Storm of Divine Light

by Ernesto San Giacomo

  “I have a small port to the east. It’s easy enough to take a ship down the coast to the Desert and trade with the people there,” Baldomir said. “Our neighbors – the Mentirians, the Jalkenese, the Halflings, the Gnomes, and the Dwarves – hold Easterly in low regard. They refuse to offer fair deals. So we ignore them, and trade with our brethren in the Red Desert instead.”

  “And yet there is little or no knowledge of the Red Desert in either Mentiria or Jalken. All we have is Korak’s treatise.” Cyril sat back in his chair with a shake of his head. “We don’t even know which parts of that book are true, false, or exaggerated.”

  Lhinthel glanced up from her plate. “Most of it is true. Some things are altered.”

  “Altered? Who changed parts of that book?” Cyril demanded.

  “We Elves.”

  His brows knit. “Why? How could you do such a thing?”

  “Not I. King Hladomir orders the changes long ago.”

  Well, this had nothing to do with the impending attack. Dagorat rubbed the back of his neck and fidget with the remnants of food on his plate.

  Cyril sank deep into his chair and stared pensively at his overloaded plate. He sighed and picked up his fork. “Who am I to doubt the wisdom of King Hladomir?” With a definite lack of enthusiasm, he speared a piece of meat.

  Liberon stood and addressed Baldomir. “Sire, you called the people of the Desert ‘brethren.’ Do they have knowledge of The One? Did King Hladomir pass that knowledge on to them as well?”

  Baldomir raised a brow at Lhinthel, and she gave him a faint nod of assent. He answered Liberon, “King Hladomir did not instruct the tribes of the Desert in the ways of The One. Rather, it was the tribes of the Desert who instructed King Hladomir.”

  Liberon dropped his spoon. “It was not the Elven mystics who taught him? He changed our history, then. Why?”

  From across the table, Clementon cut in. “Hladomir made the correct decision. He knew nobody would take anything from the Red Desert seriously, and so he spread word that the revelation of the Light came to him from his fellow Elves.” He stared intently at Liberon, shifting in his seat as if trying to catch a better glimpse of the young monk. “Let me see you, brother. My eyes are not what they used to be.”

  Liberon obliged and lowered his cowl to show his face. The abbot studied him. “You’re too young to wear those robes. Or have you truly taken final vows?”

  “Yes. I was raised from a baby at Farmstead Abbey, and started my training quite young.”

  “Do you know who I am?” the abbot asked.

  “I’ve never seen you before, but I assumed you’re Grand Abbot Clementon,” Liberon said. “We are required to learn the names of all the Order’s leaders, and their seats.”

  “Never seen me before, you say. But I believe I have seen you.” He walked around to Liberon and examined his face. “Step into the light.” As the monk stood and obliged, an expression of recognition lit up Clementon’s face. He reached out and touched the back of his hand to Liberon’s cheek. “It is you,” he said. “Has it been so long that you’ve grown so much?”

  Liberon blinked, but the Grand Abbot grinned. “I’m the one who found you, years ago, left outside our gates. But the Grand Monastery is no place for a babe. So I gave you to Brother Felix the morning he departed for Mentiria.”

  Dagorat dropped his fork, Cyril gagged on his tea, and Liberon collapsed back into his chair. Clementon kept beaming like a proud grandfather.

  Baldomir raised his cup. “Despite the grave news of the day, there is cause for joy.”

  “In the darkest place, a single spark can be seen for miles,” Liberon said. “I never thought to find out anything about my past.” Was that a tear in his eye? The monk stood and extended a hand to the abbot, who clasped it and yanked him into a big bear hug.

  “A most appropriate quote,” Clementon said once he’d released Liberon. “I knew Brother Felix would teach you well in the ways of The One.” The two of them sat back down next to each other, where they settled into an intense-looking conversation.

  “This revelation about Hladomir explains many things,” Cyril whispered to Dagorat. “For example, why only some of the Elves follow The One.”

  “Why do you care about such things at a time like this? Thousands are going to die soon. The Golgent have the Orb and they will use it again’tus!” In his excitement, he let his voice rise. Those nearby fell silent, and a multitude of rapt gazes, including the king’s, fixed upon him.

