Flesh and Spirit (22 page)

I scratched my head and tried to bury my qualms about holy men. Who was I to gainsay the abbot, after all? He had all but confessed to me that he supported what his superiors called deviance—high treason in the world of practors and hierarchs. I felt great kinship with all rebellious souls, even if they wore golden solicales. “What is it you want of me, holy father? Not a sevenday since I did swear to obey you in all things. And if you command I trust you and keep secrets, well then, who am I to say it is not holy?”

He sighed and spread his hands in acceptance. “I suppose that will have to do. Your task is simple. I wish you to meet with several others who recognize the enormity of the world's troubles. They need you to demonstrate how to use the Cartamandua maps.”

My spirits, tickled with growing excitement, plunged. Of course it would be the book. Though, indeed, he had asked my aid, not for copying, but for use, which raised all manner of questions, such as where his friends wished to travel that no ordinary book of maps could take them. But this book—I was trying to avoid lies. “Father Abbot, I must tell you—”

No. I couldn't tell him I'd never used it. Once I began changing my story, the perceptive abbot would surely unravel the rest of my talespinning. Then he would be forced to choose between his life and my freedom. I trusted no one but myself with that choice. Blood rushed to my skin with the misstep so narrowly avoided.

“The book is certainly magical, holy father, and thus appears differently to any eye that looks upon it. Its usage is likely different for any who attempt it also. I'll share what I can, but in truth, as you've clearly surmised, I've had meager success at anything in my life, thus you'd best not expect too much.”

Luviar watched me silently. Waiting for me to confess more lies, I thought. I kept breathing and did not squirm.

At last he nodded. “Very well, then. All we ask is your best effort. At the opening of tonight's Compline I will assign you to keep vigil in the church through the night. When the day's-end bell rings, leave the church and return here. You'll be met. And you will not reveal this plan or what occurs to anyone, on pain of your immortal soul.”

“As you say, holy father.” I bowed my head, placing a clenched fist upon my breast in their sign of obedience. Then, gritting my teeth, I broached the direst topic. “I am assigned to read at Compline tonight.”

“I'll have Nemesio postpone that until tomorrow.” He stood and lifted his black hood, so that his body lost definition in the dusk. “Iero's grace be with you, Valen.
Teneamus.”

“Wait! What does that—?” As he turned his back to my rising question and hurried away, I would have sworn I glimpsed a flicker of teeth that might have been a smile.

T
he abbot had failed to mention that the “vigil” he planned to assign me was a penance for dozing in chapter. Because he announced this judgment at the opening of Compline, I was required to prostrate myself throughout the entire service, which left me in no great patience for meeting his friends. Perhaps he thought I would be grateful that he was permitting me to abandon the punishment at the day's end bell, rather than staying in place until Matins. But as the cold, unyielding granite bruised my too-prominent bones, gratitude came nowhere to mind. I could not even rejoice in the postponement of my reading.

Once the monks had snuffed the candles and retired to the dorter, a great chilly silence fell in the church. The vigil lamp gleamed emerald from the high altar. Brother Victor lay on the floor to my right. He had arrived late for Compline and reaped the same penance as mine. The chancellor had a slight whistle in his breathing that prevented any sensible thinking. Had I actually to remain in place for the full span of this vigil, the sound would surely drive me mad long before the bells rang for Matins.

When the bell tolled the day's end, the time for all activities to cease and the monks to take to their beds, I rose from the floor as quietly as I could. Brother Victor did not stir as I padded down the aisle. His presence would not be happenstance. That the chancellor would be part of the abbot's little plot did not surprise me, but it did give me pause. Luviar had not only been willing to sacrifice
strangers
to his “worthier cause,” but had yielded his own partisan to lashing, imprisonment, and humiliation. Why did I not heed my own warnings about holy men?

I hurried through the hedge maze and returned to the bench by the neglected pond, vowing to detach myself from this conspiracy as quickly as possible. No good could come from mixing religion and politics. And who could be less equipped than I to get in a fight over books? Did they think to stave off some threat to Navronne with almanacs and treatises on glassmaking? Build a bulwark of books against Hansker raiders, perhaps? That might be a use for the wretched things.

Night birds twittered. The sad little scrap of moon vanished in the west. No one came. I was on the verge of giving up, when light, steady footsteps approached from the direction of the cloisters. Closer. Then heavier, louder steps came running from two other directions at once. I spun like a potter's wheel, but before I could see who was in such a hurry, some cursed villain dropped a sack over my head.

