Shadowstorm (5 page)

Beld’s young face reddened behind his thin beard. “You were not to return at all, Abelar.”

Abelar swung down from Swiftdawn and stepped before Beld. He stood half a head taller than the young warrior. “True, Beld. But unexpected events have transpired. I must have word with the Abbot.”

“He is at service—”

“Dawnmeet is finished,” Abelar said softly. “The Abbot will retire to the chapel for private contemplation. I have not been away so long as to have forgotten that. He will see me, Beld. Tell him that I am here.”

Beld looked at Dak, at Abelar. He sighed, nodded, and said to Dak, “Inform the Abbot that Abelar Corrinthal has returned and wishes an audience.”

Dak eyed Abelar, Regg, and Beld, and hurried off.

“That is more like it,” Regg said, and swung off his horse. He called up to the crossbowmen on the walls. “And take care to point those tips at the stone, you bastards.”

The crossbowmen grumbled but lowered their weapons.

“It is good to see you again,” Beld said to Abelar. “The light is still in you.”

Abelar smiled. “It is.”

Beld said, “I wish you would simply agree with the Abbot.”

Abelar put a hand on Beld’s shoulder. “Faith does not work so, Beld. You know that. We each must follow our own conscience. I must do what I must do. So must the Abbott. So must you. Remember that. And remember, too, that we are not so far apart, the Abbot and I. We both worship the Morninglord.”

Beld looked doubtful but nodded.

Presently the crank in the gatehouse started to clink and the double doors in the abbey s wall creaked open. A balding, overweight priest in red and yellow robes awaited them within.

“Dawnbringer Asran,” Abelar said, and inclined his head. “Light shine on you.”

“And on you, Abelar Corrinthal.” Asran nodded past Abelar at the dawn. “The risen sun is beautiful, is it not?”

Abelar caught the double meaning. “Its light feeds the rose,” he answered, and turned to Beld. “You will see to our horses?”

“Aye,” said the young man. “That, I will.”

“I suspect we will not be long,” Regg said under his breath.

Abelar and Regg turned over their reins to Beld. Abelar took the opportunity to put his back to Asran and speak softly to Regg. Beld did them the courtesy of pretending not to hear the exchange.

“Keep your peace with Asran, and with the Abbot when we see him. No hot words.”

Regg looked both aggrieved and amused. “Perhaps you would prefer that I await you in the courtyard?”

Abelar shook his head. “No. I fear my memory of him will distort how I perceive his words. I will want your opinion of his demeanor afterward.”

“Well enough.”

With that, they turned and walked into the abbey. Asran smiled insincerely and said, “Welcome back, Abelar. The timing of your return is auspicious. The Abbot teaches that the Deliverance is near. I am pleased that you learned wisdom in time.”

Abelar kept his tone even. “Nothing has changed, Asran. I am not come to embrace the Risen Sun.”

The heavyset priest faltered in his steps. He looked shocked. “Why have you returned, then?”

“That is a matter for me and the Abbot.”

Asran’s cheeks flushed but he nodded and led them toward the chapel.

The sounds and smells of the smithy, the weaving looms, the swine pens, the stables, all recalled to Abelar his youth. Chickens scratched in the dirt, fluttered out of their path.

Work stopped as they passed. Abelar felt eyes on them throughout, some hostile, some sympathetic. The short walk across the grounds to the temple seemed to take all morning. The finely hewn doors to the chapel stood open. Stained glass panels flanked the doors, depicting a youthful Lathander holding aloft a newborn babe.

As it always had, the image reminded Abelar of the Nameday of his son. Eltha had died while giving birth but Elden had been born alive. Grief-stricken for his wife, Abelar nevertheless had swaddled the boy and taken him outside to see the world into which his mother had brought him. The overcast sky had been as gray as iron. Abelar had cradled his son close, thought of Eltha, and prayed to Lathander to bless them both and light the paths of their lives. Father and son had both cried when the clouds parted and the sun shone through.

As Elden had grown, all who knew him could see that he had been born simple. Abelar loved him all the more for it. Elden laughed and cried with uncensored abandon.

“Abelar?” Asran called, his tone irritated. The priest was five steps ahead of Abelar, standing on the chapel’s portico.

“Are you all right?” Regg asked.