  Under the table, Katrina kicked his calf. She leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “Stop speaking like an Easterlain.”

  Before the king spoke, Cyril changed the conversation. “Great King, what are your plans for the defense of Ethelton?”

  Baldomir refocused on the mage. “Our soldiers are well-trained for the defense of the city, and the walls have held for generations. I’m more worried about weathering a long siege. I’ve set a horde of townspeople to the task of bringing all available food into the city. It is wise to always weigh the enemy as more powerful than he actually is.”

  “What is the strength of the Golgent host?” Cyril said. “We’ve caught a fleeting glimpse of a large encampment north of the Gorthul Pass.”

  “That’s what we need to discover. I’m grateful for your warnings; now we have time to properly prepare.” Baldomir pierced Dagorat with a royal stare. “And you…who are you?”

  Dagorat kept his focus on his tea cup. “I am Dagorat, humble assistant to Cyril the Wise.” He took hold of the pot and filled Cyril’s cup.

  “Are you all not Mentirians?” Baldomir asked.

  “Yes, we are,” Cyril answered.

  “Yet when you spoke before, your accent was that of an Easterlain farmer,” the king said to Dagorat.

  The weight of all the curious stares pressed in on him. A lie would be too obvious. Powerful men were accustomed to spotting those with quick, lying tongues. Truth would be best. Well, part of the truth. He swallowed hard. “I was born an Easterlain, but later settled in Mentiria. I never did lose my manner of speech.”

  The king glanced sidelong at the abbot, who arched a brow. “Well, welcome home, Dagorat.”

  CHAPTER 21

  PALATIAL BREVITY

  A SPRINKLE OF WATER LANDED ON Dagorat’s face. He opened his rested eyes and admired Katrina splashing about in the bathtub. Amazing, how hot water flowed right into the tub through pipes in the wall. He wondered briefly how they heated it, but then his wife flicked her wet fingers at him for another spray.

  “In the bath again? You just had one last night.”

  “So?” She leaned back and rested her head on the lip of the tub. “It’s such a luxury after being on the road for so long.”

  He wiped droplets from his face and rolled his eyes. “Never would’ve imagined this.”

  “Imagined what?”

  “That I’d be married and watching my wife take a hot bath in the royal palace.”

  “Still a farm boy at heart.”

  Dagorat snorted. “If only my father could see me now. He wouldn’t believe his eyes.” Gazing on his love, he barely believed his own. A great contentment washed over him. Yes. The happiness which had eluded him for so long had come at last and filled his soul.

  A knock on the door interrupted his reverie. With a groan, he rolled out of bed, padded over and opened it a crack, to guard Katrina’s privacy. Ah, Cyril. Dagorat flashed him a happy grin. “Good morning, old friend. Sleep well?”

  “Well enough,” Cyril answered. His stern tone melted the smile right off Dagorat’s face. The mage wrung his hands. “Perhaps you should leave the palace.”

  Dagorat raised a brow. “You think Baldomir suspects something. I agree. I didn’t care for the glance he gave Clementon after I introduced myself.”

  Cyril offered a curt nod. “I noticed as well.”

  He opened the door wider. “Come in. We should talk.”

  “Dag!” Katrina yelped. “You can’t let anyone i
n yet!”

  Oops. “Hold on, Cyril.” He flung the door shut, right in the mage’s sputtering face, and spun back to Katrina. “Hurry up, put something on.”

  She rose from the tub, glistening wet. This was hardly the time, but Dagorat couldn’t help but feel rather disappointed when she toweled off and quickly donned some clean clothes. Strange, her belly had a slight bulge. How did she gain weight off that horrible trail food? When she was ready, Dagorat let Cyril in.

  The mage greeted Katrina with a smile and sat down with Dagorat. “I have an idea. You should go out to the Gorthul Pass as a scout. Then maybe the king will drop his suspicions. It will also get you out of sight for a while.”

  Dagorat thought that over. Perhaps Cyril had a point; he should disappear for a while. Out of sight, out of mind, after all. Besides, he’d never trusted scouts much; he’d rather see for himself what they’d be facing in the coming battle. “Aye, you’re right. I should go.”

