Rising with a fluid grace, he walked to the doorway of the pavilion and reached into the pocket of his robe, producing a flute carved of wood. He put the flute to his lips and played a complex trill of notes. The melody pierced the peace of the mountain meadow like the call of a rare bird. Returning the flute to his pocket, the monk rejoined the companions and took a seat on the floor. “Your guide will be here shortly. You’ll enter the monastery before the sun sets this day.” With a slow smile, the monk added, “I know you have many questions but it is not for me to provide the answers. Once you reach the monastery, each of you will be given a private audience with a master. Take this time to think about the questions you most want answered.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Remember, the Kiralynn Order serves the Light by seeking, protecting, and sharing knowledge. I hope each of you will find the knowledge you seek.”
The companions sat in silence considering the words of the monk. Questions tumbled through Jordan’s mind but she kept them to herself. All this talk of the Dark Lord and an ancient evil hidden in the guise of men came as a surprise to her. Rumors about the Order were murky at best, but now that she’d finally met a monk, the mystery only deepened. She did not know what to believe or whom to trust, especially given the duplicity of the tea ceremony. She studied the blue-robed monk, more confused than ever about the monastery, wondering what they’d learn before the day was done.
75
Samson
Promises had a way of coming due, whether you wanted them to or not. Samson’s time of safety in Lanverness had come to end. The training was finished and the volunteers were being secreted back into Coronth. Samson shuddered, steeling his courage for the journey ahead. At least he would not have to face the nightmare alone.
The wagon was packed and the draft horses hitched, but Samson kept checking everything, hoping for a reason to delay. Ben sat mounted on a nag of a horse, wearing a patched jacket, slouching like a poor tradesman instead of a drill sergeant. Grandmother Magda sat perched on the wagon’s front bench, bent over her knitting needles. Samson had grown fond of the old woman. She looked like a harmless old lady, but the steely-eyed grandmother had won over the hearts of the refugees, becoming a symbol of hope and determination. Even the Master Archivist treated the old woman with deference. Frugal with her words, no one doubted a keen mind resided behind her gray eyes. The old lady seemed to watch everything while never missing a stitch of her knitting.
His second companion, Ben, was a retired drill sergeant from the army of Lanverness. The gray-haired veteran volunteered to go to Coronth, eager for a chance to make a difference. Ben’s task was to train new recruits to the sword, no one expected the Pontifax to relinquish control of Coronth without a fight.
It was the drill sergeant who suggested they return to Coronth posing as failed cobblers. As the son of a cobbler, the sergeant could actually make a decent boot but Samson found the trade difficult. With a lot of effort, he could produce something that resembled a boot, but it flooded in the rain and was anything but comfortable. His poor skills would add credibility to their story. From all appearances, the threesome looked like tradesmen down on their luck, returning to Coronth in a desperate bid to make a living.
Samson checked the harness of the two draft horses and then walked to the rear of the wagon to make sure the tailgate was secure. Skins of tanned shoe leather and boxes of cobbler tools covered the wagon’s false bottom, hiding access to a cache of swords and gold. Just thinking about the secret cache made Samson nervous.
“Seems you’ve checked the tailgate a hundred times.” Looking down from the saddle of the nag, Ben gave Samson a half-smile. “Time to go.”
Resigned to his fate, Samson climbed up on the wagon bench and took a seat next to Grandmother Magda.
“Delaying only makes things worse. Time to go, dear.” She gave him a smile while keeping her knitting needles in constant motion, never missing a beat.
He took a last look around the courtyard, but there was no one to bid farewell. Prince Justin and some of his other friends had already left for Balor. Samson had no excuse to delay; yet he sat drinking in the peace of the castle courtyard like a condemned man grasping at a dream of safety. Grandmother Magda paused in her knitting and laid a warm hand on his arm, her voice as soothing as honey in tea. “It will be all right, dear.”
Shamed by the old woman’s courage, Samson picked up the reins and clucked to the draft horses, taking comfort from the steady clacking of Grandmother Magda’s knitting needles. Just by her presence, the old woman gave him the courage to quell his own fears. After all, how could a man fear to tread where a grandmother dared to go. The horses lurched forward and they left Pellanor without fanfare.
