Shadowmage: Book Nine Of The Spellmonger Series (19 page)

“I was curious about the arms on the carriage - a religious device?” Rondal asked, glancing at Ruderal.  While he trusted Atopol, based on the young man’s actions, Ruderal’s Talent for seeing within someone, directly at their enneagram, was a reliable indicator of someone’s intentions, he’d learned.  You could not lie to the boy very easily.  Thankfully, the lad caught Rondal’s glance, and gave him a small but firm nod.

“The Abbey of Palomar,” Atopol announced, proudly.  “It is one of the oldest structures in Alshar, thought to predate even the Early Magocracy, to the First Times.  It sits high on one of the first great peaks of the Great Vale, twenty miles from here, and that is where we are headed.”

“Not Falas?” asked Rondal, frowning.

“Not unless you want to meet twenty times the number of Rats on the dock, I’m afraid,” Atopol said, shaking his head sadly.  “Just after your barge launched from Enultramar, word went forth that your young lad,” he said, nodding to Ruderal, “was alive and on the run.  A considerable reward was offered in certain disreputable quarters, Very considerable,” he said, gravely.  “And another for the head of the thief who destroyed their warehouse.  That really did get their attention,” Atopol said, surprised.

“The two events together have suggested a conspiracy in their minds,” Rondal agreed.  “That was the intent.”

“And now they are on their guard,” Atopol said, shaking his head. 

“Now they know they have a foe, though they have little idea who or from whence the attack came.”

“Oh, they’ve made some astute guesses,” Atopol said, still shaking his head.  Rondal was amazed at how well the youth stayed in character.  “They’ve hired a spellmonger themselves - or likely used one they keep on retainer.  As stealthy as you fellows believe you are, the Spider has ways of finding a man, when he needs to.  And what the Spider knows, the Rats soon learn.”

“I suppose we can discuss the particulars later,” Rondal said, with a hint of warning against revealing too much in front of Ruderal and his mother.  “But if you have received word that we are in danger, than we are in your debt for intervening in such a timely manner.”

“No doubt you would have figured something out,” conceded the monk.  “But I wanted to limit the number of bodies to be disposed of.  Untidy.”

“Tell us more of this famed abbey, Brother, and the order abiding there,” Tyndal said, conversationally.  “I take it their position or renown make it unlikely we will be halted by the authorities?”

“As this is an official conveyance, bearing the proper heraldry, it is unlikely,” chuckled Atopol.  “The Abbey of Palomar was first discovered and occupied by agents of the Imperial Consul, the Count of Falas, as it lay within his lands,” he explained.  “When the Coastlords came to populate the meadows and fields behind Enultramar, the ancient structure was taken as a fortress, at first.  But not for long - despite its imposing figure, it was not designed for defense.”

“So how did it become an abbey?”

“The second Count of Falas deeded the estate of Palomar to the Saganites.  They were - are - a small contemplative order dedicated to the study of the stars . . . at night, of course.  When the shadows are thickest on the ground, and the skies above the clearest.”

Rondal was beginning to understand.   “A very small order, I take it,” he suggested.  “Made up of only a few of the sons and daughters of the nobility - the relatively minor nobility,” he added.

“Sounds like the sort of place that collects a lot of ugly daughters and idiot sons,” Tyndal remarked.

“Just so,” Atopol grinned.  “At least, that’s the image it projects.  An ideal place for study into the deeper subjects of nature and the universe, and really gain an appreciation for all of the night’s activities.  The original Saganites were astronomers, first and foremost, and this installation was apparently theirs in antiquity.  When they learned of its discovery, back in Merwyn, they sent an expedition to recover it.  It was largely their pleading that convinced the Count to grant it to them . . . with certain conditions.”

“Such as?”

“The village below the mountain is within the abbey’s estate, and subject to the abbot,” Atopol related, “the abbey and its holdings are exempt from taxes, tribute, and scutage.  The abbot has rights within the count’s library, which extended to the Ducal libraries when the Narasi took over.  The abbey is forever proof from search or the removal of its relics and scriptures, which are amongst the most ancient in all of Alshar.

“The abbot’s carriage - this is the important part, for us - can traverse the length of the county - and now duchy - without being stopped, as the venerable clerics within may be sleeping, due to their nocturnal activities.  That is quite a handy ecclesiastical right,” he observed.

“The abbey has a duty to assist the Lord of the Waves’ Master of Navigation, the Court Wizard’s request for access to the archives, the Lord of the Field’s request for advice on calendrical matters, or any reasonable request from the court in the order’s obscure, cosmic, and utterly incomprehensible area of expertise - something that has not happened in a very long time.”

“And the members?”

“There is the academic wing,” said Atopol, “a colorful collection of sages happy to bend your ear for all of eternity about the nature of the Cosmos.  They’re the original Saganites.  The subsidiary order, the Nocturns, study other, more practical aspects of the night.  The Saganites are the senior order, reserved for career clerics.  The lower order focuses on . . . education and instruction,” he said, diplomatically, “as well as service.  It is an open lay order, with obscure membership requirements and some truly bizarre initiatory rituals.  So bizarre that very few outside of the legacy candidates are ever accepted.”

