Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) (15 page)

“No.  Such was Your decree.  That was enough.”

“No, it is not enough!  Without you know why, you cannot
hope to do My will.  Would a man lock away a great work of art to protect it
from thieves and vandals?  Aye, of course he would.  But would that same man
lock it away for all time, never to be looked upon again by any, not even
himself?  If he would, would he not better destroy it?”

Laniel looked at the god quizzically. 

“So…did I decree that you should destroy it or keep it safe
against a time when it might be needed?”

The abbot shook his head.  “This was but a single wound!”

“Think!”  Bilkar growled.  “What was it that harmed
Damerien’s child?  Was it not this same kind of power?  Did you not recognize
it?”

“Aye, but—”

“Those that harmed him had also bound gods and laid waste to
entire armies!  You saw all this in the wound!  Your weakness shows not in what
you did but in what you failed to do!”  Bilkar scowled at him.  “Even this
child-monk had more sense.”

Renda looked away.  Of course she had wanted Laniel to do
everything in his power to save her father, but she had trusted his judgment
when he’d said the power was not his to use.

Laniel looked at Gaed.  “But—”

“Did you expect some grand cataclysm, a rending of worlds,
to justify the use of this power?”  The god’s voice rose.  “Would such an
obvious event require the subtlety and discipline of a Bilkarian abbot to see?”

Laniel looked down, humiliated.  “No, Lord Bilkar.  We have
failed you.”

“Laniel,” Bilkar said, and his icy voice softened, almost
paternally.  “You are the finest abbot this house has ever seen.  But you have
lived so long in this isolated place that you guard the knowledge now more out of
habit than as a choice you make each day.  Your judgment has grown dull with
disuse and fear, and without good judgment in these dark times, My monks will
lose their way as those of the other gods have.  Your time as my abbot is
done.”

“No!” Gaed stood.  “Do not kill him!  Laniel did not break
faith!  I did!  You cannot punish him for my weakness!  Kill me instead!”

Laniel rested a hand on her arm to quiet her.

“Child-monk!”  Bilkar snarled.  “Do you dare stand and
natter at Me without My leave?  Do you dare command Bilkar the Furred?”

“I do, and why not?”  She raised her chin.  “My life is
already forfeit.”

“There are many ways to die, child,” the god seethed.

“Even so, I will speak!  Call it weakness if You will, but I
will not have an innocent man suffer for what I chose to do.”

“An innocent man that you love.”  Bilkar’s sneering tone cut
to her heart.  His icy eyes narrowed.  “My judgment––”

“Please, I beg of you!  Have mercy on him!”

Bilkar roared again.  “If I were minded to kill anyone, he
would be dead already, so hold your tongue lest I change My mind!  My judgment
is that you, Gaed, shall be the new abbess of Bilkar.  Nay, do not speak again
or I shall strike you dumb!  You have the forbidden knowledge, and there is no
taking it from you.  To make another abbot would be wasteful.  Besides, two can
keep a secret only when one is dead.  Of course, having used this power, you
will be twice challenged not to do so again without great need.  Mark Me well,
little one.  You are yet young and should rely heavily on your elders for
advice, but do not surrender your judgment, for it is mostly sound.  You have
shown the strength to stand, even in the face of a god, in defense of the
innocent.  Yes, you will make a fine abbess, even as you made a terrible monk. 
So abbess you are.”

“Thank you,” breathed Gaed.

“This is no reward.”

Gaed nodded as Laniel put the key around her neck.

“As punishment for your weakness and duplicity, Gaed, I will
banish Laniel from this place for all time.”

“No!  He should not be punished!”

“He will not.”  Bilkar laughed, a sound more frightening
than his growl.  “The punishment is yours, Gaed.”

“But why?  I did the right thing!  I did what you wanted
done!”

“That your actions worked for the benefit of this world is
the only reason you yet live, so do not try My patience!  You acted out of
weakness, and for this weakness, you will never again see the man you love.  As
I said, child, there are many ways to die.”

She stood in silence staring at the floor.

Renda’s heart broke for the new abbess.  She had seen the
depth of the woman’s love for Laniel, and now she saw the depth of her
desolation, as well.  All because the young woman had betrayed her secret and
saved Lord Daerwin.  She could not even begin to fathom Laniel’s sense of loss.

