White Rock’s church was a looming edifice of dark stone, similar Castle Cravenlock’s chapel with its thick walls, high windows, and domed ceiling. The three interlocked rings of Amatheon adorned the dome’s crest, and over the iron-banded doors rested the weathered bronze symbols of Joraviar the Knight and Amater the Holy Lady. Mazael reined Chariot up before the church and waited for the others to dismount. When they had, he pushed open the church’s doors and strode inside.
The only illumination came from the narrow windows and the altar candles. Mazael smelled the old wood of the pews, and he saw specks of dust dancing in the thin beams of light. Two men stood before the altar. One was old and leaned on a cane for support, his face a labyrinth of meandering wrinkles, left eye masked beneath a yellow film. Despite his age, the old man wore chain mail, a sword, and a green tabard embroidered with a pair of coins and a shield.
The other man was younger. His leathery skin was weathered, and what little hair he had left had been cropped to stubble. He wore a coarse brown robe, and the rings of Amatheon hung from his rope belt alongside a strangely shaped star.
The man was a Cirstarcian monk.
The old man stepped forward, his cane clicking against the stone floor. “Sir Mazael Cravenlock, I assume. My men told me of your coming. Well met. I am Sir Albert Krondig. I do not know your companions, I fear.”
“Then I shall have to rectify that,” said Mazael. “This is Sir Nathan Greatheart, former armsmaster of Castle Cravenlock, Sir Gerald Roland, youngest son of Lord Malden Roland, Lady Romaria Greenshield, of Deepforest Keep, and Timothy deBlanc, a wizard.”
“A wizard,” said the man in the monk’s robe. “That is well. With all that has transpired here, a wizard’s skills would be most welcome.”
“Well met, all of you,” said Sir Albert. “Ah, I recognize you now, Sir Nathan. I remember the tournament Lord Adalon held at Swordgrim to celebrate his marriage. That must have been thirty-five years past.”
Nathan laughed. “Forty-two, more like it.”
“Sir Nathan was a humble squire then,” said Sir Albert. “No more than a lad of fifteen or sixteen, I’ll warrant. He won the squires’ melee. I remember it well.”
“You did quite well at the lance, I recall,” said Nathan.
Albert laughed. “Hardly. Ah, but thank you, sir knight. It is well to remember the good times in these dark days.” He gestured at the monk. “This grinning fool is Brother Silar, a monk of the Cirstarcine Order.”
The monk laughed and bowed. “Sir Albert is too kind. I have been called much worse in my day.”
“The Cirstarcine Order is famous for taking a hand in the kind of troubles we have been lately experiencing,” said Sir Albert. “The monastery sent Brother Silar as an emissary to aid us. The good brother and I have known each other for some time. Despite his rampant foolishness, the man has been a great help.”
“Speaking of those troubles,” said Mazael. “That’s quite an impressive palisade you’ve got. Why did you build it?”
Sir Albert’s face tightened with anger. “You would know, my lord knight.”
“Just why is that?” said Mazael.
“You came from the castle,” said Sir Albert.
Demonsouled Page 19