“Legacies from small but distinguished noble houses,” nodded Rondal.  “Who I would imagine have no trouble appearing as, say, unfortunate looking daughters and idiot sons.”

“It’s a sad but necessary part of life in Alshar, alas,” Brother Atopol agreed, with mock sorry.  “But convenient for those unfortunates who,
for whatever reason
, need the solace of a contemplative retreat for a period of time.”

What in nine hells are you two babbling about?
Tyndal asked.

He’s taking us to the secret academy of shadowmagic
, Rondal explained. 
It’s hiding in plain sight at the abbey.  They use it as cover for moving things and people around the Duchy without detection, and use it as a front for hiding assets from taxation.

He said all of that?  Really?
Tyndal asked, impressed. 
You really are subtle
, he praised.

Thanks.  Now pretend to be bored and be wary for attack.  Somehow I don’t think the Brotherhood is in the mood to respect ancient ecclesiastic tradition
.

I’m ready, Tyndal
assured, yawning, as Atopol explained some basic things about the obscure order.

“The abbot is known as the Nightfather, and the upper clergy as Nightbrothers and Nightsisters.  Amongst the Nocturns, the Duskmother heads the Duskbrothers and Dusksisters.  Those are the times when they are most active.  The Nightbrothers wear black robes, the Duskbrothers’, gray.  The Saganites and their archives are high above the village of Ejecta, where the Nocturns have their many halls and dormitories.”

“Fascinating,” nodded Rondal, impressed, imagining the role in history the secret college of shadowmagic might have played.  “I take it your family are legacies?”

“Founders, patrons, and frequent abbots,” nodded Atopol.  “It has been our honor to serve, study, practice, and prepare for over five centuries.”

“Prepare for what?” Tyndal asked, suddenly.

“Whatever comes next,” Atopol said, philosophically.  “Every night the story of the sky changes, as does everything below.”  He peeked outside the curtains as the rumble of the cart changed in timbre.  “We’re crossing the drawbridge, now.  If we haven’t been assailed by now, it’s unlikely the Brotherhood will discover our stratagem.   You folks should relax, perhaps take a nap.  We have a journey of several hours ahead of us before we come to Palomar, and points beyond.”

The cart rumbled across the dirt track that passed for a road in the coastlands for hours, and arrived long after dark.  Atopol and his sister brought the carriage to a stop outside a tidy little hall decorated with stars and moons over the doors and helped everyone inside.

“You’re safe now,” the monk assured Ruderal and his mother, as he led them to a chamber where a fire was crackling against the damp.  “No one who owes you ill knows where you are, and you are surrounded by brave knights.  Blessings of the Night upon you,” he said, as he closed the door to the chamber.

“Well done, Atopol,” Tyndal said, as he sprawled in front of the fireplace in the front hall.  “While I prefer a barge or a horse to a cart, it was far preferable to fleeing from the scene on foot.”

“What compelled you to intervene in our mission so decisively?” Rondal asked, as he sat at the lone table and got out his pipe. 

“My master received a report from within the Brotherhood - yes, our house has informants within their foul brood - that the Spider, himself, had taken charge of the search.”

“They were that irritated about the warehouse?” Tyndal asked, surprised.

“They were that panicked about the disappearance of the boy.  The Rat known as the Spider is their most secretive leader.  He guards the great hidden treasury of the Brotherhood, and seeks to know everything of value that happens in Alshar.  He sits among their highest councils, along with Lord Jenerard, the Rat King, and the others.  But he’s also the one who arranges all of the deals the Brotherhood makes with all outside entities - the Iris, the Calrom, the pirate gangs of the Shattered Coast . . . and the gurvani,” he added, condemningly.

“You have proof of this?” Rondal demanded.  “That is
treason!”

“If not proof, then assurance enough to act,” agreed Atopol.  “When we intercepted word of this, we felt obligated to assist on that basis alone.  But when my fath— my master discovered why they wanted the lad, he became convinced that he was important enough to expend an awful lot of resources to see him escape.”

“Your master is a good man,” Tyndal said, raising a flask.

“What now?” Rondal asked.

“That is up to you,” Atopol said, as he quietly transformed from a middle-aged monk into a teenage boy in front of their eyes.  “But the way you used to enter through the Narrows is no longer to be trusted.  The Brotherhood has the smugglers there deep in their pockets.”

“So what, then, back to Enultramar and look for passage to Farise?” Tyndal asked, skeptically.

“Not if you don’t wish.  Believe me, there are many ways through the ridges into the lands beyond.  Not large enough for armies, but certainly accessible to a few quick fellows.”

“If you can provide passage, that would be appreciated,” Rondal said, gratefully.  “From what I learned on our cruise up the river, keeping him out of the hands of the Brotherhood is essential . . . and getting him safely to the Spellmonger might be a boon to us all.”

“What can he do?” Atopol asked.