“Yes.”
“I think it might be today.”
Worry creased his friend’s forehead. “If it is, you know I’ll help however I can.”
Marc gave him a grateful dip of his head. “Thanks. I can ask no more than that.”
Catching up with Oren, they journeyed to a densely wooded area north of Crowe’s larger camp. Leaving Sean hidden away, Marc and Oren walked directly south, their downcast faces shaded by the spacious, hooded monk’s robes. Within several minutes they were discovered.
“Hold there,” a guard commanded, brandishing a spear. “What business do you have around here?” Marc ignored the whispers of fear trying to invade his mind and focused it instead on the mission.
“None, except that of our God,” Oren said in a pleasing tone. “May we be of service to you this fine morning?”
The guard viewed them suspiciously. “You are holy men?”
Oren bowed slightly. “I am Brother Crotious and this is my initiate, Brother Gastus.”
Marc smiled unseen in his hood at Oren’s use of the names of the two guards whose remains flanked his home’s door. A second guard moved in, deliberately positioning himself off to their side.
The first guard studied them more closely. “Why are you here?” Oren began to speak, but the man cut him off, waiving the spear’s tip in Marc’s direction. “No. Gastus, you tell me.”
For a panicked moment, Marc worried about what to say; he assumed Oren would do most of the talking. What would Gildas do in this circumstance? Keeping his emotions in check, he bowed slightly. “We travel about, spreading the Word of God. We minister to those in need—the sick, injured and those unhappy of heart. All we ask in return is a meager portion of food and a place by the fire at night.”
—Very good, Marc,— Oren Linked weakly.
Feeling both relief and exhilaration, he answered, —Thank you, Crotious. You look well for a skeleton.—
A flicker of amusement echoed back from Oren before he ended the Link and said, “Are there any in need of our care? Or should we be on our way?” Marc heard more guards approaching.
“We have some injured men. What can you do for them that we cannot?”
“We are trained in the healing arts and carry medicinal herbs. Bleeding and festering wounds are made better with our skills.”
Marc felt the apprehension of the first two guards ease, followed by a rapidly growing sense of the foul coldness he first experienced the day he killed the wolf. Thaddeus neared. Quickly pulling back his magic, he did his best to conceal it, then whispered a Link. —Master?—
—I sense him as well. Remain calm and follow my lead.—
Thaddeus stopped several paces from them, his sword drawn, his gaze intent. “Who are these two?” The first guard summarized the situation. “Monks, you say. You, Crotious, show yourself.”
“Certainly, my brother.” As Oren pulled back his hood, Marc sensed Thaddeus studying the master’s face. He also felt the familiar magic of Oren Pushing an illusion into Thaddeus.
After what felt like an eternity, their enemy shifted his gaze to Marc. “Fine. Now you, Gastus.”
Marc’s diaphragm tightened; it was comply or be killed. He had to trust his master would disguise him as well for he still could not do it himself. “As you wish, gentle sir.” Concealing his distress, Marc lowered the fabric and looked at the man who had nearly killed him months before. An overwhelming sense of Nothingness hung about him like a burial shroud.
Thaddeus viewed him with no more emotion than one would show gazing at a rock. “Your voice reminds me of someone else.”
A spark of panic flicked to life inside Marc’s gut but he instantly quenched it, not revealing any outward sign of it. “A friend of yours, perhaps?”
“No.”
“An enemy, then?”
Thaddeus shrugged. “A relative of mine. A son of a cousin. We... see things differently.”
He and Thaddeus were related? More than intrigued, Marc deeply wished he could pursue the topic further but knew that now was not the time. “How unfortunate. I will pray for you both. What is his name?”
Thaddeus sheathed his sword, then waved his hand in a single dismissive gesture. “Do not waste your prayers. He worships magic.”
“Oh. That is disturbing,” Marc said, trying to sound disheartened. “Well, I will say some for you, then.”
“If you must.” Thaddeus turned to his guards. “Feed them and let them tend to the injured, but stay with them.”
