EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (325 page)

“We’re men of the cloth,” Robert said, surreptitiously pulling his cloak over his sword. “Our vows allow us to pass words only from necessity.”

“Hell’s bells! And I’ve been flying off with the questions,” the man said. He forked his fingers in the sign of the Owl of Mennok, gaze drifting between the swords at Dante and Blays’ backs. “These must truly be trying days if the monks of the gray god won’t travel without steel at their side.”

“You have no idea how trying,” Blays said, glaring down the causeway.

“The monastery?” Robert said. He placed an arm over the bandages under the mailed vest he’d taken from the body of the sorcerer Dante’d killed.

“Of course,” the man said. He pointed them down the street and described a couple turns. “My apologies for delaying you, sirs. Might I ask you to make a prayer for me of Mennok?”

“We’d be some damned awful monks if we wouldn’t!” Blays said.

“Thank you, my son,” Robert said, working his way back into the saddle in a careful series of limb-maneuverings meant to minimize stress to the vast scab on his chest. “Your aid will not go unrewarded.”

He took the lead, leaving the other two to catch up. Dante spurred on his horse, sending a cluster of men wrapped in debate scattering from his mount’s heavy hooves.

“Over the years I’ve worked out a sort of system of classification for the kinds of questions one may need to ask or hear while on the road,” Robert began once they’d made their first turn. “There’s the rhetorical and philosophical questions, i.e. the ones you can ignore or maybe nod at if the asker’s giving you a look like you should have been paying attention. There’s the immediate, practical, and useful questions, i.e.’Where is a good pub?’ and’For the love of the gods, man, where’s the nearest pub?’ And then,” he said, raising a finger, “there are the stupid, why-did-I-just-open-my-mouth questions, the kinds that are a fancy way of saying’I’m too dumb to see my next birthday,’ such as’Please sir, I’m too drunk to make it to the goldsmith’s with all these heavy bags, do you know a safe place I might lie down for an hour?’ or’
Who’s
been burning all the known world?’” He shot Dante a daggerly gaze. “Guess which one yours was?”

“He won’t remember it by tomorrow,” Dante said, face prickling with heat.

“You won’t either if you wake up with an axe in your brain.”

“Am I supposed to be able to understand that?”

“I suppose not. Since evidently you don’t even know asking stupid questions tends to get a damn sight more thrown back at you.”

“I know that. I was trying to find out if he knew anything about them we didn’t,” Dante said. His face lit up. “Look, there it is.”

The monastery was a tall, narrow structure of dark stone. Its upper windows bore shadowcut glass of what Dante presumed were important scenes from the god’s life. Its entrance receded from the street, giving way to a well-tended garden of small shrubs and dead flowers. At the garden’s center was the boulder of Mennok, meant to represent his imperturbability, his gravity, the solidity of his pensive presence next to mercurial Carvahal or many-faced Silidus or the crimson rages of Gashen.

“What do we do with our horses?” Blays said. “Hide them under that rock?”

Robert winced as he got down. Dante didn’t think it was for his wound. He tied the reins to the open gate at the street entrance and rolled his hands at the boys to hurry it up. They tied their horses and scampered after Robert up to the thick wooden door of the monastery. By the time they got there someone had already opened the door to his knock.

“May I help you?” said a skinny, sallow man little older than Dante.

“We’re here to see Gabe,” Dante said.

“Brother Gabe is deep in meditation.”

“Then he’s probably bored,” Blays said. “Let us in.”

The man smiled. “Focused meditation is the closest we men may come to understanding the wisdom of Mennok.”

“How long’s he going to be?” Dante asked.

“As long as it takes,” the man said, tipping back his head. “Even a meditation on the worms and the dirt may take days to unravel. Especially those kinds, since in thinking we know so much about them in truth we know so little.”

Robert squinched up his eyes. “Is there somewhere we might wait? We were sent by an old friend.”

“All friends are old,” the man said, “for all of us are made of dirt, and what’s older than dirt?”

“Rocks?” Blays said.

“But rocks turn into dirt when they’re old enough.”

“Dirt dust?”

The man opened his mouth, then closed it and raised his brows. “Have you ever considered our order?”

“Can’t say I have,” Blays said. He wriggled his back. “Got anywhere to sit down? All that riding’s put a pain in my ass.”

