“Yes, Nefrette?” I said.
“Thank you.” She smiled hesitantly, shyly. The starlight caught her face, making it look like a dream. “Thank you for being on our side, for keeping our secret.”
A flash of guilt. Was I going to keep their secret from father? No, of course I’m not. But I’d made an oath to Char, Prince Lander’s daughter. And the dragon, Paxala, had asked me to be her friend. Friends don’t betray each other’s confidences.
But didn’t that mean that I was betraying what my father had asked me to do? I felt torn, and resolved to not come to any decision tonight. Luckily it was dark, and Char didn’t seem to notice anything of my internal turmoil as she bit her lip and carried on talking in those hushed and quiet tones.
“There’s something… Not right about the Draconis Order, Neill.”
“I know,” I said. It was something that I, too, had been thinking for some time. “Why were they so mean to everyone? Why were the Draconis Monks seemingly terrified of the dragons inside the crater? Why was the Abbot so friendly with Prince Vincent?”
“I don’t know, it just doesn’t feel the same when I am with Paxala,” Char said. It was somehow easier to speak our deepest fears into the dark. “She’s so clever, and responds so well to being treated kindly—I don’t think the Abbot has any clue about how to deal with dragons.” She said it, and I felt a slight moment of fear at our heresy.
“And, Paxala…” Char hesitated. “Paxala is scared of the Draconis Order. She fears the monks, and the crater.” Char looked up at me seriously in the night. “Her mother didn’t live long, but she lived long enough to give her a name, and to hide her in the caves when she was still an egg—and to give her a fear of the Order. And believe me, a dragon isn’t scared of anything.”
“Okay,” I nodded. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, Char. Don’t worry.” I said, feeling awkward.
“It’s just…” Char frowned as she looked at me. “I understand that you have your own loyalties to your clan, Neill… I grew up in the court of a prince, so I’m no stranger to politics and secrets…” My heart froze. What was she about to tell me? What she did next shocked me, even though it was a simple thing. She put a hand on my arm, just a light touch, like the way that friends do. “But we really do have to keep Paxala a secret, at least until we know that she can be safe. I don’t trust the Order either, and neither does my father….”
I shouldn’t have been shocked at hearing these words out loud – they were what I had been thinking, after all. But even though I was anxious, and worried about what it might mean – I had that same wild and brave feeling that I had on the mountain with Uncle Lett, and whenever I thought about the dragons. That this was how it was supposed to be. “I promise I’ll keep your secret, Char,” I said solemnly. “We’re friends, right?” I reminded her.
“Yeah, friends.” Char smiled.
When we got down to the kitchen gate, we returned the hessian sack, snuck through the Kitchen Gardens, and were halfway through the storeroom when suddenly torches flared, and shouting voices echoed off the walls.
“Char Nefrette! Neill Torvald! I don’t care who your parents are – but anyone caught sneaking out in this monastery is in a lot of trouble!” It was the Quartermaster Greer, and beside him our not-so-favorite Monk Olan.
Chapter 19
The Abbot’s Judgement
“Are you okay?” I managed to whisper at Char, who just raised an eyebrow, her same old stubborn and resilient demeanor reasserting itself. I only asked because Monk Olan hadn’t been too delicate in seizing our arms and tying them behind our backs, before shoving us behind the Quartermaster Greer as we were led to the tower where I had first been brought to when I had arrived. There were stairs and stairs and still more stairs, and Monk Olan was taking great delight in trying to make us bang our shins on apparently each one.
“Of course I am okay, Torvald,” Char whispered with a lowering scowl. “Just wait until my father hears about how his daughter is being treated.”
“His bastard daughter, remember,” said the Quartermaster, crowing his delight at apparently catching us breaking the Draconis Order rules. “Just as you, Torvald, are also a bastard, are you not? Both illegitimate children. Sneaking around together, doing what? Creating more illegitimate children? Would never have been allowed in my day.”
