‘May Birgyssa guide you,’ Aethelman said to the young acolyte.
‘May she show you favour,’ the boy said. ‘We saw you coming up the road. The rector will receive you once you’ve had time to wash and have something to eat. A room has been prepared for you.’
Aethelman nodded in thanks. He had not been back since leaving on his Search, and it felt strange to be treated with the respect due to a senior member of their order. It did not seem so long ago that he had been the one wearing the brown robes, bowing and scraping to those in grey. He only hoped the young men and women were better cooks than he had been.
The boy led him into a large building that Aethelman remembered well from his days there. It contained all the guest quarters, as well as the refectory. Aethelman could smell cooking, and his stomach rumbled in protest. He was so hungry he couldn’t care less if the current acolytes knew the top of a cook pot from its bottom.
The acolyte led him to the room that had been prepared. A large jug of steaming hot water sat by the washbasin on the counter. Aethelman smiled—he had not once seen hot water anywhere other than the kitchen and refectory when he was an acolyte. Training at the Hermitage was intended to prepare the young acolytes for the hardships of life as an itinerant priest.
‘Hot food is available in the refectory whenever you are ready,’ the acolyte said as he retreated toward the door.
‘And then the rector,’ Aethelman said, finishing the boy’s sentence for him.
The acolyte nodded and closed the door as he left. Aethelman could remember how in awe he had been of the priests who had called in to the Hermitage from time to time. He wondered at the places they had seen, and the things they had experienced on the road. The world had been a great mystery to him then, as it likely was for the young acolyte who had shown him to his room. Now it held few surprises for Aethelman. The Fount Stone was the only mystery that concerned him. It was his quest—the one that would define his life, and probably his last.
9
THE MAISTERSPAEKER
It occurred to the Maisterspaeker that he had not thought to look around for Wulfric when he came down to the taproom. He was so caught up in his tale he had all but forgotten about his reason for being there. He was not ashamed to admit he was coming to his favourite part of the story, the part he had witnessed first-hand and helped to shape. The telling of it breathed fresh life into those moments long past and, for a time, could make him forget the years between then and now, forget the ache in his knees and elbows, and the old wounds that reminded themselves to him on a cold day. It made him feel like Jagovere the young soldier again, not the old teller of tales that he was.
He paused for a moment and scanned the crowd. It would be just like Wulfric to remain silent and watch, and only later spend hours picking out anything he felt was inaccurate in the story. The Maisterspaeker couldn’t count the number of times he had explained that just as some facts did not warrant inclusion in the story, on occasion, some had to be embellished for dramatic effect. It didn’t seem to lie well with Wulfric’s Northland notions of honesty, but that didn’t stop the Maisterspaeker.
Wulfric was not there. It took a couple of days to make the journey down to the borderlands, and the same for his message to go north. He knew Wulfric would waste no time coming once he received word, but it would still likely be another day or two at the earliest before Wulfric arrived.
The Maisterspaeker realised the audience were patiently waiting for him to continue, so he did.
WULFRIC
All the Company men ate with their respective units. Wulfric had taken his meals by himself, but now that he was on the paymaster’s roll and was assigned to the heavies, he thought it only natural that he would eat with them.
They were not hard to spot. They were all big men, far bigger than the light horsemen who called themselves ‘hoosars’ and dressed in garishly coloured jackets. Most of them could have passed for Northlanders, which gave Wulfric a sense of comfort when he sat down at their mess table.
‘You’re the Northlander,’ one of the men said. He was as big as Wulfric, but older, with cropped hair and dark stubble of the same length covering his face.
‘I am,’ Wulfric said.
‘What are you doing sitting here?’ the big man said, a hint of indignation in his voice.
‘Jagovere said I was in the heavies, so here I am.’
The big man’s brow furrowed. ‘That’s Banneret, or Captain, dal Borlitz. The likes of you don’t get to call him by his given name.’