  “I go where Dag goes,” Katrina cut in. “Besides, I’m a better mouse than he is. I should be there in case we have to hide.”

  “No, I’ll not put you – ” The fire in her eyes cut him off. She folded her arms and stared him down. Women. He didn’t know if he should chuckle or roll his eyes, but in the end, he had no desire to deny her anything. Might get another knee to the groin if he even tried. “All right. Come along.”

  “That’s settled, then. I’ll get a writ from the king for you both. Now, have either of you seen Liberon?” Cyril asked.

  “Not since the banquet yesterday. We’ve mostly slept since then,” Dagorat said.

  “Mostly?” Cyril eyed his grinning face and her blushing one, and shook his head. “I don’t want to miss breakfast. I’ll search for him on the way. He should be warned to be wary around the king and Clementon.” He gave an absent wave and left the room.

  “A real bath, a real bed, real food. Too bad we’re leaving so soon,” Katrina said. “When do the scouts depart?”

  “Today, I think,” he replied. “But Cyril is right about making myself scarce. We should go.”

  “No doubt. In any case, I’m sure we’re better scouts than any of Baldomir’s crew.”

  “Definitely. Well, let’s go have a last good meal before we leave.” He took her hand, and together they headed off to the kitchens.

  ***

  Liberon took a deep breath and quietly tapped on the door. Cyril’s advice reverberated through his mind: “Remember, tread carefully.” He wiped his sweaty hands on his robe and silently thanked The One for the chance meeting with the mage earlier. At least now he was prepared for whatever may come.

  After a moment, the door swung open to reveal a smiling Clementon. The young monk bowed stiffly. “Good morning, Grand Abbot. You asked to see me?” His stomach churned. Making polite conversation with Clementon in a crowded dining hall last night was one thing; a formal meeting in his private office this morning was quite another.

  “Ah, young Liberon! Come in, come in.”

  The monk stepped slowly across the threshold, like a condemned man toward a noose. For a moment he thought he was back in Brother Maynard’s study in Farmstead Abbey. Overstuffed bookcases lined the walls. Stacks of books and papers tested the limits of the shelves. All sorts of artifacts from the three kingdoms adorned the desk and walls. Despite himself, a tiny smile quirked at his lips, and he felt more at home. His disrupted innards eased.

  “Sit down, my young friend. Have some tea and something to eat.”

  Odd. Liberon had expected something more formal. He remained quiet and fidgeted with his clothes while the Grand Abbot played host, pouring tea and offering those same excellent little cakes they’d had at the banquet last night. “Thank you, Grand Abbot,” he said with all the etiquette he could muster.

  “Of course. No point talking while hungry. But you know, I did ask you here for a purpose.” Clementon’s scrutinizing gaze reminded him of the dour magister who’d administered his final exams and vows. But then he grinned and the resemblance vanished. “I want to know all about Brothers Maynard and Felix. It has been too long since I’ve enjoyed their company.”

  An amiable enough request, though certainly not his sole purpose. Nothing to do but play along. Liberon forced himself to relax, sitting back in his chair and sipping his tea. He recounted some stories about the basics of life in Farmstead Abbey, laced with anecdotes of his formative years. “Brother Maynard used to have his books sorted by title. One day Brother Felix and I rearranged them all according to subject and author.” The Grand Abbot grinned. Liberon continued, “Felix decided that as librarian, he had jurisdiction over every book in the monastery.”

  “And how did Brother Maynard react?”

  “Oh, angrily at first, but he later confessed to Felix that his arrangement was better. And then because I helped, he made me the assistant librarian.”

  The abbot leaned back. “I’m glad they’re both doing well. Now, what of your mysterious friends?”

  Ah. That’s why he’d been summoned here, then. With a carefully bland expression, Liberon said, “I don’t have any mysterious friends.”

  Clementon steepled his fingertips. “That mage, for example. It seems odd for a monk to be travelling with someone like him.”

  “Cyril the Wise? He’s one of the most sought-after men in Mentiria. Counselor to nobles and merchants alike.”

  “Hmm. Never heard of him, I’m afraid. Tell me, how did you come to be in his company?”

