What Remains of Heroes (11 page)

Karnag nodded. “We’d best reach Raven’s Roost before the Arranese put their torches to the place. We’ll take what’s owed us and then plan things from there.”

They set out immediately after seeing the riders, but progress on the trail came slowly. There was every manner of obstacle and setback, including a downed tree and a flooded creek. Worst of all, an illness had spread among the horses. By mid-morning the horses moved clumsily on trembling legs, and the men decided they’d best dismount before the beasts tumbled and crushed them against the trees lining the trail.

“This is not a good omen,” Paddyn said, the dread returning to his face. “It is said the dead gods can punish in such ways.”

Karnag threw down the reins of his steed and gave Paddyn a fierce look. “The only punishment you need fear is mine, boy. Any talk of dead gods and magical curses and other such nonsense left this company the moment Tream did.”

Paddyn averted his gaze and did not reply.

They resumed their slog down the trail but their efforts did not last long. The horses became lathered with sweat and grew skittish. They were getting worse.

Soon the horses refused water and wouldn’t respond to commands. Paddyn tried draping a blanket over his mount, but the horse shook it off and in doing so knocked the young man into a tree. The company dismounted.

“These beasts will not live out the day,” Drenj said, holding his horse by the bit of its bridle and inspecting its mouth. “I’ve seen this sickness before.”

Karnag regarded his own horse, noticing a reddish mucus dripping from its muzzle and crusting its panicked eyes. The Khaldisian spoke truth.

“We should give them a rest, some clean water,” Fencress said. “We can’t be sure they’ll die.”

“Perhaps,” said Drenj. “But the late stages of this sickness are not kind to these animals.”

“Grab what items you can carry,” said Karnag. “I’m slaughtering these beasts.” He stripped his horse of its baggage and pulled
Gravemaker
from its scabbard.

He set about dispatching the horses in turn while the others looked on grimly. The animals slobbered and shook as they died, and the last, Paddyn’s dappled mare, jumped wildly as Karnag approached. The others turned away as Karnag ran the length of his blade through her ribcage, toward the heart. A great groan came from the mare as Karnag pulled the blade free. She shivered and slumped to the earth.

After Karnag had cleaned his hands and arms of blood they shouldered their packs and set upon the path once more.

They left the beasts to rot.

7

Murmured Discussion

W
ord of the
Lector’s murder reached the Sanctum’s Abbey in the dead of night. Rumors swirled of a green-cloaked stranger having sought a private audience with one of the Sanctum’s elders, Prefect Gamghast, and it was said the two had spoken for hours. Gamghast apparently whispered the dire account to the other prefects, whereupon Prefect Borel was said to have fainted.

By first light every denizen of the Abbey knew of the tragedy. They rushed to the long tables of the dining hall where they fretted together over plates of fruits and breads, speaking solemnly about the news.

Bale’s heart sagged upon learning of the tragedy, for he’d counted the Lector—the Sanctum’s second-highest ranking member—as perhaps his only friend. The two had enjoyed many conversations in the Abbey’s garden, and the Lector had instructed Bale in subjects and spellcraft other acolytes were told were forbidden. He’d also allowed Bale occasional access to his private library, a wealth of arcane texts Bale had devoured beneath candlelight. He would be missed.

Bale never breakfasted with others, or enjoyed any other meal with other people, for that matter. Yet, his curiosity over the awful circumstances of the Lector’s death had dragged him to join the collection of acolytes in the dining hall. Bale shied from their nervous talk and scanned the tables to find a place near the elder members of the Sanctum. He assumed the appearance of caring only about peeling his orange and perked his ears to eavesdrop.

For a time, words among the small collection of elders were few. Prefect Kreer pulled at his long nose and picked at his gnarled knuckles, saying nothing. Prefect Borel, a man almost perfectly round in shape, sniffled and rubbed tears from his eyes with fat thumbs. Prefect Gamghast, now the Sanctum’s second most senior member behind only Dictorian Theal himself, pondered a great leather-bound tome. His face was so deeply lined with wrinkles it struck Bale as a seaside crag, and his wild, white beard the crash of waves against it.

Murmured discussion resounded from every corner of the hall, but the prefects sat in somber silence. Bale began to wonder whether he’d be better served by lurking nearer another table. After a time he’d finished the last wedge of his orange, and thus had lost the necessary prop to excuse his presence in the hall. Frustrated, he smoothed his robes and stood, and began making his way to another location.

