“I know my life is forfeit,” Gaed continued. “Only please, let me be remembered well for the sacrifice I’ve made.”
“But how?” Laniel crouched beside her. “How could you have come by this knowledge?”
She looked away, refusing to answer.
“How are we come to this turn of events, Gaed?”
“The sheriff’s arm is healed, and my life is forfeit in the saving of it. Does the how of it matter?”
“Yes,” Laniel said simply, brushing his fingers softly through the young woman’s thin brown hair. He looked up at Renda, tears brimming in his eyes. “It matters to us.”
The monk lay at his feet in silence for a long time.
“Then by betrayal,” she said at last. She rose to her feet and looked into his eyes, not letting herself look away from the pain in the older priest’s face. “By theft and subterfuge.”
Laniel shook his head. “We do not understand.”
“You do not want to understand! That night, you remember,” she continued, glancing at Renda, and in her soft brown eyes, the knight saw a wistfulness and a longing she had never known. So bare was the monk’s soul that Renda had to look away, embarrassed. “Afterward, you went to the big chest, and I watched you take a great ancient book bound in hide from it. It was one of several in the chest.”
“We remember,” Laniel frowned uneasily, as if he was beginning to understand what had happened. “You asked what the books contained and if we would share them with you. We told you we could not. You seemed satisfied by this.”
“Satisfied.” The younger monk laughed bitterly. “Who could be satisfied with such an answer? In truth, I was not pleased by your answer, my Lord, not at all, as you should have known I could not be.”
“Not pleased by our answer? That we said no should have been sufficient, Gaed.” His voice rose in anger and resounded with the rumble in the floor. “Not pleased? We are your abbot!”
“And I was your lover!” Angry tears filled the woman’s eyes. “You trusted me at once with too much and not enough! You lay for me a challenge I was too weak to withstand.” She thought a moment. “No. To dismiss it as weakness would be incorrect. Anger drove me, anger and jealousy, that you should keep secrets from me, and right before my very eyes. And so,” she breathed, “whilst you slept, I lifted your key ever so gently as it rested upon your chest, heated it just so with my candle flame and pressed into the side of my candle to make myself a copy. ”
Laniel’s eyes grew wide.
Renda shook her head. “You betrayed the very trust you thought you deserved.”
“I betrayed nothing! Once I had the key, I spent every spare moment studying the books, learning the lost ways. I coveted the knowledge only to have, not to use, not to share. Don’t you see?” She turned to Laniel. “I told myself I could share your challenge, as a…wife might, to be closer to you.”
“A wife? Gaed…” The abbot shook his head.
“Do not say it.” At last the tears spilled from her eyes. “Please, I cannot bear the words upon your lips. I know we shared but a single night.” She smiled sadly. “I knew, in my plainness and lack of skill, I could expect no more than that. But this knowledge, you see…this was something I knew I could share with you, however secretly, for a lifetime. Then maybe you would learn to love me as I love you.”
“No, this is not possible.” He took the monk’s hands in his. “We know you, Gaed. This strangeness is not your own. This weak talk of wives and of love… You must have been misled by this other god, driven to this betrayal by––”
Gaed shook her head. “No, truly! Since I were a child, I have served only Bilkar. And you.”
Renda scowled. “A curious way to serve them, is it not? With betrayal and lies?”
“Yes, perhaps.” Gaed looked at her coldly. “You would not understand. How could you? I see it in your eyes. You have never loved. You are too weak.”
Renda recoiled as if struck. The words cut her to her very soul.
“Gaed!” Laniel roared at her. “You forget yourself!”
She turned back to him. “Like you, I was content to hold this knowledge and never to use it. But then, I saw the sheriff’s wound and recognized it, and as I looked within, I knew that I had the knowledge to save his arm and perhaps even his life from the power that infected him. I hoped that even as you killed me, you would be proud of what I’d done.”