Marc lifted his hood into place and dipped his head. “Thank you, kind sir.”
Ignoring them, Thaddeus returned to camp.
“Follow me,” the first guard said. “Go only where I tell you is permitted.”
Trailing after the man, Marc finally allowed himself to take a full breath. While the encounter frightened him, he also found it most exciting. —Thank you for concealing me. I must learn illusion better. Who did Thaddeus see?—
—A young version of Gastus. You did very well as a monk. Now we must find a way to get them to let us treat Donald’s wounds.—
The guard brought them to four injured men. Two had what looked to be sword wounds, one had taken an arrow which was crudely removed, and the fourth had a broken leg. While Marc and Oren treated them, they Envisioned the camp, seeking detailed information about the number of men, their weapons, food stores and other key facts, then quickly gleaned what they could from everyone’s mind.
—I’m finished, Master,— Marc said.
—What is your assessment of Crowe’s men?—
—At least half are quite unhappy and wish to leave but fear being killed if they try. About a quarter more do not like Crowe, or what he is doing, but stay because of the food and pay. The remainder are filled with the same evil corrupting Thaddeus and Tomar. They enjoy doing evil things.—
—My conclusions are the same. What does this tell you?—
—That well over half his men are not loyal, a major weakness. How might we exploit that?—
—Find a way for them to safely leave his service, or better yet, turn them against him.—
Once they completed their tasks, the guard said, “You are gifted healers. There is one other in need of attention. A prisoner.”
Marc contained his excitement. “We will heal all, be they prince or prisoner.” Hurriedly Envisioning the tent, he found no guard posted inside and arranged the acorns into the symbol for silence. Picking up the water bucket and sack of herbs, he followed Oren and the guard.
“This way,” the guard said, guiding them into the tent.
Donald looked at the ground, playing in the dirt with his hand. Seeing that the acorns were scattered, Marc knew he had received his message. The guard tapped Donald on the shoulder with the butt of his spear. Donald looked at his visitors, his face dispassionate.
“Two healers are here to look at you.”
Oren looked at Donald, then the guard. “What was his crime?”
“Spying on this camp. Our lord Thaddeus has generously allowed him to live thus far, but Lord Crowe will soon be here to decide his fate.”
Marc lifted the bucket and faced the guard. “Would you be so kind as to bring us some more hot water? This has grown cold.”
“Very well.” With a pained expression, the guard took the bucket and left.
Dropping his hood, Marc held a finger to his lips and whispered, “We have to be very careful. Guards are everywhere, and we don’t want to give them any reason to attack the village.”
Donald’s mournful expression echoed the emotions radiating from him. “Yes. Thank you for coming. I was so stupid—”
“Tell us later. The village is pretending to support Crowe. We are not certain how to free you yet, but go along with whatever we do.”
Donald nodded.
“And do not act like you know us,” Oren said. “The guard returns.”
Marc flipped up his hood as the man entered and handed over the bucket.
�
��Here.”
“Thank you.” Marc knelt next to Donald and went about cleaning the dried blood from his friend’s face. They set his broken nose and treated the cuts to his face and had nearly finished when there came a flurry of activity outside.
The guard began to exit the tent but then hastily stepped back in, bowing as Crowe entered. “Good morning, my lord.”
“So, this is our spy.” Amused and confident, Crowe’s pale blue eyes gazed intently down at Donald who remained silent. Nearly as tall as Thaddeus, Crowe had much more muscle on him. While his hair remained a deep brown, gray had invaded the sides and center of his beard. “Thaddeus told me of your discussion. Tell me why I should let you live.”
His face full of regret, Donald looked at him. “I was a fool, but learned the error of my ways from Thaddeus. He is a wise man. I wish only to serve the people of my village,” Donald lowered his head, “and my new king.”
“Well said. Still, I cannot be seen as being weak when it comes to those who work against me. Maybe I should kill you as an example to others.”
Donald tensed and drew in a ragged breath. “I appeal to your mercy and charity, my lord.”