Abelar nodded. “I was thinking of my son. I’m well. Come.”

The Abbot gave them an audience in the circular private chapel off the main worship hall. Asran opened the wooden door, nodded for them to enter, and closed it behind them.

Two circular rows of birch pews surrounded a veined marble statue of Lathander in his guise as a hale young man, smiling,

with both arms reaching upward in welcome. Above the sculpture, morning light poured in through the round stained glass window of a golden sunrise set into the arched ceiling. The light drenched the room in reds, yellows, and oranges.

Abelar frowned. The window had been changed since he had last been to the temple. Previously, the glass had shown a red rose radiating beams of yellow light. The new sunrise motif was an acknowledgment of the Risen Sun heresy.

The Abbot stood near the statue, bathed in the light of his new window, and watched them enter. He did not smile. He wore robes of yellow and red embroidered with a rising sun motif at the breast. Long gray hair hung loose against his careworn face. His voice was a commanding baritone, seemingly too large to be contained by his thin body. Abelar had heard the Abbot utter hundreds of heart-soaring sunrise sermons. He had also heard him utter heresies.

“You have returned though you were exiled from these walls.”

Abelar bowed. “You know I would not have violated your edict if the matter were not urgent. It is gracious of you to see us. My thanks.”

“And mine,” Regg said, though his voice was tight.

The Abbot did not acknowledge Regg. His intelligent brown eyes searched Abelar’s face as he asked, “Have you finally seen the light, Abelar?”

Abelar answered, “What wisdom I had then, I have now.”

The Abbot frowned. “Quite so, then.” He gestured at the ceiling. “Do you approve of the new window?”

Abelar heard the real question and answered accordingly. “It is well crafted but lacks substance. I prefer the rose to the Risen Sun.”

The Abbot feigned a smile. “I see. Well, as you said, what wisdom you had is what wisdom you have.”

Regg scoffed and started to speak but Abelar put up a hand to stop him. He asked, “May we approach and sit, Denril?”

The Abbot cocked his head. “No title, Lord Corrinthal? Have we fallen so far?”

Abelar let his words speak for themselves and the silence stretched. Finally Denril gestured at a pew and said, “Yes. Sit. Please. You must be road weary. Shall I have refreshment brought?”

He moved as if to summon Asran but Abelar stayed him with an upraised hand and a shake of his head. “Our thanks, but no. We cannot stay long. My men await our return.”

Abelar and Regg walked down the aisle to the center of the circle. Both made obeisance before the statue of Lathander and sat. Denril remained standing and spoke. “You are a criminal, you know. As is your father. Or so says the overmistress.”

“The overmistress is a liar. But you know that already,” Abelar said evenly.

The Abbot made a dismissive gesture and circled the statue. “As are all politicians. What I know is that you remain outside the Light and spend your energies on political matters. You are stubborn, Abelar. Prideful. The Deliverance is at hand. I see the signs all around, as does anyone with clear eyes. Come back to us before it is too late.”

Regg shifted uncomfortably in the pew. Abelar chose his words carefully.

“I see signs around us, Denril, but not signs of the Deliverance. I see signs of evil waxing. Meanwhile, good men sit idle. The church sits idle, content with its holdings. You sit idle.”

The Abbot frowned and shook his head. “You are mistaken, but you have always seen things in such a way. This is no epic struggle, Abelar. It is base politics and it is beneath you. I blame your father for dragging you into this mud.”

Abelar stiffened. “That is the second time you have mentioned my father with derision. Do not do so again.”

“He is a murderer, not so?”

Abelar felt warm but controlled his building rage. Regg must have sensed it; he put a hand on Abelar.

“That is the last time I will tell you, Denril,” Abelar said. “Do not mention my father so.”

Regg stood. “Perhaps we should take our leave…”

The Abbot’s gaze turned to a hard stare. “Why have you come, Abelar? Do you wish my aid and that of the Church? You will have neither. You see evil ascendant? You are a deluded heretic. This is a political dispute. Nothing more.”

Abelar rose from his seat. He could hardly believe his ears. “Has your reason abandoned you? A political dispute, you say?”

The Abbot stepped forward to face him, anger in his eyes. Regg interposed himself between them.