Ah. So that was it, was it? I had been wondering just why the Quartermaster hated us so much. For a while I had just thought it was because he was a bigot, and now I saw that it was because he was a bigot and an idiot in equal measure. But at least he’d given me an idea for an excuse we might use with the Abbot, as to why we’d been sneaking around. I just hoped Char would play along and pretend she liked me more than just friends.
“With any luck, Torvald, Nefrette, your parents will realize that your blood is too impure to truly learn such a noble art,” Greer continued, his hands making that sudden, slapping noise that he liked so much as he clapped them together.
“Aha!” We came to the top, open room where no furniture adorned the walls or the floors, only the midnight air, streaming in through the open archways.
And the austere, black-clad Abbot with his black skullcap, cane, and wiry beard.
“Your holiness,” Greer bowed. “I have found them, as I sent word that they had left the monastery grounds… They were sneaking around the old storerooms, it seemed, up to no good. I beg of your holiness to punish them appropriately for so flaunting the rules.”
The Abbot was quiet, his gaze falling on Greer, Char, and me. “So, they did not leave the monastery grounds and break the direct rules of our ancient and noble Order, I take it?” the Abbot pointed out. “If you found them in the storerooms, I take it, Quartermaster Greer?”
The Quartermaster blinked, quailed. “Well, no, I mean yes, you are correct, sire. I cannot prove that they have left the monastery grounds after dark, as is prohibited – but they have certainly left their dormitory rooms after dark! They are not training, or studying, or learning – they really cannot be trusted to concentrate or apply themselves to such a noble study as that of the Draconis Order,” Greer said in an almost desperate, pleading fashion that made me feel sick. “Their blood is too impure,” he added as a final shot.
The Abbot just nodded, saying nothing for a long time. Instead, his eyes bored into mine, and then Char’s.
“Leave us.” The Abbot—the most powerful man on this mountain, more powerful, I suspected than even the three princes—spoke suddenly, making me startle. “Quartermaster, leave the children here while I consider their punishment.”
“Yes, yes, of course, sire. Do you wish for me to wait? To fetch a cane?” I saw the Quartermaster lick his lips, as if the idea of us being punished brought him nervous joy.
“I asked you to leave us, Quartermaster,” the Abbot said again in his deadpan, completely monotone way. Somehow, the fact that he had no emotion whether talking to Greer or looking at us made me worry what was coming next all the worse. I felt a tremor run down my hands as the Quartermaster made his bowing and scraping exit, and the Abbot waited until we heard two sets of footsteps disappearing down the tower beyond.
Abbot Ansall was quiet a little longer, regarding as, before turning to look out of the window. “Now. Shall we begin?” he said casually.
Begin what? I thought, sliding a look over to see Char looking apprehensive.
“Flamos,” the Abbot said, just as he had the first time that I had been in this tower, and sparks of light suddenly illuminated the gloom as he commanded the candles and torches to spark into life. I heard Char gasp at the power.
He’s trying to frighten us, I thought.
“It is easy to see why two young people such as yourselves, the children of powerful men in the world, would prefer to play rather than study the secrets of the Draconis Order,” the Abbot said.
“We weren’t playing!” Char blurted out.
“Oh? Then what were you doing, skulking around the storerooms at nig
ht?” The Abbot caught her with his glittering eyes. Char bit her lip, sullenly. “No?” The head of the Order shook his head as if sad for the state that we had gotten ourselves into. I studied the man’s face as he glared, seeing wrinkled, pale, paper-thin skin, but he seemed thin and ascetic rather than malnourished, or ancient. I wondered if it really was him in the etchings and woodcuts from hundreds of years ago.
“It has come to my attention, Char Nefrette, that you have been spending quite a considerable amount of time out on the mountain of late. Just what can a wild girl be doing out there if not playing, I ask myself?” The man turned to look out the nearest, cold archway at the dark mass of the mountain above us. “I would dread to think, Miss Nefrette, that you are taking yourself to the dragon crater to interfere with the dragons themselves. You know that any contact between the dragons and humans unsupervised is forbidden – and besides which is it highly dangerous, and foolhardy as well.”