“Gatzé's whore!” I shot up from the bench, pawing at the bag. A hempen drawstring held the rough cloth tight around my neck. I dragged at the rope, but succeeded only in strangling myself. Dust clogged my nostrils. The bag scratched my face and blocked my mouth.
Hot. Close. Choking.
I could not yell. Could not breathe. Terror welled up inside me like molten lava.
No light. No air. Buried…

I flailed my arms and tried to twist away. My right arm slammed into solid flesh, and my left elbow crunched bone hard enough to elicit a curse. Two outsized hands caught my wrists and pinned them hard behind me. “Here now, just be still, monk.”

Jerking my shoulders and torso back and forth, I tried to use my size to some advantage, but the harder I struggled, the tighter the rope constricted my neck.

“Stop! Wait! There's no need for force,” someone called. Pointlessly. No brutes would heed a man who spoke so softly.

I snarled and dragged them sideways. Feet tangled hopelessly in my gown, I toppled, dragging a heavy body down on top of me. My arms were wrenched back and up.

“Sentinels of the dark, he's broke my foot!”

“Half a madman…what's wrong with 'im? Hold on…” A heavy someone sat on me.

“Silence, all of you!” The soft voice whispered from somewhere in the spinning darkness. “Don't hurt him, Furz. Get up. What are you thinking?”

“You told us to get him to the camp without him seeing where.” This from the brute who was twisting my arms from their sockets while I wriggled like a dying fish in a mudhole. His voice rumbled through my back and aching shoulders. “We heard he might be a danger.”

“A danger? He's a monk! Get off him, and don't hurt him anymore. We just need silence.”

As the weight rolled off my back, I wrenched one hand loose and tore at the bag. Dug in my knees and scrabbled forward in the muddy grass. Tried to shake free of the hands. At any moment I was going to heave up my guts or die or both. I groaned and writhed.

“What, in all holy—? Iero's grace, just be still, Brother Valen.” A new voice penetrated my skull like a bolt from a crossbow. Not loud, but very clear. “We'll take off the bag, if you'll but close your eyes and be silent. This is a terrible mistake. Do you hear me, Brother? Please, just be still, close your eyes, and we'll take it off.”

Swallowing my gorge, I nodded and tried to be still. My heart galloped like a king's post messenger; blood thundered in my ears.
Just let me breathe.
Were spiders swarming over me, I would have remained still on his promise. I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Furz, get it off him,” said the newcomer. “Would you, please?”

“They jumped him,” said the soft-voiced one in quiet anger. “They weren't supposed to—”

The decisive man interrupted with tested patience. “You should have waited. I told you that Gildas and I would see to this.”

I did not hear the response, for the bag was snatched away just then. Cool air bathed my face as I craned my neck upward, gulping great mouthfuls. Soon I was breathing normally, and sensations beyond suffocation returned. Rocks gouged my belly. My shoulders burned. My chin stung. My left foot, caught in my gown, was bent at an angle the Creator did not intend. I shifted to ease the strain, but the hands only gripped my limbs tighter, and a heavy knee crushed my chest into the ground.

Was every untoward event in all the world linked to Brother Gildas? Perhaps the whispering villain was Jullian, who seemed to be in the thick of these sordid matters as well. Instinct screamed at me to look on my attackers, so I could identify them if I lived or curse them as I died, but this mindless terror of suffocation kept my eyes tight shut and my tongue silent. I lowered my cheek to the muddy grass and inhaled the sweet scent of earth.

What foolish thoughts run through our heads in times of fear and peril. My cowl and gown were heavy with mud, clinging to my skin. Brother Sebastian would scold. I had no spare garments yet, as my height meant they had to be made new.
So rid yourself of this sodden wool and you'll get a full breath
, said my unbidden thoughts. Everywhere my bare skin touched earth—face, one knee and thigh—felt free. The earth embraced me, warm and alive and forgiving…

“Release him, Furz,” said the decisive man, no denizen of heaven or hell, but entirely human and standing over my head. “We'll guide him to the camp ourselves.”

“It's taken the two of us to hold him.” The thugs growled in concert. “You're a fool to let him go. The blighting monk's got a gatzé in him.”

“Did you never consider that a man attacked from behind and smothered with a grain sack might take offense—even a Karish monk? Please, do as I ask.”

The weight came off my back, and thick fingers released my wrists. I rolled to my side and curled my arms in front of me, thanking every god for the gifts of air and unbroken bones, promising anew to reform my ways. Slowly I sat up on my heels, unwilling to push my luck by standing up. The two brutes hovered close enough to block the breeze, and this man, though firm and confident, was not their commander. Too much politeness from him,
asking
and saying
please
. And from the brutes mere obedience, no honorifics or respect. Obedience was sufficient, but without respect, I'd not rely on it.