Crowe had the darkest heart of any Marc had felt—completely consumed by the Nothingness; there was no love or mercy to be found within him. He would kill Donald without the slightest reservation for the other was of no value to him. Marc feared that any moment Crowe would decide Donald’s fate and that it would not be a good one. A sudden idea came to Marc. He prayed it would be well received.
“May I speak, my lord?” he asked respectfully.
The man’s cold eyes flicked his way. “Ah, the monks have a voice. Which one are you?”
“You may call me Brother Gastus, my lord.”
“Speak, then.”
“If this man is to be punished for his crime against you, may I suggest one that would profit both of us?”
Crowe kept silent for a time, his face impassive. “Go on.”
“As brothers of the Word, we are not allowed to work on the Sabbath. To do so is to be damned. If he is to be killed for crimes committed, then he is already damned. Would you be so kind as to give him to us as our slave? That way our labors could be done on the Sabbath as well. Our brothers would work him hard all day and every day for the rest of his life.”
Crowe laughed. “It would be better for him to die today. I see how it profits you. Tell me how it profits me.”
“He never returns to his village. No body will be found. No one would know what happened to him. The people will fear meeting his fate and thus remain loyal to you.”
Crowe’s brows peaked for a moment. “Perhaps, but you still fare better than I.”
Marc’s mind raced. What to do? Chancing that Thaddeus was not nearby, Marc lightly probed the man’s mind and found him desirous of getting the most of Donald’s fate. Another idea came to him. Perfect. Oren’s body blocked the guard’s view. “Although we are but poor monks, we might pay you something. What worth would you give him?” While Crowe further inspected Donald, Marc Floated five silver coins from the man’s purse to his own.
“Four silver coins.”
“Oh.” Marc gave the impression it was too high. “What do you think, Brother Crotious?”
“With respects, my lord, I feel he is only worth one silver. He is clearly a trouble maker, and we have to feed and clothe him as well.”
Crowe looked at Oren then Marc. “Three.”
Marc opened his purse and peered inside. Letting his shoulders sag, he said with regret, “I only have two silvers to give you.”
“Very well. Two,” Crowe said with a nod.
Another brief probe informed Marc this bantering pleased Crowe. Bowing his head, Marc handed over the coins. “You are most kind.”
Crowe studied him. “I am a powerful man yet you do not fear me as others do. Why?”
“I know my God will protect me, as will you, too, my lord, for I serve you both.” Marc felt the man’s pride come forth.
“Travel with us, both of you. We could use your talents.”
“We were headed south,” Oren said. “If you are going that way, it would be our pleasure to do so.”
“No, we are northbound. Farewell, then.” Crowe turned to leave, then paused and faced them once more. “Tell me, which village were you at last?”
“We spent the night at Oak Creek. They were most hospitable.”
Crowe’s eyebrows rose. “And the mood of the people?”
“Cheerful. They said their new king would visit them on the morrow.”
Crowe smiled as a cold breath of dark conceit came from him. “I’m glad they were so friendly.” He handed the coins back to Marc. “Keep these for your travels.”
Dipping his head low, Marc accepted them. “Bless you, sir.”
Oren bowed low. “You are most generous.”
“I am. Safe journey to you.”
“I pray that God speeds you to your destination,” the master said, crossing himself.
Somewhere fiery and filled with tormenting demons, Marc hoped as the man departed. Oren led Donald out of the tent while Marc gathered up their belongings. Once outside, Marc searched the immediate vicinity with his magic and found no threat nearby.
Their escort gestured toward the center of camp. “Please, eat something before you go.”
“That is most generous of you,” Oren said. “Come, Brother Gastus.”
“Certainly, my brother.” —Master, we’ve got him. We should leave now.—
—And how would it appear for two wandering monks to refuse a free meal?—
—We would be suspect.— He turned to Donald. “What is your name, slave?”
“Donald, sir.”
“We need to give you another, one not so noble. Marcus. Yes, that is lowly enough.” Marc struggled to keep the smile from his lips.
