Where Serpents Strike (Children of the Falls Vol. 1) (31 page)

“I’m sorry,” Merek whispered. “I’m so sorry,
Awlin.”

She put a comforting hand on his back, but
said nothing.

“I just don’t know if we can get home,” he
said.

They watched the soldiers for several
moments before the men split up and searched in different
directions.

After some time had passed, the black vipers
found their horses in the stall below and confiscated them. Their
rides, food, blankets, extra clothes, and traveling provisions were
now gone. The soldiers did a brief search of the barn’s ground
floor, but concluded that the murderous fugitive Merek Viator had
escaped, much to their chagrin. The soldiers knew he couldn’t get
far without a horse, and so they sent out riders in all directions
to watch the roads.

“What now?” Awlin asked.

Merek’s head fell onto his forearm as he lay
on his stomach in the high loft of the barn. He shook his head. “I
don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Just get us safe,” Awlin said.

“I’m trying,” Merek replied, agitated that
his sister didn’t sound appreciative of his efforts. “Edhen is just
too far out of reach at the—”

“No,” Awlin said. “Not Edhen. I would love
to see mama and papa again, truly, but being with you is enough,
dear brother. If we have to make a life on Efferous, so be it. I
don’t care where we go, just as long as we’re safe.”

He lifted his hay-covered head and looked at
her. He hated that he couldn’t get her home to their family, but
was relieved to hear that she could settle for the next best thing.
A life on Efferous wasn’t ideal, but it also wasn’t impossible
either. He knew his way around the country well enough to get them
to safety, and in time the black vipers would give up their
pursuit. In time, Merek and Awlin could start a life deep in the
woods of Efferous. In time, he knew, they could find some
peace.

He pulled the door open. In the shaft of
light that cut through the darkness he looked down the stone
stairwell beyond. The smell that greeted him was damp and old. He
noticed the flickering of torchlight on the basement wall below
and, feeling curious, ventured in to investigate.

In the few months Brayden had spent at Halus
Gis with the other refugees of Aberdour he’d found little about the
monastery that surprised or intrigued him. The buildings were drab
and plain, and the priests and nuns who lived there were meek and
quiet. They lived simple lives far removed from civilization, and
spent their time praying, studying, or working in their gardens,
orchards, and workshops.

The only thing that kept Brayden and the
other boys entertained was their daily training with Khalous, Pick,
and Stoneman. The fierce regiment was exhausting, but had already
strengthened Brayden’s muscles far beyond what they were
before.

Apart from that, life at the monastery of
Halus Gis was a bore.

The bottom of the stairs swiveled ninety
degrees and continued down another flight before spilling out into
a large torch lit cellar built of ancient gray bricks. The room
branched into three dark passages to the left, right, and center,
and was empty apart from two water basins standing on either side
of a broad circular archway.

In front of him stood a sight that chilled
his blood.

Brayden walked past the basins through the
center passageway, his eyes transfixed on the ossuary beyond and
the macabre sight within.

Upon the far wall hung a morbid display of
old skeletons, a tapestry of bones arranged in intricate patterns.
On either side of the display was a single skeleton clad in a brown
robe. Their gnarled white hands were outstretched, tiny candles
flickering in their palms, fingers lathered in ages of wax.

With wide eyes Brayden’s gaze drifted up and
down the display, which didn’t end at the ceiling. More bones,
nailed above, loomed over him like scavenger birds. The large room,
with its vaulted ceiling of death, made Brayden feel small.

He twitched when the voice behind him spoke.
“What do you see?”

He whipped around, his eyes settling upon
Gravis, the monastery’s prior. He stood under the dark of the
archway, his hands clasped in front of him. The man would not have
been so intimidating if it weren’t for his perpetual scowl.

Brayden swallowed, trying to clear the
dryness that had formed in his mouth. “Um, bones, sir. Who are… I
mean, who were these people?”

Gravis stepped into the room with a subtle
reverence as his eyes drifted up the wall of bones. “Brothers of
old. Men of the Allgod. Artisans and scholars and writers from
throughout the centuries. These brothers built Halus Gis.”