Just then, Gamghast shut the tome with a thud and cleared his throat. Bale searched quickly about and snatched an apple from a large plate sitting amidst another huddle of acolytes, all of whom turned to regard Bale contemptuously. Bale glowered back, then licked the apple to stake his claim. He held out the apple toward the acolytes for an instant in a mocking gesture, then licked it again.

Would anyone like it now? I thought
not
.

He dashed back to his table and assumed as casual a posture as his awkward actions would permit. He produced a small knife from the pockets of his robes and began peeling the red skin from the apple in slow strokes. The task was halfway done when at last the men spoke.

“Our dear Lector is dead,” said Kreer, his wheeze of a voice sounding even weaker than usual. “The Sanctum has suffered its greatest loss.”

“This is the worst of news,” said Borel through a choke of tears. “It is a sad day when any of our number depart this life, but the Lector? And in so foul a fashion? It is too much to bear. We are lost without him!” He blew his nose into his handkerchief.

Gamghast pulled at the wisps of his beard and drummed his fingers against the cover of his book. “Yes, he is dead. It is heartbreaking news and we will honor his passage. But there is only so much time for grief, brothers. We require
answers
, and we require them in swift order if we are to honor the mission of our order. Why was the Lector traveling so close to the Southwall Mountains? So close to Arranan? He’d claimed he needed to attend to matters concerning his sister, but his family’s lands lay far to the north, near the Waters of World’s End. Why would he see a need to hide both the purpose and destination of his journey? From even us? These things trouble me…”

Kreer’s chin eased upward, allowing the tall man to peer down the length of his nose while regarding the others. “I would argue our faith instructs us to assume a far-sighted purpose behind the Lector’s actions, especially mere days after his death. Certainly a more distant time would be more suitable for questioning his actions.”

Gamghast waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, yes. I’m well aware there is none so righteous as Prefect Kreer. But please, Kreer, spare us the sanctimony. There are urgent concerns to address, difficult puzzles to solve. I’ll not be hamstrung in those endeavors by your heightened sense of piety.”

Borel whimpered and his prodigious belly shook with quiet sobs. “I know there are questions needing answering, but must we discuss these things while the body is still warm?”

“The Lector died at least a week ago,” said Gamghast impassively. “Rather, he was
murdered
at least a week ago. The body has long since cooled.”

Borel sniffled and seemed to compose himself. “He was a truly kind and faithful man. The very best of us all. The sort all of us should endeavor to emulate. He was the very source of our faith!” He made a quick, intricate gesture with his hand, a blessing in the name of Illienne. He retrieved his handkerchief and blew his nose with vigor, sounding much like a trumpet. “We are lost and adrift without him!”

Gamghast nodded impatiently and continued. “He had hired soldiers and was accompanied by several acolytes. Why? What is more, the death of that many does not seem the random work of highwaymen or burglars. Nor does his death seem like the result of soldiery, as his throat was slit as he slept. Who would seek to murder our Lector? If the killer knew of the man’s importance to our order and to our faith, then a grave threat may be stalking us all. Indeed, all of Rune.”

Bale thought for an instant of the scullery maid’s note, of her warning about Chamberlain Alamis. He placed the apple on the table and felt for an instant the fold of the note within his robes.

Kreer shifted about and pursed his thin lips, as though tasting his words before speaking them. “I say this not to disparage the man, but to aid in the investigation of his death. It is known the Lector had developed a penchant for banned books, old histories and such. Think of the time he spent digging through old scrolls in the library and elsewhere. Old things, things dealing with the Sentinels and with Yrghul the Lord of Nightmares. Dictorian Theal warned him not to explore too deeply those works, for fear of drawing unwanted attention.”

“They’d been at odds, lately,” said Borel, burrowing a corner of his handkerchief into a dripping nostril. “Dictorian Theal and the Lector I mean. It seemed to me there was some disagreement between them. Some form of tension.”

Gamghast scratched at his ear. “Dictorian Theal has always been most concerned with the succession, of what would happen when the Lector died. Too concerned, if you ask me. He’s always worried about where the spirit—”

“Blasphemy,” muttered Kreer. “Dictorian Theal is a most holy man. You should know better than to say such things.”

