The lieutenant, looking extremely annoyed, sheathed his sword.
“This way, sir,” he said to the merchant, urging the gaping elf along.
“But they... they’re wandering around loose!”
“Yes, sir,” said the lieutenant. The elf, staring at the humans in horrible fascination, stumbled over the open hatch.
“Here we are, sir. Mind your step. We wouldn’t want you to fall and break your neck,” the lieutenant said, gazing heavenward, perhaps asking to be kept from temptation.
“Shouldn’t they be in irons? Chains or something?” the merchant demanded, as he began to gingerly descend the ladder.
“Probably, sir,” said the lieutenant, preparing to follow after. “But we’re not permitted.”
“Not permitted!” The merchant halted, looked indignant. “I never heard of such a thing. Who doesn’t permit it?”
“The Kenkari, sir,” said the lieutenant imperturbably, and had the satisfaction of seeing the merchant turn pale.
“Holy Mother,” the elf said again, but this time with more reverence. “What’s the reason?” he asked in a whisper. “If it’s not secret, of course.”
“No, no. These two are what the humans call ‘death monks.’ They come to the cathedral on holy pilgrimage and have safe passage granted here and back, so long as they don’t speak to anyone.”
“Death monks. Well, I never,” said the merchant, descending into the hold, where he found his fruit perfectly sound and only slightly bruised after its rough passage.
The customs official emerged from the captain’s cabin, wiping his lips, his cheeks a brighter shade of pink than when he’d entered. There was a noticeable bulge in the vicinity of his breast pocket that had not been there earlier, a look of satisfaction had replaced the look of boredom with which he bad boarded. The customs official turned his attention to the passengers, who were eagerly awaiting permission to go ashore. His expression darkened. “Kir monks, eh?”
“Yes, Excellency,” replied the captain. “Came aboard at Sunthas.”
“Caused any trouble?”
“No, Excellency. They had a cabin to themselves. This is the first time they’ve left it. The Kenkari have decreed that we should give the monks safe passage,” the captain reminded the official, who was still frowning. “Their personages are sacred.”
“Yes, and so is your profit,” added the official dryly. “You undoubtedly charged them six times the price of the run.”
The captain shrugged. “A man has to earn a living, Excellency,” he said vaguely.
The official shrugged. After all, he had his share.
“I suppose I’ll have to ask them a few questions.” The official grimaced in disgust at the thought, removed a handkerchief from his pocket. “I am permitted to question them?” he added dubiously. “The Kenkari won’t take offense?”
“Quite all right, Excellency. And it would look well to the other passengers.” The official, relieved to know that he wasn’t about to commit some terrible breach of etiquette, decided to get the unpleasant task behind him as quickly as possible. He walked over to the two monks, who remained standing apart. They bowed in silence to him as he approached. He halted at arm’s length from them, the handkerchief held over his nose and mouth.
“Where you from?” the official demanded, speaking pidgin elven. The monk bowed again, but did not reply. The official frowned at this, but the captain, hastening forward, whispered, “They’re forbidden to speak.”
“Ah, yes.” The official thought a moment. “You talk me,” he said, slapping himself on the chest. “Me chief.”
“We are from Pitrin’s Exile, Excellency,” the taller of the two monks answered, with another bow.
“Where you go?” the official asked, pretending not to notice that the human had spoken excellent elven.
“We are making a holy pilgrimage to the Cathedral of the Albedo, Excellency,” answered the same monk.
“What in sack?” The official cast a scathing glance at the crude scrips each monk carried.
“Items our brethren requested we bring them, herbs and potions and suchlike. Would you like to inspect them?” the monk asked humbly and opened his sack. A foul odor of decay wafted from it. The official could only imagine what was in there. He gagged, clamped the handkerchief more firmly over his mouth, and shook his head.
“Shut the damn thing! You’ll poison us all. Your friend, there, why doesn’t he say something?”
“He has no lips, Excellency, and has lost a portion of his tongue. A terrible accident. Would you like to see—”
The official recoiled in horror. He noticed now that the other monk’s hands were covered by black gloves and that the fingers appeared to be crooked and deformed. “Certainly not. You humans are ugly enough,” he muttered, but he said the last beneath his breath. It would not do to offend the Kenkari, who—for some strange reason—had formed a bond with these ghouls.
“Be off with you then. You have five cycles to make your pilgrimage. Pick up your papers at the port authority, in that house, to your left.”
“Yes, Excellency. Thank you, Excellency,” said the monk, with still another bow.
The Kir lifted both scripts, slung them over his shoulder, then assisted the other monk to walk. His steps were slow and shuffling, his back bent. Together, the two made their way down the gangplank, passengers, crew, and human slaves all taking care to keep as far from the Kir as possible. The official shivered. “They make my skin crawl,” he said to the captain.
“I’ll bet you’re glad to be rid of them.”
“I am, indeed, Excellency,” said the captain.
Hugh and Iridal had no difficulty obtaining the papers that would permit them to stay in the realm of Paxaria[63] for a period of five cycles, at which time they must leave or face arrest. Even the Kenkari could not protect their brother monks if they overstayed their allotted time.
The bond between the two religious sects, whose races have been enemies almost since the beginning of Aristagon, can be traced back to Krenka-Anris, the Kenkari elf who discovered the secret magic of trapping the souls of the dead. At that time, shortly after the mensch were removed from the High Realm, humans still lived on Aristagon, and though the relationship between the races was rapidly worsening, a few maintained friendships and contact. Among these was a human magus who had been known to Krenka-Anris for many years. The humans had heard about the new elven magic that was capable of saving the souls of their dead, but were unable to discover the secret. The Kenkari kept it as a sacred trust. One day this magus, who was a kind and scholarly man, came to Krenka-Anris, begging her help. His wife was dying, he said. He could not bear to lose her. Would the Kenkari please save her soul, if they could not save the body.
Krenka-Anris took pity on her friend. She returned with him and attempted to catch the soul of the dying woman. But Kenkari magic would not work with humans. The woman died, her soul escaped. Her husband, despondent with grief, became obsessed with attempting to catch human souls. He traveled the isles of Aristagon and eventually all the inhabited portion of the Mid Realm, visiting every deathbed, going among the plague-ridden, standing on the sidelines of every battle, trying various magics to catch the souls of the dying, all without success.
He acquired followers during his travels, and these humans carried on his work after the magus himself died and his own soul had slipped away, despite his followers’ best efforts to keep hold of it. The followers, who called themselves “Kir,”[64] wanted to continue their search for the magic, but, due to their habit of arriving at households side by side with death, they were becoming increasingly unpopular among the populace. It was whispered that they brought death with them and they were often physically attacked, driven away from their homes and villages.
63
A realm on the continent of Aristagon, Paxaria is the land of the Paxar clan of elves. Paxaria’s largest city is Paxaua, a port town. Currently united with the Tribus elves, the Paxar are ostensibly permitted to rule their own realm. The Paxar king is nothing but a figurehead, however, and is married to one of Agah’ran’s marry daughters.