The prior’s explanation didn’t make the room
feel any less imposing. Brayden cleared his throat and straightened
his back, wishing the shrinking feeling in his stomach would go
away.

“What is this room for?” he asked.

To his surprise, Gravis said, “No one really
knows what the intention was of the priest who started this. Today
we use it to reflect on our own mortality.”

Brayden’s brows ruffled. “Sir?”

“It is why I posed the question to you,
‘What do you see?’” Gravis stepped closer to the mural, his eyes
tracing an arch of spines that soared up and over a centerpiece
made of dozens of human skulls and femora. “Every priest is
required to spend time down here, contemplating his life before
these old bones. Only here can we truly feel ourselves mortal. Here
we are to be reminded that what we are now will soon be gone, and
that what they are—” he waved an open hand around the room, “—we
will also one day be.”

Brayden regarded Gravis skeptically. Despite
the prior’s explanation he believed the giant wall of death still
made little sense or had any purpose. He even wondered, for a
moment, if Gravis was just trying to unnerve him.

Brayden wouldn’t have been surprised if that
had been the case. Of all the priests and nuns at Halus Gis, Prior
Gravis was the only one who opposed showing charity to the refugees
of Aberdour. He argued about it with the abbot many times. He said
it was too dangerous to house fugitives from Aberdour. He argued
that it was more practical for the refugees to seek jobs throughout
Efferous, that it was too expensive for the monastery to give them
sanctuary, and that the brutal training the boys were enduring at
the hands of Captain Khalous Marloch should not be allowed on the
sacred grounds.

Thankfully he had yet to convince the abbot
to send them away.

Gravis paced over to Brayden. “So, young
lord, what do you see?”

“I watched my father die in front of me,
along with most of the people I’ve ever known,” Brayden said. “I
don’t need old bones to remind me of mortality.”

The voice of Moreland Fields echoed down the
stairs. Brayden excused himself and offered a bow, but only out of
courtesy. He was more than relieved to exit the crypt and leave
Gravis behind.

He trotted up the steps and back into the
massive stone chapel. His footsteps echoed off the empty
sanctuary’s ceiling of vaulted timber. Through the tall stained
glass windows drifted blobs of colored daylight that decorated the
many cheerless rows of old maple pews.

Brayden veered left and exited the front
door of the chapel, which spilled out onto a dirt road that cut a
southwardly line through the middle of the monastery grounds.

The sky was a single tone of gray, a somber
presage of incoming storms.

To his delight, the air smelled of hot
bread, and Brayden could tell the kitchen staff was busy preparing
for the morning meal. He wished for a taste, something to remind
him of the comforts of home and to take his mind off the memory of
that awful underground crypt.

He saw Pick waiting for him next to a pair
of gray horses that were burdened with traveling supplies. “I like
that you’re up on time,” Pick said with a wry grin.

Brayden went to the horse, but Pick stopped
him. The young soldier leaned in to more closely examine his pale
complexion. “Are you feeling ill, young master?”

Brayden shook his head, but he knew right
away that Pick wasn’t buying his lie.

“Let me guess,” Pick began, “the
Ossartes?”

“You’ve seen it?”

“A bunch of bones arranged to look like a
piece of art? No thank you. The dead aren’t meant to be hung on
display.” He put his arm around Brayden’s shoulders and steered him
toward his horse.

“Brayden!” Broderick called.

His eleven-year-old stepbrother ran up to
him, his feet skidding to a dusty stop on the road in front of the
chapel. He pushed a few tangled locks of dark hair out of his eyes
and huffed as he spoke, “Khalous just said you were leaving?”

Brayden was surprised at Broderick’s level
of concern. “Yes.”

“Are you… I mean, will I see you again… when
are you—” Broderick stammered.

“We’ll be back in a few days, young master,”
Pick said. “Don’t worry, you can go on pretending like you hate
each other. We’ll return soon enough.”

“Be careful,” Broderick said.

Pick slung himself up onto his steed, a
perhaps too well fed animal that was little more than a packhorse.
He checked to make sure the satchels were secure upon the horse’s
flanks and then urged it forward with a few clicks of his
tongue.