“Laniel, you will attend the children of Damerien that they
may benefit from your strength, your wisdom and your knowledge––all of your
knowledge, yea?”

Laniel bowed his head.  “Yes, Lord Bilkar.  Our…my gratitude
for Your mercy.”

“Never forget, Laniel, that you are Bilkarian.  You may no
longer be abbot, but you now carry My most earnest mission.  Do not squander
your gifts and do not revel in weakness.  I will be watching.”

Suddenly, the millions of tiny ice shards that had gone to
create the image of Bilkar shattered outward, vanishing into the warming air of
the abbey, and He was gone.

Durlindale

She knocked at the door and waited, rubbing her hands even
through her riding gloves to warm them.  Well nigh midnight, it was, but that
could not be helped.  They’d ridden as hard as they dared, skirting south below
Brannagh and the ominous black smoke above it and cutting overland across
Damerien lands, with Chul’s horse wheezing alarmingly the last several miles. 
The poor beast had not had a proper rest in two days, and if they would have
him survive to Brannford, they had no choice but to stop the night here.

Durlindale was one of the southernmost cities in the eastern
half of Syon near the Great Southern Forest with its broad stands of fast
growing trees.  The plentiful supply of wood meant that most of the buildlings
both in Durlindale and throughout all of Moncliff’s lands were built of
complete logs rather than stone blocks or wooden planks.  The wealthiest
buildings were built of bare polished logs, oiled and cured, and carved with
ornate scenes.  The next class, mostly businesses and merchants’ homes, were
slathered with a sort of plaster mud to give the walls a surface for taking paint. 
And the least were built just of the trees as they came from the ground, branches
and all, with only a rude mortar to fill the cracks, but all the buildings gave
a sense of sturdiness and permanence.  What the buildings lacked in elegance,
they made up in strength and protection from the seasons.

The inn where she stood was mud-daubed and painted a cheery
welcoming white which helped it to stand out for the traveler in the darkness. 

Gikka shook her head.  The windows were dark, and not the
merest curl of smoke rose from the main room’s chimney.  This was not a good
sign.  With each minute it took the innkeeper to get to the door, she would
need at least another shilling to convince him that her business would be worth
his trouble, then another to still his wagging tongue…  Bah, she thought to
herself and fished a silver haypind from her pouch, enough that he could close
the inn the season and still not want.  She’d be lucky to get away for so
little.  Still, such was the price of doing business, especially quiet
business, especially for one like her.

“Go away.  I’ve nothing left,” a man’s voice called through
the door, and in it, she heard a note of fear.  “You were just here!  Pray,
leave me take a breath ere you come collecting again!  How’s a man to get on like
this?”

Gikka’s eyes narrowed.  Usury, exaction…probably both.  Some
things about Durlindale would never change.  With none but the marquess and his
men to police matters in the area and with their studied lack of interest
except where it gained for them, the hellions could run amok and did. 
Reputations grew on open defiance and ruthlessness, with the result that any as
peeked in the corners where they were not wanted turned up plugging the
irrigation come morning.  Not surprisingly, those sorts of questions mostly
went unasked, even by the marquess and his men.  Some called it corruption, but
she always believed the marquess’s seeming apathy was a matter of keeping his
head down in order to keep it at all rather than true disinterest.

Strange, she thought to herself, glancing out over the
alleys and side streets she’d known so well.  Not so long ago, she’d reveled in
the lawlessness of the place and the ease with which she moved in circles where
others feared to tread.  As Beridien, she’d even held a fair bit of power here
once.  But she was younger then and less of a mind to mark the sufferings of
others, much less to ease them.  Occasionally, she allowed uneasily, she’d even
enjoyed them.  Now, compared against the demons and the other horrors she’d faced
since she left, the shabby pettiness of this place merely tried her patience. 

Speaking of which… She tapped the door again.

“Please!  I already told you, I’ve moneyed folk here
tonight, them as will pay their part and be gone at midday.  Only leave me lie
the night!”