“You can wait in the parlor.” The man glanced over their shoulders toward the gates. “I’ll have a boy see to your horses.”

“Thanks,” Robert said. “You just let us know when Gabe wakes up.”

“Meditation’s the opposite of sleeping.”

“Sounds awful,” Robert said. He snagged Blays and Dante by the sleeves before the conversation could go on and drew them toward the room the man had indicated. The floor was of slate, the walls painted a steely gray. A statue of a droop-eyed dog sat vigilant in the corner. For all the room’s simplicity, it was furnished with padded benches, and they plunked down and stared at each other.

“Doubt Gabe will be like that,” Robert said to the look on Dante’s face. “Mostly it’s you young ones who want to preach at you.”

“I don’t preach at you,” Dante said.

“I meant monks and things,” Robert said, waving a hand. “Suppose it can be applied to all youth, now that you mention it.”

“
You’re
the one always explaining things for hours.”

“Because you’re too dumb to know things for yourself.”

Dante set his mouth and tried to think of a reply.

“You sure Mennok’s not the god of death?” Blays said, raising a brow at all the gray and black.

“He was originally just this guy who sits around and mopes,” Dante said, examining the walls. “When Arawn was expunged, people did start to look to Mennok about death. But it’s not the same.”

“Arawn?” Robert asked, face suddenly drawn.

Dante unlatched his teeth from the thumbnail he’d been biting. “You know about Arawn?”

“Enough to be suspicious of the fact you do.”

They sat with their thoughts. Maybe a quarter hour went by before the man who’d met them at the door stuck his head around the corner.

“Gabe will see you shortly.”

“Good to know the universe has been solved,” Blays said. He kicked his legs against the base of the bench and waited some more. “Next time, suppose we can go to Simm’s temple instead? Get some apples? Fresh pears? Some—ahh!” He bolted upright as a massive, fur-covered beast lumbered through the door on two legs. Blays fumbled out his sword and held it before him. “Get out! I’ll hold it off!”

“Put that away,” Robert hissed, barring his arm over Blays’. The thing in the doorway blinked at them. Dante saw human-like eyes in its face, that it wasn’t furred but deeply bearded, that the man’s whiskers climbed so far up his cheeks they nearly met his eyelashes. “He’s a norren, you sack of rocks.”

“Boo,” the man said. His voice rumbled like the gurgles of the earth. He’d had to duck when he walked through the doorway—six and a half feet, Dante guessed, if not taller, and at least three hundred pounds, though it was hard to tell beneath his loose black cassock. For a moment he couldn’t see his ears, then noticed they were just small and round as fresh-cut coins and pressed flat against his densely-haired head.

“A norren?” Blays said.

“From the north,” Robert said, smiling with embarrassment at the monk. “Usually.”

“Was too cold for my blood,” the man said. He smiled, showing broad, flat teeth that looked like they could grind Dante’s bones. “You’re here to see me?”

“You’re Gabe?” Dante said.

“That’s right,” the norren said.

“We’re friends of Cally’s. He sent us to you.”

“Cally?” Gabe blinked at them.

“The old man,” Dante said, biting back further words. He had the notion, reinforced somewhat by the fact he was a hermit, Cally’s popularity wasn’t great. What if, in a slip of his twilight years, he’d sent them to an enemy instead? Or a friend he’d forgotten he’d quarreled with? Or someone he didn’t know in the slightest?

“You know,” Blays said. “Lectures a lot. Thinks he’s quite funny.”

Gabe chewed on his mustache, nodding blankly. Dante reached in his pocket and took out the letter.

“He sent you this.”

Gabe’s hand reached out. It was large as a plucked chicken.

“Oh,” he said, scratching the wax seal. “Cally. It’s been a while.”

“So you know him,” Dante said.

“Yes,” Gabe said, showing his teeth and looming forward till he seemed to take up all the room, “and now your fates are sealed.”

Blays gasped and went for his blade. Its bright snap cut over Gabe’s barking chuckles.

“I see he’s up to no good again, then,” the norren muttered. He considered them a moment. “Come with me.”