I felt Char tense beside me at the suggestion. She knew that this wasn’t the case, and I silently begged her not to argue with the Abbot. Instead, she just glared at the Abbot defiantly, and I wondered if I should try telling the Abbot that we’d just wanted to be alone together, that we cared for each other.
Once again, the man gave one of his resigned, sad little sighs. “Such a shame, such a shame. And for two such promising pupils, as well.” Next his gaze flickered to me, like a snake catching a mouse. “Despite what the Quartermaster Greer thinks, Torvald, I see value in having diverse and interesting students here at the monastery; even girls, even Raiders… and even Gypsies.” Was he threatening me? I wondered. “Do you remember that little chat that we had when we first arrived, about how important it was to be your own man, and to be strong?”
I did. The Abbot had tried to tell me to ignore old family loyalties, to instead concentrate on the ‘great work’ of the Draconis Order. I nodded.
“Speak, Torvald!” Abbot suddenly spat, making me jump.
“Err, yes, sir, of course, sir,” I said.
“Good. Well, hear me now then, Torvald, and Nefrette,” he sneered both of our names as if they were beneath him. “You have the opportunity to become something great. Not just strong, not just good, but remarkable.” His hand suddenly snaked out, to point a thin finger directly at Char. “You have a touch of the dragon magic about you. It is a gift that can make you great, or can make you mad.”
“What?” Char stammered.
“I can sense it, child,” the Abbot said. “And it is for that reason alone that I have not expelled you, as there are so very few minds that come to me capable of holding the magic.” He took a step forward, so that his outstretched, accusing finger hovered between Char’s eyes. To me it looked for some reason the way my brother Rik would look when he is about to spear a fish on a hook. “You can train in magic with us, or I will have to find ways to nullify your powers. They will destroy you if you do not control them, and you will become a danger to yourself and to all of us here. You will become a danger to your father. Is that what you wish? For your father to be ousted from his kingdom because his bastard daughter is a monster?”
“I…I…” Char stammered again. I saw her flush, her eyes flicker with shame, then anger, and finally uncertainty. I felt anger seethe in my chest. How could he say this? But I had seen Char’s magic myself, I had seen the way that her candle on the mountaintop had flared, and she was the one who had managed to befriend a dragon. What if the Abbot, no matter how cruel he also was, was telling us the truth?
“You will train, personally, with me and the other Mage students, here at this tower every evening. Do you understand?” The Abbot said.
“Y-yes, sire.” Char nodded. “But… I don’t understand – why didn’t you make me a Mage before? Instead of a Scribe?”
The Abbot breathed through his nose at the interruption. “One day, Miss Nefrette, you will understand that every power has its checks and balances. It is true that I sensed something in you, but there are others who view the training of a different prince’s daughter – and an illegitimate one at that – to be against the Order’s principles.” The Abbot made his usual dry laugh at this. “I know better, of course.”
A different prince? I thought. Checks and balances… I was suddenly certain that he meant that Prince Vincent didn’t want Char trained as a Mage, or hadn’t before. That Prince Vincent (quite rightly, I suppose) didn’t trust Prince Lander’s daughter.
I don’t know if this Mage training was meant as a punishment, but Char looked crestfallen all the same. Paxala, I realized. How is she going to look after Paxala if she has to come here every evening?
“Then leave us, Char. Go, back to your own dormitory room, and quickly girl.” The Abbot waved a hand and the door to the stairs swung open of its own accord. I felt my heart clatter with surprise at the Abbot’s magic.
Char paused, looking at me uncertainly, but I gave her the smallest nod. It will be okay, I tried to will towards her, but her eyes looked shadowed and fearful as she took to the steps.
Slam! Again, the door closed of its own accord, or the Abbot’s magic. We were alone, and I wondered if he was going to expel me, or worse.
“Torvald,” the Abbot said, his harsh tone lessening a little. “Char has her dragon magic, and her father is a Prince of the Three Kingdoms, so she is very valuable to me and to this monastery. I have a duty to try and educate her in her powers. But a warlord’s son…?”