“Yes. What care I for who rules Sembia? The faith will persevere whoever holds power. And the faith is more important than the realm or who rules it. Converts flock to the Morninglord’s temple each day. That will increase as war brews.”

“You are mad,” Abelar said, before wisdom could stop the words.

“All right…” Regg said.

The Abbot shook his head. “You cannot see beyond your own worldly concerns. The Deliverance will soon be upon us. My duty to the Morninglord is to win converts to his cause, not to choose sides in a civil war.”

The Abbot’s words might as well have been coming from the mouth of a stranger. Abelar said, “You win converts because you offer them a faith of ease. They are taught to sit on their hands and wait for their god to deliver them. But he never will. That is not his way.”

“I offer them a faith of hope. And what do you know of his way?

“What do
know—”p>

“We are leaving,” Regg said, and tried to push Abelar toward the door. Abelar would not have it.

“You offer a lie,” Abelar spat, and found the volume of his voice increasing. “There will be no Deliverance. It is heresy.”

Regg cursed softly.

The Abbot answered with a shout. “A heresy!? You dare say so in these halls?”

“Calmer words, men,” Regg said, but the Abbot ignored him.

“You are blind, Abelar Corrinthal! And when the Deliverance comes, you will be left behind!”

Abelar scoffed and pointed an accusatory finger at his former mentor. “Darkness is coming, not Deliverance, and when it does, you will realize your folly.”

The doors to the chapel flew open and a half-dozen priests and men-at-arms burst inside, maces bare.

Regg moved Abelar away from the Abbot.

“Alls well here,” Regg said to the men.

The Abbot snarled at Abelar. “I should arrest you and take you to Ordulin for trial.”

“Shall I, Abbot?” asked one of the men-at-arms, a young, overeager convert who could barely grow a beard.

Regg let Abelar go, put a hand to his hilt, and stared at the young man. “Try it, boy, and you’ll not have to wait for your deliverance.”

Abelar heard the hardness of Regg’s words and they brought him back to himself. He would not have bloodshed within the faith, not within the walls of one of its temples. With effort, he regained his composure, chided himself for losing his temper, and looked to his onetime friend and teacher.

“You will not arrest me, Abbot,” he said gently. “We have not fallen so far as that.”

The Abbot stared at him, his face still flush, his heavy breathing audible. Finally, he said, “Go, Abelar. Never return here. I will have you arrested if I see you again.”

The words stung Abelar but he nodded. He turned, gathered Regg to his side, and walked through the crowd of Lathanderians, once his brethren. They glared at him and he did not have the strength to offer his own in return. His legs felt weak under him.

As he walked through the door of the chapel, the Abbot called after him, “I receive the power to cast spells in the Morninglord’s name every morning, Abelar. Think on that. If what I believed was a lie, why would I still receive such a boon?”

Abelar did not turn or slow. He had no answer. He, too, could channel divine power in the Morninglord’s name. As could Regg. He did not understand why his god would allow both sides of the schism to claim his blessing. Abelar presumed that Lathander had a purpose in prolonging the dispute, but he could not see it.

They exited the chapel and entered the courtyard. Regg shouted for their horses. The crowd of priests and warriors followed them out of the chapel. The eyes of those in the courtyard regarded them with hostility. Some fell in with the priests and warriors.

“He is lost in the depths of his doctrine,” Abelar said to Regg, shaking his head.

“Aye,” Regg said, and nodded. He turned a circle and shouted to all of those looking on them, “And so are you all lost! To the man!

Some among the onlookers murmured angrily. “Away from here,” shouted one. “Begone,” yelled another. “Gladly,” Regg answered.

Beld brought forth their horses and Abelar and Regg swung into their saddles.

“I did not have time to even remove their saddles,” Beld said, indicating the horses. “And they are temperamental beasts.”

“It is the company here,” Regg said, and patted Firstlight.

Abelar looked to field and smiled. “Thank you, Beld. You are a good man.”

Beld looked stricken. “I am sorry it has come to this, Abelar.”

Abelar nodded. “As am I. Be well.”

With that, they rode out. Abelar knew it would be the last time. A black mood descended on him. Lathander would not be pleased that he allowed a darkness to root in him but he could not

stop it. He had lost the father of his blood to the Hole of Yhaunn and now had lost the father of his soul to a heresy.

“The sun rises and sets,” he murmured to himself.