As my heart slowed, my flush of gratitude yielded to the more usual mix of emotions I felt after a fight—embarrassment and anger. For all my height and natural strength, I'd never developed much technique. I'd had no combat training when I was young enough to develop true skill. Pureblood families valued physical prowess like speed and strength, and refinements such as grace and agility, but they had no use for fighting skills. Only barbarians or madmen would dare assault a pureblood. The Registry saw to that.

“We've no wish to harm you, Brother,” said the man who had let me breathe, my friend forever. “Somehow these two became confused. They understood that we did not wish you to see where you were being taken and mistook our concern. I would explain why such secrecy is necessary, but that will be clear soon enough, and we need to move quickly. Someone might have heard your shout, and explanations would be awkward. So please understand this binding will be just for your eyes.
Just
your eyes.”

When the cloth touched my face, I came near rising bodily off the ground. But before I could lash out, I comprehended what he'd said. Only the eyes. Not nose or mouth.

The blindfold in place, the clear-voiced man clasped arms with me and helped me to my feet. Average in height, perhaps a head shorter than me by the sound and feel of him. “We've a goodly walk ahead of us. Will your leg wound be a hindrance?”

I spat mud, wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and shook my head.

“Please believe me, Brother, we've no ill intent.”

Such silliness required a response. I kept my voice as low as his. “Suffocating a fellow and twisting his limbs from their sockets is a poor introduction for those with good intents. Does the abbot know you treat his novices so?”

“Abbot Luviar will be extremely displeased”—as soon as he spoke, I felt his good humor, warm enough to dry my sodden cowl—“and I promise, we shall do our best to remedy our failing. One moment…”

Lighter footsteps came up on my left side—the whisperer. Their movements stirred up the faint scent of wintergreen.

“I am going to give your arm to my companion,” said my friend. “He will guide you safely to our meeting place, while I dispatch these two oxen back to our camp and make sure nothing like this happens again. I'll join you before you begin.”

Smaller hands took a firm hold on my elbow and forearm. “Tell me if I go too fast.”

It occurred to me that I could snatch my arm from this one's grip, rip the cursed rag from my face, and run away. I could tell Abbot Luviar that his friends had dreadful manners and I would not put up with them, not even to get my questions answered. But I didn't. Once I could breathe, the whole business was altogether intriguing. Much more interesting than Compline texts or the structure of virtue.

My guide used my crooked arm as a rudder, leading me along the gravel path, northward I guessed, for the breeze which had veered southerly all week was at my back. We turned once, and then again, and the surface under my sandals became paving stone. Scents of incense and ephrain from my right and the bulk of stone told me when we passed the church. We changed direction, veering around it, and when we had gone far enough that the church no longer blocked the breeze from my cheek, the path began to rise. The wind smelled of fish and river wrack, tinged by coming frost. My companion smelled of horses and woodsmoke and something…

“Careful, the pavement's broken.” And then, “Left.”

In the distance behind me, the abbey bell rang. One peal. The first hour past day's end.

“Steps here,” said my guide, after a while. “Three downward, then stop for a moment.”

Stone steps, not squared paving. Older, then. Out of the way. When I halted, my arm was released. Iron clanked softly—a latch. Oiled hinges. The hands took my arm again and guided me through the gate. We crossed flowing water on a sturdy plank bridge and then took a dirt path. The terrain leveled out, the damp tendrils of fog yielded to a cold dry breeze, and my guide picked up the pace.

Strange to experience the night as a blind man must. Birds flapping away, disturbed from a nest in the grass. Scuttering creatures. Wet grass, stagnant pools. A loon crying out the world's sorrow. The path had been well trod, a narrow trough in the turf, sticky mud in its bottom, its drier, sloping sides little wider than my big feet. So my guide's feet must tread the grass, while I walked the path. Or perhaps…I listened. The light footsteps squelched and scuffed much as my own steps did. Ah, a cart track, then, two troughs parallel.

Pleased with that deduction, I turned my attention to the person beside me. Listened more. Felt the hand on my arm shift to get a better hold, one finger now touching the skin of my wrist. I remembered. Inhaled. Considered. Felt my face crease into a grin. “So, Squire Corin, does the Thane of Erasku know you're a girl?”

She halted. Yanked her hands from my arm. Stepped away. Said nothing. If we hadn't already startled the moorhens, the force of her shock might have done it.

“I've not had this tonsure my whole life, you know,” I said. “And the world is not kind to girls on their own, so you're not the first I've encountered in youth's attire.” The world was little kinder to boys on their own.

She held silent and left me standing in the middle of a stubbled grain field blindfolded, without anything to hold on to. I didn't think I ought to reach for her. She was probably terrified enough already.