The man turned to pace to one of the arches and look out into the night. He was silent for a long while, letting me stew in my mix of fear and apprehension. I had failed. I have failed my father, and what he wanted for me. What would Malos Torvald, the great Chosen Warden of the Middle Kingdom think if I come skulking back home, my tail between my legs? My brothers would have every excuse to banish me or worse. And my father’s lands might even be threatened because of it. What sort of son am I? What sort of Torvald was I?
“But not any warlord’s son, are you, Neill?” the Abbot surprised me by saying suddenly. He didn’t wait for my answer. “You are the bastard son of Malos Torvald, the Chosen Warden of the Middle Kingdom, with almost enough support in these lands as Prince Vincent himself. Have you ever thought of these matters, Torvald?”
Yes, I thought, but I said, “Only a little, sire.” I knew that my father was powerful, here in the Middle Kingdom at least. But how powerful was he compared to all of the other princes? Given what I had already figured out about my father’s wishes (that he didn’t trust Prince Vincent, and that he thought Prince Vincent was unworthy of the throne) then there really was only one conclusion: that my father wanted to topple the Prince of the Middle Kingdom.
“Only a little. Well.” The Abbot chuckled, but there was no humor to it. It was a mirthless sound. “Were you a Lesser, or a Fenn, then I would have already sent you home tied to the back of a mule by now. But your father is a powerful man. It is such a shame that he is dying.”
“What?” I blurted out. “What do you mean he’s dying?”
“Here. This arrived at the same time as the scroll that your father sent to you. It is from my healer stationed at Torvald Keep. Do you know the one?”
I shook my head. I did indeed know the healer: a thin, worrying sort of man who spent more time patching up my brother’s horses than he did tending to people. The old man had been without family for years now, working from his small workshop to treat every flu, fever, aches and pains that the keep had to offer.
“But, but Healer Garrett is no Draconis Order monk—why would he—?” I blurted out. He did not wear the black robes, and he seemed to have no great love for dragons especially.
“No?” The Abbot gave me a cruel smile, and I felt my blood turn cold. I had to warn my father. “Healer Garret might not be a fully ordained Draconis Monk – he has no right to put Draconis after his name as the rest of my flock do – but he studied with us, for a time,” the Abbot said. “It is one of the many benefits of this place, Master Torvald, if you will but
apply yourself. We train most of the healers across all of the Three Kingdoms.”
Healer Garret was working for Ansall, I thought. How could I get word back to my father?
The missive that his Holiness the Abbot offered was but a short note in the old healer’s sprawling, black spidery script. He asked for some supplies of this herb and that powder, and asked after the general health of the monastery. None of that interested me, what did strike to my core was the last few lines.
“…the Chief Warden here is ill with an infection from what seems to be a poisoned arrow. I have tried my usual creams and cleansers but they are not fighting the infection, which has spread from local area (ankle) to the leg. I suspect Blackroot powder was used, or perhaps Greencap. I request that appropriate remedies and restoratives are dispatched immediately, if I have any hope of halting the infection taking over his body. But the Chief Warden is strong, and should last until the spring equinox perhaps…”
So that was why my father had urged me all speed in my mission here. Because he was dying. The Gull Clan had shot him with a poisoned arrow and he knew that if he died then my brothers would ascend to take his place. My brothers who have no great care for me, I thought.
“Of course, you wish to save your father, Torvald,” the Abbot said. “As do I. It can be so disruptive to the kingdom when there is a new Chief Warden, I find. And disruption will mean that the Draconis Order here will have to take sides, and support claims, and all manner of complicated things which get in the way of our studying the great and noble beasts. Do you understand what I am telling you, Torvald?”
That you are holding my father to ransom, and in return you want the Torvald Clan to support the Draconis Order in whatever they do, I thought. “Yes. I think I do, sire.”
“Good. I will dispatch the correct supplements, powders, and remedies in the morning. But it is a very long and difficult journey back to the Eastern Marches, is it not? We have to hope and pray that they will get there in time, before the spring equinox,” the Abbot said, his face a picture of worry and sadness. In that moment then, I hated him with a passion that frightened me. The Abbot Ansall was no holy man. He was a politician.
Dragon God (The First Dragon Rider Book 1) Page 16
