No outer walls surrounded the monastery. No gate barred entrance. The death monks needed no such protection. When the elves occupied human lands and entire villages were razed and destroyed, the Kir monasteries remained untouched. The most drunken, blood-mad elf sobered instantly on finding himself anywhere near the black, chill walls.[50]
Repressing a shiver, Iridal focused her mind on what was important—the recovery of her lost child—and, drawing her cloak more closely about her, proceeded with firm step to the baked clay door illuminated by the glowlamp. An iron bell hung over the door. Iridal took hold of the bellpull and jerked it. The iron tones of the bell were muffled and almost immediately swallowed up, absorbed by the building’s thick walls. Accepted as a necessity for contact with the outside world, the bell was permitted to speak, but not to sing.
There came a grating sound. An opening appeared in the door. An eye appeared in the opening.
“Where is the corpse?” the voice asked in a disinterested monotone. Iridal, her thoughts on her son, was chilled by the question, alarmed and startled. It seemed a terrible portent, and she very nearly turned around and ran off. But logic prevailed. She reminded herself of what she knew of the Kir monks, told herself that this question—so frightful to her—was perfectly natural for them.
The Kir monks worship death. They view life as a kind of prison-house existence, to be endured until the soul can escape and find true peace and happiness elsewhere. The Kir monks will not, therefore, come to the aid of the living. They will not nurse the sick, they will not feed the hungry or bind the wounds of the injured. They will, however, tend to the dead, celebrating the fact that the soul has moved on. The Kir are not disturbed by death in even its more horrible forms. They claim the victim when the murderer has done. They walk the fields of battle when the battle is ended. They enter the plague town when all others have fled.
The one service the Kir offer the living is to take in unwanted male children: orphans, bastards, inconvenient sons. These children are raised in the Order, raised to worship death, and so the Order continues.
The question the monk asked Iridal was a common question, one he asked of all who come to the monastery at this hour of night. For there would be no other reason to approach these forbidding walls.
“I do not come about the dead,” said Iridal, recovering her composure. “I come about the living.”
“About a child?” demanded the monk.
“Yes, Brother,” answered Iridal. “Though not in the way you mean,” she added silently.
The eye disappeared. The small panel in the clay door slammed shut. The door opened. The monk stood to one side, his face hidden by the black cowl he wore low over his head. He did not bow, did not offer her welcome, showed her no respect, regarded her with very little interest. She was alive, and the living did not count for much with the Kir.
The monk proceeded down a corridor without glancing back at Iridal, assuming she would follow or not as she chose. He led her to a large room not far from the entrance, certainly not far enough for her to catch more than a glimpse inside the monastery walls. It was darker within than without, for outside the walls, the coralite gave off its faint silvery glow. Inside, no lamps lit the hallways. Here and there, she caught a glimpse of a candle, its pinprick of wavering light providing safe walking for the one who held it. The monk showed Iridal into the room, told her to wait, the Abbot would be with her shortly. The monk left and shut the door behind him, locked her inside, in the dark. Iridal smiled even as she shivered and huddled deeper within her cloak. The door was baked clay, as were all the doors in the monastery. She could, with her magic, shiver it like ice. But she sat and waited in patience, knowing that now was not the time to resort to threats. That would come later. The door opened; a man entered, carrying a candle. He was old and large-framed, lean and spare, his flesh seeming insufficient to cover his bones. He did not wear his cowl over his head, but let it fall on his thin shoulders. His head was bald, perhaps shaved. He barely spared Iridal a glance as he crossed in front of her without courtesy, came to sit behind a desk. Lifting a pen, he reached out, drew forth a sheet of parchment, and—still not looking at Iridal—prepared to write.
“We do not offer money, you know,” said the man, who must have been the Abbot, though he did not bother to introduce himself. “We will take the child off your hands. That is all. Are you the boy’s mother?”
Again, the question struck painfully near the mark of her thoughts. Iridal knew well the Abbot assumed she had come to rid herself of an unwanted burden; she had decided to use this ruse to obtain entry. But she found herself answering nonetheless.
Yes, I am Bane’s mother. I gave him up. I let my husband take my child and give him to another. What could I do to stop him? I was frightened. Sinistrad held my father’s life in bondage. And when my child returned to me, I tried to win him back. I did try! But, again, what could I do? Sinistrad threatened to kill them, those who came with Bane. The Geg, the man with the blue skin, and... and...
“Really, madam,” said the Abbot coldly, raising his head, regarding her for the first time since he’d come into the room. “You should have made up your mind to this before you disturbed us. Do you want us to take this boy or don’t you?”
“I didn’t come about a child,” said Iridal, banishing the past. “I came to talk to someone who resides in this house.”
“Impossible!” stated the Abbot. His face was pinched and gaunt, the eyes sunken. They glared at her from dark shadows, reflected the candlelight that was two flickering points of flame in the glistening orbs-“Once man or boy enters that door, he leaves the world behind. He has no father or mother, sister or brother, lover or friend. Respect his vows. Be gone, and do not disturb him.”
The Abbot rose. So did Iridal. He expected her to leave, was somewhat surprised and considerably displeased—to judge by his baleful expression—to see her take a step forward, confront him.
“I do respect your ways, Lord Abbot. My business is not with any of the brothers, but one who has never taken vows. He is the one who is permitted to reside here, against—I may add—all rules, in defiance of tradition. He is called Hugh the Hand.”
The Abbot did not flicker an eyelid. “You are mistaken,” he said, speaking with such conviction that Iridal must have believed him had she not known positively the monk was lying. “One who called himself by that name used to live with us, but that was as a child. He left, long ago. We have no knowledge of him.”
“The first is true,” Iridal answered. “The second is a lie. He came back to you, about a year ago. He told a strange tale and begged admittance. You either believed his story or thought him mad and took pity on him. No,” she interrupted herself. “You pity no one. You believed his story, then. I wonder why?”
An eyebrow moved, lifted. “If you saw him, you would have no need to ask why.” The Abbot folded his hands across his lank body. “I will not bandy words with you, Lady. It is obviously a waste of time. Yes, one who calls himself Hugh the Hand does reside here. No, he has not taken vows that shut him off from the world. Yet, he is shut off. He has done so himself. He will not see a living soul from the outside. Only us. And then only when we bring him food and drink.”
Iridal shuddered, but she stood firm. “Nonetheless, I will see him.” Drawing aside her cloak, she revealed a silvery gray dress, trimmed in cabalistic symbols on the hem, the neck, the cuffs of the sleeves and the belt she wore around her waist. “I am one you term a mysteriarch. I am of the High Realm. My magic could crack that clay door, crack these walls, crack your head if I choose. You will take me to see Hugh the Hand.”
The Abbot shrugged. It was nothing to him. He would have allowed her to tear the Abbey down stone by stone before he permitted her to see one who had taken the vows. But the man Hugh was different. He was here by sufferance. Let him look out for himself.
50
It is rumored that the Kenkari elves feel a kinship to the Kir monks, whose death-worship religion derived from a failed attempt to emulate the Kenkari in the capture of souls. Many believe that the powerful Kenkari stretched a protective hand over the human monks, forbidding elven soldiers to persecute the Kir.