The roar that shook the abbey deepened, and a great cold wind circled through the monks, a wind that came from no direction and every direction at once. Laniel drew Gaed to him and moved in front of her to protect her as the swirls of cold wind drew frost from the very air itself and crystallized it into thin strands, almost hairs, all whirling and binding themselves, resolving into the shape of a giant Bremondine man, almost completely obscured in thick white furs, whether worn as clothing or growing from his own skin.
Bilkar the Furred.
And He was screaming with fury.
His face, had it not been entirely formed of ice, would have been red with His anger, and the sound He made was not so much a word as a pure and perfect expression of rage.
Renda shivered in the deepening cold and cast a worried look over her father, but he still slept, bundled beneath several blankets, all but his arm which now looked as it had when he’d strapped his vambrace on the night before, with only a red and angry scar to mark his injury. She could not help but feel gratitude for what the young monk had done for him, even though it might now cost all of them their lives.
Laniel immediately prostrated himself upon the ground before Bilkar, and Gaed did likewise. Renda placed herself between the god and her father and bowed her head, dropping to one knee.
“Weakness!” bellowed the god, looking over the priests and the knights. “Why is there such weakness in this place?”
She looked up and met the god’s icy gaze with her own and set her hand on her hilt, a show of strength, a threat if He chose to take it as such. Absurdly, it crossed her mind that He would not be the first god she had confronted today.
“Peace, child of Damerien, protector of B’radik,” he said more softly. “Have I not witnessed your strength today in the Dark Glade? What could I find wanting in your actions there?”
After a moment, Renda bowed her head again and stood.
“No, I smell weakness amongst Mine own, and I would see it purged!”
“The weakness is ours, Lord,” spoke Laniel from where he lay upon the floor.
“Aye, so it is,” the god roared over him. “But is it truly where you believe it to be? Where is the child who stole the forbidden knowledge?”
“No child, but a monk of Bilkar.” Gaed replied without looking up. “I broke Your law, and for that, I am ready to die.”
“You!” His growl rumbled through the very walls, and had they not been so solidly built they might have crumbled. “Have you not done enough without presuming to tell Me My judgment? Be still.”
“The child is innocent. We are abbot of this house. The lapse in judgment was ours,” said Laniel. “We should have known she could not withstand such temptation, and as abbot, we should have protected her from it.”
Bilkar growled. “Would you coddle weakness by hiding temptation, Laniel? In My very abbey? Amongst My priests?”
“She is still young.”
“She is still Bilkarian!” The god’s words rang in the silence of the surgery. “Would you know your failing, Abbot?”
Laniel stared at the floor. “In all humility, Lord Bilkar, we would.”
“Consider. Were you not told to guard that knowledge and keep it safe?”
“We were.”
“Did you fail in this simple task?”
He sighed. “We did.”
“Nonsense. You guarded the knowledge as well as any abbot ever has. But did you wonder why you guarded it?”
“No. Such was Your decree. That was enough.”
“No, it is not enough! Without you know why, you cannot hope to do My wil
l. Would a man lock away a great work of art to protect it from thieves and vandals? Aye, of course he would. But would that same man lock it away for all time, never to be looked upon again by any, not even himself? If he would, would he not better destroy it?”
Laniel looked at the god quizzically.
“So…did I decree that you should destroy it or keep it safe against a time when it might be needed?”
The abbot shook his head. “This was but a single wound!”
“Think!” Bilkar growled. “What was it that harmed Damerien’s child? Was it not this same kind of power? Did you not recognize it?”
“Aye, but—”
“Those that harmed him had also bound gods and laid waste to entire armies! You saw all this in the wound! Your weakness shows not in what you did but in what you failed to do!” Bilkar scowled at him. “Even this child-monk had more sense.”
Renda looked away. Of course she had wanted Laniel to do everything in his power to save her father, but she had trusted his judgment when he’d said the power was not his to use.
Laniel looked at Gaed. “But—”
“Did you expect some grand cataclysm, a rending of worlds, to justify the use of this power?” The god’s voice rose. “Would such an obvious event require the subtlety and discipline of a Bilkarian abbot to see?”
