“I have long since grown more than weary of the spectacle,” said Quardov. “I would be happier if the grass were either to regain its normal hue or to die.”
Unseen behind the curtain, Praxle mouthed a few words.
“Quardov! Prelate Quardov!” came a voice, seemingly a long way down the hall.
Quardov stepped to the door and cracked it open. “What?” he bellowed.
“Prelate Quardov, the marn shurrn parvirmenir serembluten!” mouthed Praxle, a gleeful smile on his face. “Parumbleren megomnownan right away!”
Quardov sighed wearily. “I can’t discern a word they’re saying. Would that they’d simply come down here and tell me directly.”
“Maybe they know you wish privacy,” said Praxle.
“Respect my wishes? They should do so more often. If you will excuse me, Professor d’Sivis, I shall return anon.”
“Not a problem.” As soon as the prelate glided out of the room, Praxle reappeared from behind the curtain. “Well then, enough staring out at the red fields,” he said. “Tell me, Keiftal, we were discussing the Galtaise Gap?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Keiftal, eager to help cover for Quardov’s absence. “The Thranes had it in their head that this was the way to invade Aundair, and they did it repeatedly. I’ve lost count of how many battles I’ve been involved in, all fought for control of this area. Some were small, like when the master took all of us students out to ambush a Thrane scout patrol. That was our final test, you see. Then about thirty years ago, those were the huge battles. Biggest armies I’ve ever seen, thousands of pennants fluttering, tens of thousands of spear points shining in the sun, shield walls that seemed to run from here to the horizon. And when the cavalry charged, the whole ground trembled with the impact. Then the smoke and dust filled the air, and you couldn’t see more than a few hundred yards in any direction at best, and everything was shouting and yelling and utter chaos,” Keiftal paused, his eyes lost in the past. “Those were the biggest, and after that the battles started getting smaller again. I think both sides were losing soldiers faster than the populace could breed them.”
“And in all that time, the Thrane generals never succeeded in their campaigns?” asked Praxle.
“They succeeded to greater and leaser extents,” said Keiftal. “Many of their victories were too costly for them to continue. Others weren’t. For example, in the winter of 941 they defeated the main force just north of here. Then they bypassed the monastery and marched straight for Ghalt. They actually burned part of the town, too, from what I heard. Massacred the people who wouldn’t join the Church of the Silver Flame. But the remnants of our army reformed here, and we caused them such supply problems that the Thranes had to withdraw before Ghalt fell.
“They seized the monastery itself in 977,” added Keiftal. “Held it for a few weeks until the Quiet Touch killed all their officers.”
“The Quiet Touch?” asked Praxle. “What’s that?”
“The Quiet Touch is, well—”
“The Quiet Touch is not something we discuss openly,” said Quardov as he reentered the room and shut the door behind him. “My abject apologies for the interruption. We shall have no more such distractions.”
“So you took care of whatever problem they had?” asked Praxle.
Quardov smiled bitterly and nodded. “It appears that my presence was not needed after all.”
“How thoroughly annoying,” said Praxle. “Well then, this … this Quiet Touch … is it some kind of summoned spirit?”
“No, not at all,” began Keiftal. “It’s a … well …” He cast a glance at Quardov.
“It is a magic spell developed by the Arcane Congress,” said Quardov, “a ritual that required a number of mages to perform. It … smothers its victims, rendering them unable to breathe or speak. Hence the name.”
“I see,” said Praxle, carefully eyeing Quardov.
“Never mind that,” said Keiftal, stampeding his overloud words across the conversation. “Those are the two major times that the monastery failed to hold the Galtaise Gap. Many of the Thrane invasions were stopped right here, or near here. Our martial training is very good.”
“It sounds like there’s been a lot of bloodshed here,” said Praxle.
“Indeed, a modern tragedy,” said Quardov. “Likewise is it a tragedy that Keiftal has dragged you back into a discussion of war. I am sure you are here for more … academic purposes than to dredge yourself through such an ugly bit of history.”
“Tell me, Keiftal,” said Praxle, utterly ignoring Quardov, “some of the people I spoke to in Ghalt say that this area is cursed. They say the tainted grass is some sort of divine condemnation for the amount of blood spilled here during the Last War.”
“Oh no, not at all,” answered Keiftal.
“Why do you say that?” asked Praxle.
“Because if it happened slowly, over time, then that would be a reasonable conclusion.”
“Keiftal?” said Quardov.
“But it didn’t,” continued the monk.
“Keiftal,” said Quardov again.
“Rather the change came upon us rather suddenly, over a few weeks at most.”
“Keiftal!”
With this last outburst, Praxle gestured, and Keiftal looked over at his prelate. “I’m sorry, my reverence?”
“Attend me, my son.”
“As you wish. I apologize if I was warming overmuch to my subject.” Keiftal hurried himself over to Quardov’s side.
“Not at all, my son,” said Quardov as Keiftal approached. “I was just beginning to fear you might be boring our guest with an excess of events in which he and his people had no part. After all, he is here on business, and we must accommodate him.”
“Pray continue,” countered Praxle. “This is becoming truly fascinating. Do you think something happened that caused the grass to turn red?”
“Absolutely. It all started in the wake of the Thrane invasion of 974. A terrible time. It set the stage for the fall of the monastery a few years later. The Thrane army was marching, and we were awaiting word on reinforcements.”
“And what happened?” asked Praxle, involuntarily stepping forward.
Quardov rubbed his upper lip with his thumb and forefinger, then rested his hand across his lower face to cover his mouth. “Say nothing more on the subject,” he said under his breath.
“The Thrane army had some sort of magical device,” said Keiftal, his voice quaking. Lost in memory, he did not notice Quardov’s sudden glare. “It was very powerful, whatever it was. It killed people by the thousands.”
“What happened to it?” asked Praxle, his eyes gleaming.
Prelate Quardov clamped Keiftal’s elbow in an iron grip. “We do not know, my good gnome,” he said. “Presumably the device was either consumed by its use, or removed by the Thranes after the battle. I understand it was not to be found in the aftermath.”
Praxle pursed his lips. “I see. Well, we can always hope it consumed itself; such a powerful artifact could be quite … destabilizing.” He stepped over to the window and pulled the curtain open again. “I would hate to see somewhere else become as blighted as this place.”
Quardov sniffed. “You came here with a purpose, professor d’Sivis,” said the prelate. “Shall we table these military reflections and address your University’s needs?”
Praxle raised his free hand dismissively. “I find myself fatigued, good prelate. While this conversation has been most diverting, it is a very long trip from Zilargo, I would prefer to have a bath first, and perhaps a good midday meal while we address the University’s research. Would you please arrange these things for me? I am happy to pay for whatever inconvenience this shall incur.”