Wulfric glared at him. ‘The likes of me?’
‘Northland vermin,’ the big man said, standing.
‘Sit down, Enderlain,’ another said to the big man. ‘He’s new. Give him a chance to learn the rules.’
‘I’ll give him the chance,’ Enderlain said. He sat, but continued to stare at Wulfric.
‘I’m Walt,’ the other man said. ‘Welcome to the heavies.’
‘Wulfric.’
He got a nod in return, and started to eat. He picked up a chunk of meat, and bit away a mouthful.
‘Bloody savage doesn’t even know how to use a fork,’ Enderlain said.
‘Neither did you, when you first joined,’ Walt said.
‘Of course I did,’ Enderlain said. ‘Everyone knows Northlanders don’t have the first clue about manners. If we’re going to have to eat with him, we’ll have to put some on him.’
‘You going to put them on me?’ Wulfric said, closing his fist.
‘Enough. Both of you.’ Jagovere had come down into the galley and glared at Wulfric and his new friend.
‘Sergeant,’ he said to Enderlain, ‘this is one of your new cavalrymen. His name is Wulfric.’ He turned to Wulfric. ‘This is Sergeant Enderlain, your squad leader. I won’t have fighting in my squadron. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Captain,’ Enderlain said.
Jagovere glared at Wulfric. He nodded.
‘Good,’ Jagovere said. ‘That’s that dealt with. I’ll leave you to it.’
Wulfric and Enderlain sat and resumed eating, but Wulfric could tell from the way Enderlain looked at him out of the corner of his eye that the matter was far from dealt with.
‘I’m Sander,’ another man said. ‘That’s Conrat, Walt, and Ewert.’
Wulfric nodded to him. As he sat under Enderlain’s withering stare he felt like a young boy again, being introduced to Rodulf and his friends for the first time. He wasn’t going to allow himself to be bullied. Wulfric glared back at Enderlain until he returned his attention to his food.
RODULF
Rodulf felt the tension leave his body for the first time when the road widened and he started to recognise features along its path. They were close enough to Leondorf to make an attack very unlikely. As the stress eased, he was surprised to find it replaced by disappointment. The ambassador would be pleased at the safe arrival of the wagon convoy, but an uneventful trip did little to enhance Rodulf’s standing. Any fool could guide the wagons along a well-worn road. For the convoys to be of use, Rodulf needed to be able to show his ability to fight off an attack and safely bring in the cargo of silver.
He could feel the Stone in his pocket. At the very least it seemed to bring him luck, but he couldn’t shake the thought, ridiculous though it seemed, that it did more than that. Perhaps it wasn’t so far-fetched? Many Northlanders were convinced of the existence of the gods, and that their power dwelled in the realm of men. He had seen Aethelman do things he could not explain, which the old priest had attributed to the power of the gods. Could the Stone be connected to all of that? Could there actually be something to it? Might it have kept him safe on the convoy? It certainly hadn’t been much use to its previous owner in that regard. He wondered if Aethelman might be able to give him the answers he sought, but felt panic grip his chest as soon as the thought came to him. The Stone was his secret. Something to be coveted and kept close. No one could know he had it—not even if they might be able to shed some light on it for hi
m.
ANDHUN
Andhun sat on his porch and watched the ox wagons roll into town, Rodulf and his mercenaries forming the vanguard. He sat atop his horse with all the arrogance and swagger of one of the warrior class. They had done so much to redress that balance, and the sight of Rodulf brought back unwelcome memories. ‘Warrior’ was a word seldom heard now. The town’s young men were training to be soldiers, soldiers who would be subordinate to the council. Or the feudal lord. Andhun would be damned if he’d let the one-eyed bastard take that.
He waved and smiled. It was not the done thing to reveal what he was truly thinking. Oswyn, who sat beside Andhun, did the same. From rival to unlikely friend, it was interesting and frightening how quickly the balance had shifted. Andhun knew he had blundered with the new ambassador, and had to make amends quickly. He could not allow Rodulf to capitalise on the mistake.