76
Jordan
Summoned by the flute, a second blue-robed figure approached from across the meadow. Like the first, this monk also walked with a determined stride and carried a stout quarterstaff, but his face remained hidden within the shadows of a deep cowl. The monk climbed the steps and then reached up to let the cowl fall back. Jordan gasped; the second monk was a woman, chestnut hair framing a heart-shaped face. Somehow, she hadn’t expected the monks to be women.
The monk held her right hand palm-out, revealing a Seeing Eye tattooed in blue. “Seek knowledge…Protect knowledge…Share knowledge. My name is Lavidia and I am a monk of the Kiralynn Order. I am your guide. Having passed the tests of the Gatekeeper, you are welcome to enter the monastery. Assemble your belongings and I will lead you to the home of the Kiralynn Order.”
Kath stepped forward, Jordan’s astonishment mirrored on her face. “Women can be monks?”
With a light laugh, Lavidia replied, “You are thinking like a flatlander. You should have abandoned that narrow way of life at the mountain pass. In the Kiralynn Order we are judged on our abilities, our efforts, and our deeds, nothing more and nothing less. So yes, a woman can become a monk, a master, or even the Grand Master.”
Jordan watched as a slow smile spread across her sword sister’s face. Kath flashed Jordan a conspiring smile; perhaps they’d both find much to like about the monks and their monastery.
Lavidia clapped her hands. “Gather up your belongings. Time is wasted here. After your long journey I would think you’d be eager to reach the monastery.”
The monk’s words sent a ripple of excitement through the companions. The fabled monastery was finally within reach. The companions broke camp and loaded their gear onto the reindeer. When everything was in order, the guide said, “Before we set out, I need to ask that you do not walk in a line behind me. Instead, choose your own path. Follow in my direction but walk apart. The alpine plants are fragile and fare better if they are not overly trampled.”
Duncan muttered, “And that way we won’t leave a trail for others to follow.”
The guide gave Duncan a shrewd smile. “Exactly, but it is also true that the alpine plants are fragile. If you are ready, please follow me.”
Without looking back, she set off across the meadow at a brisk pace. Jordan and the others hurried to keep pace, the reindeer bringing up the rear. Like a gaggle of chicks they followed the guide on a convoluted path. Jordan found it took a conscious effort not to walk in line. She glanced over at Kath and the two shared a laugh, eager to discover the wonders of the monastery.
Beyond the alpine meadow, they scampered over rocky outcrops and scrambled up steep moraines of tumbled rock. Jordan thought they doubled back at one point, but she couldn’t be sure. A boulder shaped like a rearing bear seemed familiar, but then again, maybe not. Still, she wouldn’t put it past the monks to walk them in circles before finally leading them to the monastery.
The sun passed the zenith and still they walked. Scrambling up onto a rocky ledge, Jordan was shocked to find a massive statue blocking their way. A giant stone hand confronted them, the palm held outward like a warning, a seeing eye inscribed in the center. Jordan found the statue forbidding, even menacing. A wall of white fog swirled behind th
e hand, so dense it seemed as if the world came to a sudden stop. Jordan stared at the mist. The sharp division between clarity and cloud was anything but natural.
The guide stood next to the statue, dwarfed by the stone-wrought hand. “Now we have come to the last part of the journey.” She gestured to the solid wall of white. “This is the Guardian Mist. The Guardian is an ancient magic, wrought before the War of Wizards. Some believe the Mist is sentient, while others see it as nothing but a magical construct. Regardless of its true nature, the Guardian has one purpose, to defend the monastery. In order to reach the monastery we must pass through the Mist. There is no other way.” The monk stared at each of them, her face solemn. “The Mist is a protection, it is not a test, but for some, the Mist will be a terrible trial. This is by far the most dangerous part of the journey. In defending the monastery, the Mist will peer into your minds seeking images it can use to frighten, trick, or entice you into turning away from the monastery. Some of you will see loved ones begging for help, while others will see monsters attacking from all directions. Or the Mist may simply part to show you a bottomless chasm gaping at your feet. Everything you see in the Mist is an illusion. Everything.”
