinated. The old monk’s face went from stern admonition to fatherly concern; the younger’s said piss off and then, when the old monk turned away, despair.
“…from myriad incomplete truths, a greater whole. So shall it be,” said the ancient abbot in conclusion. “So shall it be” echoed reverently around the hall, and then the food came out, more than Tess had seen since her sister’s wedding: roast venison, mutton, and boar, each with its own sauce; white bread; braised root vegetables; tender cabbage with apples.
“Introduce your guest, Frai Moldi,” said the senior monk, helping himself to parsnips.
Moldi pulled his pointy nose out of his wine cup and aimed it at Tess. “Brother Jacques do Mort, seminarian.”
Tess grinned again, but then she wasn’t sure whether he was joking or had forgotten her name in fact. “Brother Jacomo,” she corrected.
“Welcome. I’m Frai Lorenzi, head archivist,” said the older monk, bowing slightly. The bare patch atop his head was liver-spotted. “We should show you our library after dinner.”
“It’s the jewel of Santi Prudia,” drawled Frai Moldi. Tess cringed at his tone, but if Frai Lorenzi heard the sarcasm, he gave no sign. Frai Moldi, frowning, switched his empty cup with a novice’s full one. Tess knew that trick.
“Which seminary do you attend?” said Frai Lorenzi. He took small bites and chewed his food thoroughly, like an elderly rabbit.
“St. Gobnait’s, in Lavondaville,” said Tess. They’d surely identified her accent.
“Oh, indeed!” said the archivist with unexpected enthusiasm. “Is my cousin Bastien still prior there, or has he retired?”
Tess hesitated, causing Frai Moldi to freeze with his hand near Frai Lorenzi’s cup. He’d been about to make the switch but was relying on her for distraction. He bugged his eyes at her. “Ah-h-h,” said Tess, drawing it out, trying to hold the archivist’s gaze, “he hadn’t retired when I left, but I’ve been on the road for months, so it’s possible…” She waved her hands eloquently; Moldi made the switch. She may have smiled a little at this.
“Where are you traveling?” said Frai Lorenzi, noticing none of Moldi’s shenanigans.
“I’m following Prior Bastien’s advice, in fact,” said Tess. “I lost my faith, you see—”
“Your faith, or your vocation?” said Frai Lorenzi, tenting his bony fingers.
Tess could tell this question was a precipice over a deep philosophical ocean. “Both?”
“It’s a personal question, forgive me,” said the old archivist, “but vocation is something I think about a lot—how is it found, what is it for? Must the call come before the work, or will any good work, done with openheartedness, slowly begin to call to us?”
Frai Moldi rolled his eyes hard, then blinked as if he’d strained something.
This was an old dispute between them, evidently. Tess only half listened as Frai Lorenzi droned on about love and work; she was riveted by Moldi’s expression. It was a flat mask of scorn, and yet she could make out eddies beneath it—despair and desperation—as clearly as if he were transparent. His pink-rimmed eyes wouldn’t meet hers.
He was a wreck, the human version of Old Haunty. Tess felt like she was seeing herself at Jeanne’s wedding—but worse. A caricature. At least, she hoped she hadn’t been so obvious.
Moldi eyed her cup. Tess slid it across to him while the archivist was occupied pouring gravy. Moldi sneered, but downed her dregs at a gulp.
A tremor made the chandeliers swing and sent the gravy boat sailing off the end of the table. The room went quiet momentarily, and then the brothers went back to eating and debating the minutiae of history as if nothing had happened.
Anathuthia might have returned to her nest; Pathka would be wondering why Tess hadn’t. “Thank you for the meal and good company,” said Tess to the monks across the table, “but I need to be going.”
Frai Lorenzi looked mournful. “You can’t mean to sleep in the cold? Stay until morning, at least.”
Her ribs ached; a night indoors would do her good, and surely Pathka was enthralled with Anathuthia and wouldn’t miss her right away. Tess assented, which plainly delighted the old monk. He sent a grumbling novice to take over Frai Moldi’s gate duty, and then led Tess to the top of the room. Frai Moldi followed them, sullen and unsteady.
The head archivist introduced Tess to the abbot, Pater Livian, so old and frail that his skull seemed to shine through his skin.
“Stay as long as you will, Brother Jacomo.” The priors helped him to his feet. “But don’t be surprised if our library inspires you to join our order. It’s the finest in the Southlands.”
The library was apparently a popular after-dinner destination; Frai Lorenzi led Tess alongside a crowd of monks heading the same direction. They reached a high-ceilinged octagonal chamber full of writing desks, a scriptorium, which was the first room of the library. The brothers took their seats, ready to resume work. Many had brought unfinished cups of wine, which they set beside their inkpots. Tess wondered whether they ever picked up the wrong vessel to drink from, and if they minded.
Frai Moldi could open his ink one-handed, even drunk. He sharpened his quill against a stone and did not look at Tess.