When he noticed that Brayden wasn’t
following, he stopped and swung his horse around. “You coming,
young master?”

Brayden had yet to even mount his steed. He
stroked its neck, running his fingers through its bristly hair. “I
miss Arrow.”

“I know, but we have a job to do right now.
So put your missing away.”

With his heart still heavy and his stomach
empty, Brayden mounted the horse and followed Pick. The trim
soldier of the King’s Shield looked comfortable atop his foreign
horse, his shoulders lazily rolling with the animal’s uneven steps
as they headed south down the road. Pick never seemed to care where
he ate or slept or how he spent his time. He was as flexible as a
bowstring, and yet as strong and unwavering as a tree branch in a
storm.

“Whoa,” Pick said, and he reined his horse
to a stop.

Brayden ambled up alongside him and looked
ahead. On the road leading through the tall open gate stood a line
of solemn priests in drab brown robes. Their heads were bowed, and
their hands were clasped in front of them.

Standing at the end of the line was
Placidous. He was no longer dressed in the traditional alb of his
order, but rather the simple slacks, tunic, and cloak of a humble
peasant. He had a chestnut gunnysack slung over his shoulder and a
long walking staff in his hand.

“What’s happening?” Brayden asked.

“He’s being exiled.”

Placidous moped down the line of priests.
Each of them raised his hand in blessing as he passed, muttering
indiscernible words of prayer. Placidous received a kiss on the
forehead from Duktori Bendrosi and then continued on through the
gate and onto the southern road.

“Why?” Brayden asked.

“I don’t rightly know,” Pick answered, “but
it seems there is some truth to the rumors that Placidous very much
enjoys the company of women, too much for the church’s taste, I
suppose.”

“It doesn’t seem right,” Brayden said.

“What about it doesn’t sit well with you,
young master?”

“Placidous isn’t perfect. Nobody is. They’ve
all done wrong. What makes them any better than him?”

“Some wrongs are viewed as worse than
others, it seems,” Pick said.

Once Placidous had left the monastery, the
line of priests dissolved.

Pick and Brayden continued out the southern
gate, a tall stone and wood beam structure that could have
fortified a small village. They trod over the crude timber bridge,
short and low, wide enough for both their horses to cross abreast,
and caught up with Placidous on the hills overlooking Halus
Gis.

“If you wish to travel with us, you’re more
than welcome to,” Pick said from atop his horse.

Placidous lifted his head. His face looked
tired and sorrowful. “Thank you, Moreland, but no. I must take this
journey alone.”

“What journey?” Brayden asked.

He gestured toward the road ahead. “This
one.”

Brayden noticed Pick calling him ahead with
a discretionary jerk of his chin. He bid the priest farewell and
then urged his horse to quicken its pace.

“May the Allgod bless you and keep you safe,
young prince,” Placidous said.

Brayden felt bad leaving the broken man
behind them, but Pick later explained that they had no choice.
Placidous’ journey was one of atonement, he said. If a morally
compromised priest wished to remain a part of the order he would
travel what they called The Temple Road seeking mercy from his
brothers and forgiveness from the Allgod. If, on his journey, he
failed to conquer his demons he would not be allowed to return.

The whole thing didn’t make much sense to
Brayden.

For a good part of the morning he followed
Pick south over hills of tall grass and valleys of slate rock. They
munched on hunks of dried beef and drank mead and water from
leather canteens.

“I want you to remember something,” Pick
said, as the sun began its westerly arch. “If we come across any
black vipers you are to say nothing. If they detect your accent,
they’ll know you’re from Aberdour. If they absolutely insist that
you give them your name, call yourself Nab.”

“Why Nab?” Brayden asked.

“It’s a common name of Edhen, and one not
typically associated with Aberdour.”

“What should I call you?”

“The Great Moreland Fields. Master Pick.
Your Grace. Any of those will do. Oh, and if I tell you to run, I
want you to run. Understand?”

“But I can fight if I have to,” Brayden
said, trying to sound brave.

“Of that I have no doubt, young master, but
this isn’t about proving how well you can fight. This is about
staying alive, which, in your case, is more important than you
know. Let me do the fighting. You just run.”