“Thank you, sir. That name is highly regarded in my village.”
“It is? Well, we will find something else suitable. Remain silent unless spoken to.”
The guard served them some of the delicious leftover boar from the night before. As they started to leave, Marc nearly collided with one of Crowe’s men, each briefly seeing a flash the other’s face. Marc instantly recognized him as the red-haired soldier accompanying Thaddeus the day he came to collect the honorarium.
“Pardon me.” Marc bowed to conceal his face, hoping the man had not recognized him.
“No harm done,” the man said, hesitantly.
Probing his thoughts, Marc found the man—Rutilus—confused, but not surprised or alarmed. Trying to act naturally, Marc walked southward out of the camp with Oren and Donald. —Master, do you know who that was?—
—Yes. The question is, did he identify you?—
—I’m not sure.— Marc told Oren of what he received from the man’s thoughts. —If so, would not many guards be after us?—
—Possibly. When we reach Sean, I will stay at his hiding place and watch for any who might come after us.—
After the three of them were well clear of the camp, Marc scanned the surrounding area and found no one else nearby. He lowered his hood. “We are not being observed.” Turning, he led them west until reaching the path that would take them north toward Oak Creek. During that time, strong emotions built within Donald—relief, shame, regret—flooding over Marc’s thoughts. “Speak your mind, Don.”
With downcast eyes, Donald walked on for over a minute before responding. “I don’t know what to say. Of course, my deepest thanks to you and Master Oren at being freed. You risked your lives to watch me last night and rescue me today. It’s more than I deserve. I was a fool, not just for spying and getting caught, but—” He paused, letting out a deep sigh as if suddenly freed of a heavy burden. “I treated you and Valeria poorly. Shamefully. I put myself and my desires above everything else. Because of that, I greatly trespassed against both of you. I cannot ask forgiveness for that because I do not deserve it.”
Marc’s he
art went out to his friend knowing such a change, and the admissions resulting from it, did not come easy. “What are we if we cannot learn from our mistakes? I, too, have walked that road. None of us deserve forgiveness. Neither can it be earned. Instead, it is something that can only be given freely by the other.”
“Yes, life’s too short, Don. Ask him.” Ahead of them, Sean stood off to the side of the path, smiling. They had reached the thicket already.
Donald briefly smiled at Sean, then turned to face Marc. Slowly extending his hand, Donald brought forth the words Marc waited to hear. “Is there any way you can forgive me?”
Ignoring his hand, Marc embraced him fiercely. “I forgave you long ago. It’s good to have my friend back.” Donald clung to him as well. When they separated, Marc looked him in the eye. “That past is behind us. Let us speak of it no more.”
Sean put his arms about the shoulders of his two friends. “Let’s go home.”
“One word of caution, Donald,” Oren said. “Keep hidden from view, for Thaddeus, Crowe and some of their men will visit the village today. If you are seen, our deception will be uncovered.”
Donald dipped his head in respect. “I will stay with Ethan’s swine, Great One, until you or Marc say it is safe to return. Perhaps we should return by way of the eastern path?”
Oren nodded. “Good choice. You and Sean go on ahead. I must speak with Marc for a moment.” The master sat on a log and invited Marc to join him. He seemed pleased about something. “You did quite well today.”
“Thank you, Master.”
“Stretch out your magic. Tell me what you sense.”
Marc carefully examined the area around them, especially the distance between them and the encampment they just left. “Nothing unusual. Why do you ask?”
“I sense something odd is at hand, but my magic is too weak to tell me what it might be. I used much of it yesterday evening and have had insufficient rest to rebuild my strength.” Oren sighed. “My age betrays me.”
Marc checked again, this time Envisioning much further out, and found the only real danger, Thaddeus, riding his horse in the direction of the far camp. “I find nothing odd, Master.”
Oren pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps it is a future event that I am unable to see at the moment.” He waved Marc away. “Go. I will remain here for a time. Be careful.”
Haunted Tree (The Magus Family Chronicles Book 1) Page 29