Sir Cardemir strode forward, daring to touch the mist. “So this is magic.”
Jordan held her breath, half expecting the mist to react, but nothing happened.
The seahorse knight turned toward the guide. “Why do you hide behind walls of magic?”
“If you knew our enemy you would not ask.” The guide removed a long coil of gray silken rope. “You need not fear the Mist. As a guide, I have an amulet which enables me to see the true path to the monastery. Only guides are immune to the illusions of the Guardian Mist. To pass safely through the Mist, all you need do is keep hold of this rope and keep walking. No matter what you see, no matter how real it seems, ignore the illusions and keep a firm grip on the rope. If you follow my directions you will pass safely through the Mist.” Her stare circled the companions. “Any questions?”
Duncan asked, “What if we let go of the rope?”
“At best, you will find yourself back on the outside of the Mist. At worst, the Mist will lead you to your death, enticing you to walk over a cliff. More than one visitor has died trying to pass through the Mist. The danger is very real. Do not release the rope.”
A grim silence settled over the companions.
Without warning, Duncan picked up a stone and hurled it at the Mist. The stone disappeared into the white fog but there was no reaction, not even the sound of a stone clattering against rock, as if the Mist swallowed it whole.
Jordan shivered, making the hand sign against evil.
Duncan faced the monk. “There’s no other way?”
“No. But if you keep hold of the rope, you will reach the monastery. If any of you do not wish to attempt the Guardian Mist, then you must wait here and I’ll escort you back to the pavilion after the others make the crossing. It is your choice.”
Duncan said, “After the tea ceremony, we have little cause to trust you, yet I sense no lies in your words.” He turned face the other companions. “Will you take the risk?”
Sir Cardemir was quick to answer. “I’ve come on behalf of my queen. I’ll not be turned away.”
Sir Tyrone said, “Sir Blaine and I have pledged our swords to Princess Katherine. We’ll follow her lead into the Mist or back to Haven. It is her choice to make.”
Kath nodded, acknowledging the two knights. “From what I’ve seen so far, the monks have answers I need in order to serve the Light. For me, there is no question of turning back.”
Duncan turned to Jordan. “It is your Wayfaring, Jordan, therefore it is your choice. In truth we know little about these monks, but I will accompany you either way. It is up to you to decide if the monastery is worth the risk.”
Jordan thought about Stewart. If she refused to attempt the Mist, then she could return to Pellanor and her love. The thought was tempting…but only for a moment. If she turned away from the Mist, she’d be forever forfeiting the chance to learn the art of the general. It was too much to give up…and besides, Stewart loved a woman who knew how to wield a sword. Jordan realized she intended to find a way to have both the man and the sword. “It’s too much of a challenge to pass up. I say we go through the Mist and find out what these mysterious monks have to offer.”
A slow smile spread across Duncan’s face. “Your father would be proud.”
Jordan blushed, grateful for his approval. She could not imagine a better companion for her Wayfaring.
With five of the companions decided that left the two Navarren guards. Duncan turned towards them. “There is no need for you to take the risk. You will return to the pavilion and await my dispatches. Once you receive the dispatches, return to Navarre with all haste. The king will be want word of his daughter.”
Jordan quickly added, “I would ask you to return by way of Pellanor in order to deliver a letter to Prince Stewart.”
Jacob, the senior guard bowed. “It will be as you command.”
With the arrangements made, the companions quickly sorted the packs on the reindeer and then bid farewell to the two guards. The six companions stood ready to brave the Mist. The guide played out the length of rope giving each companion a knot to hold, with a good five feet of rope between each knot. Duncan took the first position behind the guide with Sir Cardemir second. Jordan took the third. Kath moved to follow Jordan but Sir Tyrone interceded. “Our swords are sworn to protect you. If there’s any danger in the Mist, I’ll meet it first. Sir Blaine will protect from the rear.”