They followed him deeper into the monastery. He glanced balefully at a cell that would barely have room for his shoulders, let alone all of them, then led them up a set of spiral stairs and down a hall into a kind of sitting room or library. A great many books lined the walls, at least, though who knew with pious types. Gabe settled onto a mat, sitting on his heels, and nodded the others into some normal-sized chairs next to the window. An odd, dreary light cut through the smoke-stained figures worked into the glass. Gabe slid his thumb under the seal with a dry crack and unfolded the papers onto his lap. Dante examined the window while Gabe examined the letter. The figures were impressionistic, shadows of men, but he thought the window depicted the scene of Mennok soothing Gashen’s anger before he could blast the land with sunfire after he discovered his priest Ennan had lain with his daughter.

“You didn’t read this, did you?” Gabe asked once he’d finished a couple minutes later.

“Did the seal look tweaked to you?” Dante said.

“I assume you’re a clever lad, if Cally took you up.”

“That may be,” he said, meeting Gabe’s stare, “but however much I may have wished, I didn’t read that letter.”

Gabe frowned, then nodded. “So you’re off to kill Samarand.”

“Kill
who
?” Blays said.

Gabe glanced at Dante, then laughed, a bubbling thing that may have been called a giggle if it hadn’t sounded like a bull choking to death.

“He thinks it will stop all the things that’ve started in the last few weeks,” Dante said, staring at his hands. “The fighting. The burning of Whetton. He says Samarand’s driving it all.”

Gabe scratched the beard on his neck. “I think he overestimates her.”

Blays gaped. “
Her
?”

“Quit shouting,” Robert said, touching his temple.

Dante twisted his hands around. “Cally thinks she’s a firebrand, that she’s whipping up the radical elements of the order of Arawn and leading them into open battle. He thinks with her death, they might fall back from the brink to a more reasonable course.”

“What do you think?” Robert said to Gabe.

He shrugged. “I think someone else will step into her place.”

“So it’s a fool’s errand.”

“I didn’t say that,” Gabe grumbled. He frowned at the filtered light in the murky window. “I’ve renounced all violence as an abomination against the brotherhood of man, but if I could I’d pop that bitch’s throat with my bare hands.”

“I’m getting mixed messages,” Blays said.

“From a moral standpoint, I condemn all sides,” Gabe said. “From a practical standpoint, killing her would be grand. I just doubt whether that would put a stop to anything.”

“What’s so bad about her?” Dante asked.

“How long are you here for?”

“Long enough to learn a little about the woman you all so dearly want dead.”

“Samarand’s a priestess,” Gabe began in a soft voice. “For a long time, the god she serves has been worshiped only in secret. Do you know what they do to anyone caught with a copy of the book you carry?”

“Cut off the hand that turns its pages,” Dante said.

Gabe pushed up his lower lip. “They used to kill you. The march of progress.” His mouth twitched down as he remembered more. “When she was young, she’d give speeches about how believing in secret was living in slavery. She resented that we’d be persecuted for following a god they want us to forget but was integral to the forging of the world and its people. We all resented it, of course, but some of us recalled the lessons of the Third Scour, and thought it best to continue to live in the fringes than to provoke the war that would obviously follow the path she advocated. There had always been extremists who considered their freedoms a worthy cause of all our lives.”

“You saying they’re wrong?” Robert said.

“Arawn’s glory isn’t lessened if his supplicants can only bow to him in the shadows. He’s a god, not a king. In truth he doesn’t need our prayers and sacrifices at all—he helped forge the fixed stars themselves, for the sake of the gods, he doesn’t need me telling him’Arawn is great’ to know it’s true—but it does help keep us focused on matters celestial rather than earthly.

“Anyway, we’d have been crushed like a beetle,” Gabe said. He paused a moment, glancing from Dante to the others, then back, as if rearranging long-abandoned furniture of his mind. He cleared his throat. A shadow crossed his face. “Samarand. She became de facto voice of the dissenters. Over the years she swelled their numbers to a full third of our ranks. She herself rose to the council, though the continued unpopularity of her views, combined with the insistence of how she expressed them, prevented her from reaching the direct line of succession. She was charismatic. Fiery. Plain-faced, but when she spoke a light took her eyes and men sworn to celibacy hoped Arawn might forgive them for their thoughts. The surprise would have been if she
didn’t
attract a following. Nor were the things she rallied behind wrong, exactly—just impractical. The Belt of the Celeset is broad, splintered to its own interests, but there are those things that may reunite them, however temporarily, and the resurgence of the faithful of Arawn is one of them.”