Laniel looked down, humiliated. “No, Lord Bilkar. We have failed you.”
“Laniel,” Bilkar said, and his icy voice softened, almost paternally. “You are the finest abbot this house has ever seen. But you have lived so long in this isolated place that you guard the knowledge now more out of habit than as a choice you make each day. Your judgment has grown dull with disuse and fear, and without good judgment in these dark times, My monks will lose their way as those of the other gods have. Your time as my abbot is done.”
“No!” Gaed stood. “Do not kill him! Laniel did not break faith! I did! You cannot punish him for my weakness! Kill me instead!”
Laniel rested a hand on her arm to quiet her.
“Child-monk!” Bilkar snarled. “Do you dare stand and natter at Me without My leave? Do you dare command Bilkar the Furred?”
“I do, and why not?” She raised her chin. “My life is already forfeit.”
“There are many ways to die, child,” the god seethed.
“Even so, I will speak! Call it weakness if You will, but I will not have an innocent man suffer for what I chose to do.”
“An innocent man that you love.” Bilkar’s sneering tone cut to her heart. His icy eyes narrowed. “My judgment––”
“Please, I beg of you! Have mercy on him!”
Bilkar roared again. “If I were minded to kill anyone, he would be dead already, so hold your tongue lest I change My mind! My judgment is that you, Gaed, shall be the new abbess of Bilkar. Nay, do not speak again or I shall strike you dumb! You have the forbidden knowledge, and there is no taking it from you. To make another abbot would be wasteful. Besides, two can keep a secret only when one is dead. Of course, having used this power, you will be twice challenged not to do so again without great need. Mark Me well, little one. You are yet young and should rely heavily on your elders for advice, but do not surrender your judgment, for it is mostly sound. You have shown the strength to stand, even in the face of a god, in defense of the innocent. Yes, you will make a fine abbess, even as you made a terrible monk. So abbess you are.”
“Thank you,” breathed Gaed.
“This is no reward.”
Gaed nodded as Laniel put the key around her neck.
“As punishment for your weakness and duplicity, Gaed, I will banish Laniel from this place for all time.”
“No! He should not be punished!”
“He will not.” Bilkar laughed, a sound more frightening than his growl. “The punishment is yours, Gaed.”
“But why? I did the right thing! I did what you wanted done!”
“That your actions worked for the benefit of this world is the only reason you yet live, so do not try My patience! You acted out of weakness, and for this weakness, you will never again see the man you love. As I said, child, there are many ways to die.”
She stood in silence staring at the floor.
Renda’s heart broke for the new abbess. She had seen the depth of the woman’s love for Laniel, and now she saw the depth of her desolation, as well. All because the young woman had betrayed her secret and saved Lord Daerwin. She could not even begin to fathom Laniel’s sense of loss.
“Laniel, you will attend the children of Damerien that they may benefit from your strength, your wisdom and your knowledge––all of your knowledge, yea?”
Laniel bowed his head. “Yes, Lord Bilkar. Our…my gratitude for Your mercy.”
“Never forget, Laniel, that you are Bilkarian. You may no longer be abbot, but you now carry My most earnest mission. Do not squander your gifts and do not revel in weakness. I will be watching.”
Suddenly, the millions of tiny ice shards that had gone to create the image of Bilkar shattered outward, vanishing into the warming air of the abbey, and He was gone.
Seven
Durlindale
She knocked at the door and waited, rubbing her hands even through her riding gloves to warm them. Well nigh midnight, it was, but that could not be helped. They’d ridden as hard as they dared, skirting south below Brannagh and the ominous black smoke above it and cutting overland across Damerien lands, with Chul’s horse wheezing alarmingly the last several miles. The poor beast had not had a proper rest in two days, and if they would have him survive to Brannford, they had no choice but to stop the night here.