The head archivist gave her a tour of four vaulted rooms resplendent with rich, dark wood, gilt columns, and stained glass. “We have more than five thousand volumes,” he said modestly. It was indeed magnificent, and if Tess had never seen the library at Castle Orison, which held the collections of St. Ingar, she might have agreed with the abbot’s assessment.
“Our scribes copy any new book that comes in,” said Frai Lorenzi. “Travelers like to dictate their adventures. We have books that exist nowhere else.”
Tess had a few stories worth telling. She wondered whether to offer them.
“Listen,” said Frai Lorenzi, lowering his voice and glancing toward the scriptorium. “Did you know Moldi before?”
“Before he lost his arm?” she reflexively whispered, guessing.
“No,” said the archivist, taken aback. “Well, yes, but I meant…You’re not an old comrade from his soldiering days?”
Tess must have looked as astonished as she felt, because Frai Lorenzi shook his head, frowning. “Forgive me. I thought maybe, because he brought you to dinner. Guests of your stature are supposed to eat in the kitchens. Also, you smiled at him and…that’s not how people usually react to Moldi.”
Frai Lorenzi tried to smile, but his shoulders sagged. As he led Tess back to the scriptorium, a tremor racked the library, strong enough to make the chandeliers dance and to knock large books off the top shelves. Frai Lorenzi scowled at this nuisance and found a lower shelf for the fallen books.
None of the monks commented on the tremor; they must endure these quakes often, and the sign above the stairs had called the nest a “meditation chamber.” There were probably volumes about Anathuthia in this very library.
“This monastery is how old?” she asked Frai Lorenzi, loudly enough for all to hear.
“Five hundred and eleven years,” he said proudly.
Several dozen pairs of eyes looked up at her. They knew. Men of knowledge, living above an enormous snake for five hundred years, keeping meticulous records? They couldn’t not know—the only question was whether they’d talk to her about it.
They certainly hadn’t shared their knowledge with the outside world. Will would have given his eyeteeth for the chance to interview one of these brothers, if he’d ever learned that they existed.
But Will wasn’t here. Tess was. And she was grinning absurdly to herself.
A direct, respectful approach was surely best. “Brothers, I arrived here through the caverns. I know what made them, and I want to know more. What can you teach me about the giant serpent below you?” she said.
“Ha ha!” Frai Moldi burst out, but the rest of the room fell into a silence—not angry or hostile so much as cautious. Frai Lorenzi scrutinized her face.
Tess tried again: “Clearly it’s a secret you keep, and I respect that. I found the creature on my own, though, following sinkholes it made. I only want to learn more about it—you surely understand that, and you must know more than anyone else.”
“Wait, what?” Moldi looked around wildly at his brethren. The novices seemed equally confused, but the older monks watched Frai Lorenzi as if waiting for instructions.
The archivist looked pained. “The novices haven’t earned this knowledge yet,” he said, flas
hing Tess a rueful smile. At his sign, the new recruits were led out—along with Moldi, who must’ve been too junior or too irresponsible. He did not submit graciously but had to be pulled along, bumping into lecterns and stools. He stared at Frai Lorenzi all the way out.
“We call it Santi Prudia’s Sign,” said Frai Lorenzi while Moldi was being ushered to the door. “It returns at irregular intervals, bringing tremors with it—”
“Whoa, hold on, no,” said Moldi. He sat blocking the door and refused to budge a step farther. His escort tugged Moldi’s arm but didn’t quite dare to drag him. “You said Santi Prudia’s Sign was the earth stretching itself. Nothing to be alarmed about.”
“It is, indeed, nothing to be alarmed about,” said Frai Lorenzi calmly.
“The devil it’s not!” cried Moldi, jerking his arm out of the other monk’s grasp. All around the scriptorium, his brethren kissed knuckles against evil. “A serpent that makes earthquakes and sinkholes? When were you going to tell me about this?”
“Once you’d proved yourself worthy,” said Frai Lorenzi. “I had every confidence that you’d get there eventually.”
Moldi leaped up and dodged his lunging escort, who fell into a bookcase. “What’s it doing down there? What does it eat? What does it want?” Each question raised his voice half an octave.
“We’ll talk about this later, when you’re calm,” said the head archivist.
Several more monks tried to herd Moldi out. Drunk and scrawny though he was, he’d been taught to fight once upon a time, and was surprisingly nimble. Moldi knocked one brother to the ground, dodged three more, and somehow ended up on top of the lecterns, leaping from desk to desk, scattering piles of manuscript pages. Parchments flew like leaves in a gale; monks scrambled to pick them up.
Was he upset by the serpent or trying to upset everyone else? Tess couldn’t quite tell.
Frai Moldi had just decided to lift his robes and waggle his bare buttocks at the room (answering Tess’s unasked question) when the doors opened and the abbot, Pater Livian, arrived on the arms of two priors. The scriptorium went silent; even Moldi froze mid-waggle, his face falling. Pater Livian, antique as he was, took in the room at a glance—parchments, chaos, buttocks, and all—and said quietly, “Frai Lorenzi, a word, if you please.”
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