Seeing him ride into the village with an intact cargo was disappointing. A dark thought flashed through his mind, but he wasn’t yet willing to resort to murder to achieve his aims. Not yet. There were other, tidier ways. Andhun was a wealthy man. He had almost convinced Oswyn to add his resources to ensuring Andhun, and not Rodulf, won the prize of Leondorf.
‘Smug bastard, isn’t he,’ Oswyn said, when Rodulf was far enough away to be out of earshot.
‘Always was. I almost regret the Strong Arm’s boy is gone. He was the only one who could put Rodulf back in his place.’
‘Pah. We’re better off without him and his kind. Wulfric was a wild beast. Rodulf is only a viper. Dangerous, but easier to deal with.’
‘And the ambassador?’
Oswyn shrugged. ‘He thinks we’re all ignorant bumpkins. Let him think that. We’ll be rid of him just as quick. I’d rather he underestimate us than have our true measure.’
Andhun nodded. He was glad Oswyn’s chances had been destroyed. He was shrewd, and would have been a tough adversary. Andhun wasn’t sure he could have beaten him and Rodulf both. Now he would make an invaluable ally.
‘If Donatoson is made lord, it will be bad for both of us,’ Andhun said.
‘It will,’ Oswyn said.
‘Success like that,’ Andhun nodded to the heavy wagons wending their way toward the smelter on the other side of the village, ‘will have him Baron of Leondorf before we know it. I’m the only one with a chance to beat him to it now.’
Oswyn grimaced, the skin on his face stretching to make him look even more skeletal. ‘I reckon so,’ he said, after a moment.
‘You’ll help me, then?’
‘I will. But stopping One-Eye won’t be reward enough.’
‘If I rise, you’ll rise with me,’ Andhun said. ‘High Chancellor, I think they are called in the south. Next most powerful man after the lord.’
‘That could work,’ Oswyn said.
‘Might even be a title in it down the road for you too, if we can grow the territory.’ Andhun would promise him the sun if that was what it took. Rodulf was too dangerous to deal with alone, and as rich as Andhun was he needed Oswyn’s help.
‘That would work even better,’ Oswyn said, watching the last of the wagons pass out of sight.
‘I think a bribe is the best way forward. I’ll need a lot of coin to be sure.’
‘A blade would be even better,’ Oswyn said. ‘I know a fellow in Elzburg. Born killer. I’m told he’s killed dozens. Men, women, children. None of it’s a problem for him. It’ll be cheaper too.’
‘A blade will put Rodulf out of the picture,’ Andhun said, ‘but it won’t guarantee me the lordship. They might decide to send up one of their own if they see us falling about trying to kill each other.’
‘The southerners hate this place. The silver’s the only thing they like.’
‘I’m sure they could find someone who would stick it.’
Oswyn nodded. ‘Maybe so. A bribe then.’
‘I think that’s for the best. We can keep the blade as our fall-back.’
AETHELMAN
Aethelman had last knocked on the rector’s door the evening before he went on his Search. The memory caused his heart to race as it had then. He had never thought himself prone to nostalgia, but since laying eyes on the Hermitage again, it had threatened to overwhelm him a number of times. The hallway outside was dim, lit only by a small lantern farther down the cut-stone wall, lending the moment an ominous feel.
‘Enter.’
Aethelman did as he was bidden, feeling every bit the young acolyte, though now he would likely be far older than the rector.
The rector was indeed younger than Aethelman, although he could not be called a young man.
‘Welcome, brother. What is your name?’
‘Aethelman.’
‘I am Rector Benegrim. What brings you back to the Hermitage?’
‘I’m seeking out information, Rector.’
‘Really?’ Benegrim said. ‘I expected that you wished to instruct here. I don’t think I’ve encountered anyone returning for any other reason.’