  Liberon kept his hands tightly clasped to keep them from fluttering. “It wasn’t my choice. When the Orb was stolen, Brother Maynard hired Cyril and…and his servant to investigate.” Clementon narrowed his eyes. Time to change the subject. “Oh, that reminds me. I’ll need a Writ of Marriage.”

  The abbot studied him for a moment longer, then dug out a piece of paper from a drawer. “There’s no wedding scheduled for today.”

  “No, I performed a wedding on the road and didn’t have my seals or quills with me.”

  “I’ll have it made.” Clementon rang a small bell and his secretary entered. The abbot scribbled on some scrap paper. “Complete a Writ of Marriage in those names.”

  Liberon glanced at the paper as Clementon passed it off to the secretary. Scrawled in a neat hand were the names Dagorat and Katrina. Hmm. The Grand Abbot not only remembered their names, but knew they’d married on the road. His eyes narrowed and he glimpsed a smirk trying to form on the abbot’s lips. Clearly he knew much more than Liberon had thought. Sighing internally, the monk resigned himself to a morning of cloaked interrogation.

  ***

  The din of hammers and saws echoed through the open square as workmen built barricades at every intersection from the main gate to the palace. The stench of coal and molten metal from the smithies burned in Dagorat’s nostrils. It was temporarily overridden by the reek of cattle dung when they strode past a pen containing at least a hundred bulls. He and his wife selected their horses from the garrison’s stable and packed their saddlebags with supplies. Dagorat picked a solid-looking chestnut gelding, while Katrina chose a sleek black mare.

  “What do we do now?” Katrina asked. “I don’t think we should leave yet.”

  “No, we’ll wait for Cyril,” Dagorat said. “He’ll have the writ of passage to help in our scouting mission.”

  A guard strode over to them. “Leaving like the others? Most of the foreigners have left. They don’t have the stomach for battle,” he said.

  Katrina tilted her head. “We do.”

  “Yes, we’re leaving, too. But toward the Gorthul Pass. We’re waiting for a writ from the king,” Dagorat said.

  The guard beamed at them. “Bless my soul! A young, fair maiden with more heart than most men, and a brave escort. Best of luck on your mission, then. Be aware, you may have a hard time getting back into the city, once all the barricades are up.”

  “Thanks,” Dagorat said. “We’ll be back soon.”

  “You’ll be the only ones, I dare say
. We shouldn’t have expected anything else. Only Easterlains will raise a finger to defend these lands. At the first sign of trouble all the others run away.” The guard paused. “Except that older couple with all the bows.” He pointed toward a nearby wagon.

  They followed his gesture. Katrina bounced on her toes. “Look who’s here!”

  Dagorat grinned at the sight of Craicwyth and Magda unloading a barrel from their wagon. “Excuse us,” he told the guard. “We’ve some friends to see.”

  The man winked and said, “It figures you know each other,” before marching away.

  “Oy! How’d you get here so fast?” Dagorat called. He grabbed Katrina’s hand and they hurried over. “The caravan was days behind us.”

  Craicwyth and Magda greeted them with a wave. “We talked it over and left the caravan the day after you took off,” Craicwyth said. “Pushed the horses as hard as we dared, and arrived this morning.”

  “Need a hand?”

  “Nah, we’re all right,” Magda said. She stopped to wipe her brow. “And where are you going with those horses, Dagorat? So used to life on the road that you can’t stand the city?”

  He snorted. “No, nothing like that. We’re headed out on a mission for the king.”

  Magda’s face fell, and her husband put down his barrel to stare hard at him. “Oh,” he said. “Sounds dangerous.”

  “We?” Magda said. She studied Katrina up and down, letting her gaze linger on her midsection. “You’ll not be taking your young bride with you…will you?”

  “Of course I’m going,” Katrina said. “I’m a better scout than he is.”

  Dagorat elbowed her playfully. “You wish you were.”

  Katrina placed her hand on Magda’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve done more dangerous things than you realize.”

  The older woman shook her head. “If anything should befall either of you, I’ll…I’ll be sick at heart.” Katrina pulled her into a hug, until she regained her composure and pulled away. “Look at us standing around and talking when there’s work to be done.”