Kath acquiesced, taking a place between the two knights. When everyone was in position, the guide said, “Remember, never let go of the rope. To ward against visions of the Guardian, I suggest you repeat a simple phrase like I walk in the Light. Keep your mind focused and the Mist may not tempt you.” Pausing, the guide said, “If you are ready, I will lead you through the Mist.”
From the back of the line, Sir Blaine asked, “What about the reindeer? Will they follow through the Mist?”
“The Mist only defends against humans. To animals it is just ordinary fog. The reindeer will not hesitate to follow the bell of the leader.”
Sir Blaine muttered, “Lucky reindeer.”
Seeing that there were no more questions, the guide said, “Then let us begin.” She took one step into the Mist and vanished. The gray rope stretched from the Mist, a taut line leading into nothingness.
A slight tug pulled the companions toward the wall of white. Jordan shuffled forward, watching as the swirling white swallowed Duncan and then Sir Cardemir. In just one step, the seahorse knight disappeared. Shivering, Jordan peered into the Mist but could find no trace of him.
The rope pulled her forward.
With her free hand, she reached out to touch the Mist. There was no substance to it, just a cold, damp sensation, like touching a cloud, yet this was no ordinary fog. A shiver raced down her back. Step by step, the rope drew her forward. Her hand disappeared, swallowed by white. Cold dampness lapped at her face. Taking a deep breath, she plunged into the strange fog. In the blink of an eye, the world became white and muted. Her own heartbeat sounded loud in her ears. She strained to peer through the Mist but she could not even see the hand in front of her face. Clutching the rope, she shuffled blindly forward, trusting the guide to lead her to safety.
She probably should have kept her eyes closed but she couldn’t resist peering into the Mist, looking for an anchor of reality in the sea of endless white. All around her, the cold dampness pressed close, like a smothering blanket, but it was more than just physical, something white slithered across her mind.
“Jordan!” From the depths of the whiteness she heard her name called. She thought at first that it was one of the knights but then the voice drew near and she recognized her brother.
The Mist parted and she saw Justin, his small harp on his hip. He waved for her to follow but Jordan knew it was a trick. She held tight to
the rope but her eyes refused to look away.
The image of her brother solidified, becoming more real. Soldiers dressed in red sprang from the fog, arresting her brother. The Mist vanished and Jordan found herself walking the cobblestone streets of a city. She watched in horror as soldiers forced her brother toward a burning pyre. Chaining his hands, they prodded him towards the flames.
“Jordan help me! Don’t let them burn me!” He stared at her, his face begging for help.
Jordan shook her head. “It’s just a trick.
The soldiers forced Justin into the flames. Screams of agony rang through the streets, raking across her nerves. Jordan could not watch her brother burn. Her right hand reached for her sword. Grasping the hilt, she realized she’d released the rope!
The streets of Coronth vanished, replaced by white fog.
Jordan whirled, groping for the rope but her hands found only damp fog. She strained to see through the swirling cloud. The Mist accommodated her. The cloud parted and Jordan gasped, standing on the edge of a bottomless chasm.
She jerked backwards, scrambling away from the edge. Her foot slipped, sending a shower of rocks tumbling into oblivion. She watched the stones fall but never heard them hit bottom. Her heart raced out of control. She clung to the ground, struggling to think. The Mist is trying to trick me, but why a chasm? And then the answer came, to keep her from finding the rope. She stared at the chasm, trying to defy the illusion, imagining solid ground instead of a bottomless abyss…but the gaping chasm remained. Death taunted her, but she had to take the chance. Sending a quick prayer to the Lords of Light, she gathered herself and then leaped out into the abyss. For a heartbeat she hung over emptiness. Her arms strained forward; reaching for a rope she could not see. Her fingers brushed against a taut line. She grabbed the rope and held on with both hands. Her feet found purchase on solid ground. Below her, the rocky abyss disappeared, consumed in an angry swirl of white. Jordan clutched the rope, drenched in fear.
The Steel Queen (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 1) Page 47