‘I’m afraid not. Not now, at least. It’s something I would like to do, if the gods see fit to give me the time, but I have something else that I feel I must do first.’
The rector moved forward in his seat.
‘The Search has been playing on my mind for a long time.’ Aethelman couldn’t bring himself to admit that he had found a Fount Stone. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, but knew he should have done more than he had. It was his great failing.
‘I have to admit, since completing mine I’ve barely given it a second thought,’ Benegrim said.
Aethelman smiled wryly. ‘Each year, newly ordained priests are sent out on their Search to find Fount Stones but they are not, or at least were not in my day, told what to do with them if one is found.’
The rector smiled too, but in a way that made Aethelman feel he was being indulged. ‘No one has seen one in living memory. Far longer, in fact. I expect they are all long destroyed. It’s the tradition and hardship of the Search that makes it significant, not the subject of it.’
‘I realise that,’ Aethelman said, ‘but what if one is found? What then?’
‘Well, I suppose they should bring it back here and the appropriate action could be taken.’
‘Which is?’
The rector stared at him with a vacant expression.
‘Exactly,’ Aethelman said.
The rector smiled again. ‘Come now. I hardly think it important. No one is going to find one. If any remain, they are so well hidden they are as good as destroyed. Generation after generation of priests have failed to turn one up. I am content to say our duty in that regard is satisfied.’
‘Would you have any objection to me investigating it?’
‘Of course not,’ the rector said. ‘You’re a free man; neither I nor any other member of our priesthood may give you an order. You are an experienced priest. However, I would hate to see you waste your last years on a futile quest.’
Aethelman had expected him to say ‘fool’s errand’, and appreciated Benegrim’s tact.
‘A man of your experience has much of value to share, and the contribution you could make here, helping to educate and prepare a new generation of priests, would be invaluable. I would ask you to think carefully on remaining.’
‘I would like that,’ Aethelman said, ‘but my compulsion for this quest is… overwhelming.’
The rector nodded, his disappointment clear. ‘Then by all means pursue it. Perhaps the gods have placed this compulsion in your soul. Who am I to question it? I will offer you what assistance I can, but I fear it will be limited. Have you given any thought to how you will proceed?’
‘Yes, a great deal. But it hasn’t brought me to a satisfactory plan. The Stones are little more than legend. Knowledge about them is even more… ephemeral. I realise there is not much here, but I hoped you would allow me to explore the more ancient parts of the monastery.’
‘You’re welcome to,’ the rector said. ‘I would warn
you that some parts have not been visited in centuries, and may be dangerous.’
‘I’m willing to take the risk,’ Aethelman said.
‘Very well. Then I’d recommend a conversation with the lore master. He might not be able to help, but it’s a start. Most of the library’s books come from the south. So little of our own knowledge and history is ever written down, but perhaps he will know something. Brother Gundaman is his name. Do you remember where the lore master’s library is?’
Aethelman smiled. ‘Assuming it hasn’t been moved, I remember it very well.’
10
ADALHAID
Juggling her duties at the palace, studying, and attending her lectures required careful time management, but Adalhaid coursed with excitement during her first few days of classes. Literature, music, art—all the refined aspects of southern culture were on the curriculum. These were the things the nobility wanted their children taught, and if she was to be more than a glorified child-minder, she would need a firm foundation in all of them. The act of learning came as joy to her, however, and she devoured every word of her lectures and spent every spare minute cloistered in the bowels of the university’s library.
She did her best to keep to herself, unwilling to test the effect her Northlander accent would have on her fellow students. For some time, she had tried to cultivate a southern accent, or at least that of someone from the Ruripathian border, where the differences with her own were not so very great. It still felt forced, however, and she feared people would easily see through the deception. Until she had it perfected, every time she opened her mouth all she could think about was how the southerners would look down on her, irrespective of their ranking in class.
Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2 Page 7