Moneyed.  More of habit than anything else, she paused at
the word, considering.  True, Chul had not had a chance to earn his keep since
Farras, and certainly the practice even at watching and spying and perhaps
taking a bauble or two would keep his mind off what he’d experienced in the
glade.  It would be easy enough, what with the marks staying in the same inn
and all.  But no, the thought left her mind almost as quickly as it entered. 
They had no time to spare.  Besides, Durlindale was not the place to make
mistakes.  No, any furtherance of his education would have to wait for
Brannford. 

“Hello?  Did you hear?  I say, come again tomorrow, won’t
you,” the innkeeper pleaded through the door, “and I shall have them––”

“Begging your pardon,” she called innocently if a bit
impatiently through the door, knocking again, “but have you a room to let
tonight?”

She heard an astonished silence on the other side of the
door for a moment, then the bolt was thrown, and the door flew open.  The
innkeeper, a thin man with a suspicious mustache and a threadbare nightshirt
looked out past her and up and down the street before settling his gaze upon
her. 

She felt him appraising her.  Costly riding apparel, a full
purse at her belt.  No doubt he assumed every coin in it was stolen, what with her
being Bremondine and all, but she doubted that he would let his conscience
prick him overmuch on that point.  Coin was coin to him, and coin was likely what
he needed—given what he’d just said—far more than a smug sense of virtue.  His
gaze traveled over her hair, as if he was trying to remember something…perhaps
something about a woman who wore her hair down like a man.  She had a ready
answer if he asked:  passing for a man made sense for a woman traveling alone.

But he did not ask.

“Welcome, mistress,” he smiled.  He stepped aside and bade
her step in out of the cold.  “Forgive me for taking so long to greet you.  I
had already retired for the night, you see, it being quite so late.  The fires
are out, the help is abed…”

Predictable as rain on the solstice, she mused.  A list of
how he was being inconvenienced.  He was already negotiating price.  “So you’ve
rooms to let, then,” she said.  It was a statement rather than a question.

“Aye, well,” he began, scratching his head.

“Well, nothing.  I’ll not be dancing with you, old man.  I’ve
not the patience for it this late in the night.”  She held up the shiny silver
coin.  “This haypind is yours an you’ve a room to let and a mind to still your
tongue.  Elsewise, I’ll be taking my rest tonight at a house more deserving.”

“Yes, yes!”  He took the coin from her before she could
change her mind.  “We’ve a room, indeed––a clean room, to be sure, and quiet. 
Apologies, Mistress, my brain is addled by the late hour.”

She smiled.  She was in control now.  She could afford to be
gracious.  He started to close the door, but she stopped him.  “My ward is at
settling our horses in your stable, so please you.  Two of your stalls are
open, says he, so I thought it a fair bet you’d have a room for us.”

Says
he
.  The innkeeper frowned.  “The room has but
one bed.  I’ve two rooms open, and for the sake of propriety…”

“One will do,” her eyes narrowed, “and that haypind stops
your preaching on this point or I’ll have it back.”

He considered a moment, then shrugged.  “Aye, so much will
buy my quiet short of a man’s death, it will.”  He swallowed hard.  “Just don’t
want trouble here.”

“Then we’ve a bargain.”  She watched him wring his hands and
sighed with exasperation.  She’d forgotten how oddly provincial Durlindale and
indeed most of Syon were. But she saw the worry in his eyes, no doubt for the
reputation of his inn.  “Oh, for pity, quiet your conscience.  The lad is my
ward and is to me like a son.  As such, being as he’s Dhanani, I’ll not be
turning him loose to the women of Durlindale with a bed and lock all his own.”

Dhanani.  Comprehension dawned in the innkeeper’s eyes along
with a certain relief, and Gikka nodded.  “You understand me well.  Speaking of
which, mind you look to your daughters while we stay.”

“Aye,” he sighed with resignation. “And my wife.”

She felt a shift in the air behind her and touched her
dagger.  But the shift in the air was not what she expected, and she turned.

“Look what I found in the stable, Mistress!” 

Colaris blinked his owl eyes at her from his perch on the
boy’s leather bracer and bobbed his head in recognition.

“He’s like a hawk, only smaller.”  Chul closed the door
behind him.  Then he stroked the bird whose head was now upside down, peering
at him oddly.  “Came down from a window above and settled on the stall whilst I
saw to Zinion’s hooves.  He seemed cold to me, all shivering as he was.  Quite
friendly, though, for a hawkling.”