Durlindale was one of the southernmost cities in the eastern half of Syon near the Great Southern Forest with its broad stands of fast growing trees. The plentiful supply of wood meant that most of the buildlings both in Durlindale and throughout all of Moncliff’s lands were built of complete logs rather than stone blocks or wooden planks. The wealthiest buildings were built of bare polished logs, oiled and cured, and carved with ornate scenes. The next class, mostly businesses and merchants’ homes, were slathered with a sort of plaster mud to give the walls a surface for taking paint. And the least were built just of the trees as they came from the ground, branches and all, with only a rude mortar to fill the cracks, but all the buildings gave a sense of sturdiness and permanence. What the buildings lacked in elegance, they made up in strength and protection from the seasons.
The inn where she stood was mud-daubed and painted a cheery welcoming white which helped it to stand out for the traveler in the darkness.
Gikka shook her head. The windows were dark, and not the merest curl of smoke rose from the main room’s chimney. This was not a good sign. With each minute it took the innkeeper to get to the door, she would need at least another shilling to convince him that her business would be worth his trouble, then another to still his wagging tongue… Bah, she thought to herself and fished a silver haypind from her pouch, enough that he could close the inn the season and still not want. She’d be lucky to get away for so little. Still, such was the price of doing business, especially quiet business, especially for one like her.
“Go away. I’ve nothing left,” a man’s voice called through the door, and in it, she heard a note of fear. “You were just here! Pray, leave me take a breath ere you come collecting again! How’s a man to get on like this?”
Gikka’s eyes narrowed. Usury, exaction…probably both. Some things about Durlindale would never change. With none but the marquess and his men to police matters in the area and with their studied lack of interest except where it gained for them, the hellions could run amok and did. Reputations grew on open defiance and ruthlessness, with the result that any as peeked in the corners where they were not wanted turned up plugging the irrigation come morning. Not surprisingly, those sorts of questions mostly went unasked, even by the marquess and his men. Some called it corruption, but she always believed the marquess’s seeming apathy was a matter of keeping his head
down in order to keep it at all rather than true disinterest.
Strange, she thought to herself, glancing out over the alleys and side streets she’d known so well. Not so long ago, she’d reveled in the lawlessness of the place and the ease with which she moved in circles where others feared to tread. As Beridien, she’d even held a fair bit of power here once. But she was younger then and less of a mind to mark the sufferings of others, much less to ease them. Occasionally, she allowed uneasily, she’d even enjoyed them. Now, compared against the demons and the other horrors she’d faced since she left, the shabby pettiness of this place merely tried her patience.
Speaking of which… She tapped the door again.
“Please! I already told you, I’ve moneyed folk here tonight, them as will pay their part and be gone at midday. Only leave me lie the night!”
Moneyed. More of habit than anything else, she paused at the word, considering. True, Chul had not had a chance to earn his keep since Farras, and certainly the practice even at watching and spying and perhaps taking a bauble or two would keep his mind off what he’d experienced in the glade. It would be easy enough, what with the marks staying in the same inn and all. But no, the thought left her mind almost as quickly as it entered. They had no time to spare. Besides, Durlindale was not the place to make mistakes. No, any furtherance of his education would have to wait for Brannford.
“Hello? Did you hear? I say, come again tomorrow, won’t you,” the innkeeper pleaded through the door, “and I shall have them––”
“Begging your pardon,” she called innocently if a bit impatiently through the door, knocking again, “but have you a room to let tonight?”
She heard an astonished silence on the other side of the door for a moment, then the bolt was thrown, and the door flew open. The innkeeper, a thin man with a suspicious mustache and a threadbare nightshirt looked out past her and up and down the street before settling his gaze upon her.
She felt him appraising her. Costly riding apparel, a full purse at her belt. No doubt he assumed every coin in it was stolen, what with her being Bremondine and all, but she doubted that he would let his conscience prick him overmuch on that point. Coin was coin to him, and coin was likely what he needed—given what he’d just said—far more than a smug sense of virtue. His gaze traveled over her hair, as if he was trying to remember something…perhaps something about a woman who wore her hair down like a man. She had a ready answer if he asked: passing for a man made sense for a woman traveling alone.
Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) Page 11