“Is he?” said Gamghast. “Are you suggesting he is more divine than the Lector himself? Who is it that speaks blasphemy among us, Kreer?”

Kreer snorted. “Mind your tongue. You never know who is near.” He suddenly turned in his chair. “Acolyte Bale! You know something of these banned texts, don’t you?”

Bale was caught completely unawares. His eyes widened, his lips stammered, and his hands trembled. He missed his apple entirely with his paring knife and the blade nicked the tip of his thumb. “Ouch!” he howled. The knife and apple clattered noisily across and off the far side of the table, and Bale sucked at his bleeding thumb.

Borel produced his discolored handkerchief and offered it to Bale with a kindly expression. Bale accepted it and tried to find its cleanest part, but quickly discovered this was a choice among lesser evils. He gave up, and pressed the mostly moist cloth about his thumb. “I’m sorry,” he said too quickly, the words tumbling over themselves. “You posed a question?”

“Banned texts,” Kreer said. “You know of the Lector’s interest in banned texts, do you not?”

“He was curious, as is every fertile mind.” He breathed deeply and slowed himself
. Of course I know. I
’ve read nearly every one myself
. “He said he needed to know the circumstances of the Sentinels’ exile, needed to scrutinize the old texts. There was no blasphemy. He was an intellectual man, seeking only to study the foundations of our faith and thereby reaffirm that faith.” He smiled frailly. “It is as our maxim instructs: ‘Through Faith, Wisdom, and through Wisdom, Faith.’ The Lector would often say faith is not faith at all if it cannot weather inquisition.”

Kreer huffed, staring hard at Bale. “A man of true faith knows there is no wisdom in lies.”

Gamghast rapped the cover of his tome, signaling an end to further discussion. “We will inquire further, later. I will inspect the Lector’s chambers to see if there are any hints to guide our inquiry. Borel, do we know who accompanied him? No? Then I ask you to find out. Kreer, I suggest you take charge of the Rites of Passage. Dictorian Theal will be in prayer until sundown, at least, and we would be well served to have preparations underway by the time he emerges.”

Bale stood to excuse himself. “Prefects, seeing as you have nothing further for me I shall—”

“Hardly,” said Gamghast. “You will meet me in my quarters before lunch, at noon. We will discuss in detail your knowledge of the Lector’s studies.”

Bale bowed stiffly and left the prefects. He was several tables away when he remembered he’d left his knife and apple. He returned to retrieve them, taking care to avoid the eyes of the prefects as he approached.

He caught sight of a glint of metal, and noticed his knife and what remained of his apple beneath a table. He tried to toe them free but they were too far away. Cursing, he bent low on creaking knees and reached for them.

“But what of his confession?” said Kreer, his tone urgent.

The confession?
Bale froze, ignoring the protesting aches of his joints.

“Yes,” said Borel, his voice quavering with worry. “What of his confession? What of his last wisdom and, more importantly, of the passing of the
spirit
? Should we not concern ourselves with that above all? If he did not utter his confession, could his spirit have been stilled forever?”

“His throat was slit,” said Gamghast sullenly. “The account I received from… from our friend last night was that no words were spoken. I fear his wisdom—and Illienne’s—is lost to us. The spirit seems unattached or stayed, and that’s the most troubling news of all.”

Bale tapped gently upon Gamghast’s door as noon tolled from Ironmoor’s many belfries. He didn’t want to knock too loudly, or he’d eliminate any chance of the prefect
not
hearing him.

He paused for a moment, listening. There was, as he hoped, no answer.
Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Prefect Gamghast! I arrived precisely at noon as you instructed, and knocked several times. When there came no answer I assumed you’
d been able to answer your questions without my assistance
…

He grinned and tapped again. The tap was so faint he reckoned only a church mouse would hear it. Again, no answer.

Oh, very well. Perhaps another time, my dear Prefect
.

Bale turned from the door, only to be confronted by the sight of Prefect Gamghast lumbering down the hallway, arms laden with books.

“Acolyte Bale,” Gamghast said matter-of-factly.

“Prefect Gamghast,” Bale sighed. “A pleasure to see you.”

Gamghast eyed him suspiciously. “Acolyte Bale, you
do
realize honesty is expected of all members of the Sanctum, particularly when dealing with their superiors.”

Bale opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t quite find the words.
The man is entirely correct: it is indeed a distinct
dis
pleasure to see him. Dare I say that
aloud?