His destination was a small monastery in the suzerainty of Ked. It Was a harsh place to live: though hidden within dense woodland, it was high up, and plagued by the wind coming down off the mountain. It Was a far cry from those monasteries in towns, where monks and nuns figured in all parts of the common folks' lives. This was both a retreat and a training ground, providing spiritual direction for a large number of novices as they worked on whichever path they had chosen.
Bahl was familiar with the Chaplains, the zealot warrior-monks attached to each regiment, but his contact with the other sects was limited. Lesarl dealt with the Cardinals who ran the cult of Nartis and Bahl had little time for the priests who performed pastoral work.
It was evening when he finally caught sight of the stockade wall of
the monastery. He'd spent the morning recovering from spells he'd
cast the previous night: he had been unable to bear being in complete
ignorance of what was happening further east. The elven army had felt
like a putrid sore on his skin when he let his senses spread over the
forests. The army was keeping to the darkest corners. Split into three
parts, it had a network of scouts spreading out from each section, and
trails of magic reaching even further. Each one was a thread waiting
to be triggered when their prey stumbled within reach. Bahl hoped he
had managed to confuse them enough over the course of the night.
A stone gate was the only entrance, above which shivered the light of a fire from a small watch-room. There was a roof to keep off the snow, but the wind came in through the narrow slit that ran around the chamber. Bahl could see the huddled shape of a novice – even with the fire, it would be bitterly cold inside. After a few hours of this cold, the novice would hardly be able to raise the alarm at any-thing he saw… but a monastery was not supposed to be a place of
comforts.
Bahl broke into a run, silently gliding over the grassy clearing that surrounded the square compound. The novice's head was turned away, staring at the empty trees. In one leap, Bahl cleared the spiked wall and landed on the walkway that led to the gate tower.
The guard heard the noise and fumbled with his bow as he turned, only to let it drop in amazement as he saw Bahl standing there, bow in hand and mask on. For a few seconds the novice just stared in amazement, then he gave a yelp as Bahl strode down the walkway towards him. His bow abandoned, the youth scrabbled first with the drape covering the door, then the latch, but when at last he did open it, Bahl was almost upon him. Terrified, he fell to his knees in the doorway, mittened hands clumping together beneath his chin.
'L-l-lord Nartis,' he whispered with reverence. Bahl stopped with grunt of surprise.
'Don't be stupid, boy,' he snapped, moving past to the ramp that led down to the stone courtyard. He stopped to get his bearings, looking around at the interior of the monastery. Five columns of smoke rose from other parts of the building, reminding him which parts were sleeping quarters. Behind him was the gate tower, flanked by wooden stables for the livestock. On either side were the dormitories, one for novices, the other for the monks. Straight ahead was the chapel, and the flicker of candles through its rose window showed that he had arrived in time: the light that still burned for the abbot would only be extinguished when the man had passed through Death's gates.
The courtyard was only thirty paces across. A stack of cut wood was piled against the dormitory walls, as if for insulation. Cracks were visible in the stonework of the buildings; the skeleton of a creeper hung down, waiting for spring. Bahl walked to a smaller door to the right of the chapel entrance which led to the abbot's rooms. The prior had adjacent chambers running down a common wall so the large fireplaces could be shared. Privacy was not something Nartis appeared to approve of here, though certain cardinals he knew had palaces to call their own.
A rolled carpet had been placed behind the door to ward off draughts. Bahl heard the soft whisper as it ran across the floor, catching straw as it went. It opened on to a dark reception room, a traditional canvas-roll painting of Nartis the only ornamentation. It was empty and cold, normally used only for monks to sit and wait to be summoned. Three pairs of heavy fur boots were on the floor, two dropped carelessly, one carefully set perpendicular to the wall.
Bahl placed his hand on the door latch, hesitated when he heard a voice on the other side, a droning murmur of prayer, then walked in. The abbot's study showed the desk and shelves in the unused order of a dying man. On one wall were two columns of intricate pictures: twelve icons that showed the Gods of the Upper Circle. Bahl smiled at the sight of them; they were the abbot's pride and joy, exquisite images collected over a lifetime.
In the next room, the abbot's bedchamber, he found the prior standing at the end of the bed, his tall slim figure and shaven head
giving him the appearance of a vulture glaring down at its dinner. He
rounded on the door with a look of outrage when he heard it open smoothly changed that into a bow when he recognised Lord Bahl.
The monk sitting at the Abbot's side, clearly the monastery's healer, was less composed and gaped for a moment before following suit.
'Get out,' Bahl ordered quietly but firmly. The prior inclined his head and ushered the healer out with a sharp gesture. Bahl heard their footsteps go out of the study, then moved to one side of the bed. He glanced down its length to the fireplace. Through the flames he could see the prior, kneeling on the stone floor before a bow device hanging from the far wall, an imitation of prayer that would allow him to hear
any conversation.
The Lord of the Farlan's face softened as he turned to his old friend, bundled up in a nest of blankets that smelt of lavender, sickness and age. The table beside the bed that in past years had been stacked with scrolls and books now held bowls of medicine and a lukewarm broth. A strained cough from the bed summoned him; Bahl crouched down to listen. As he did so, a faltering smile broke over the abbot's face. Bahl forced a smile in reply, hiding his shock at the near-translucent
skin that looked so tired.
'Forgive me, my Lord,' repeated the breathless whisper.
'For what?'
'For my frailties; they shame me.'
Bahl sighed. The abbot had been tall and powerfully built in his youth. To see him like this, small and withered, made Bahl feel the press of centuries on his own shoulders. 'Nothing shames you. Time
catches us all.'
'1 know.' The abbot paused for breath, trying to push the blankets away but lacking the strength even for that. '1 had not planned to die
this way.'
'Most men dream of it: to die old, surrounded by family and
friends.'
'One friend, not much.' Bahl couldn't tell whether there was real feeling in that; the abbot was struggling to even make a sound for his
friend to hear.
'It was your own choice to come here; I know you don't really regret it. The good you've done is worth that, I think, and I swore you'd not
pass through alone.'
'Cerrat.' The word was gasped, any more swallowed by a spasm of pain that tightened every muscle in the abbot's body. His lips drew back to show his teeth as he grimaced and fought it. Many years ago, in this very monastery, he'd been taught the mantras to overcome
suffering. The Chaplains were the Farlan paradigms of bravery and resilience. Their lives were to serve as examples to the regiment they fought with. Only the strongest survived. Bahl could see the slight twitches on the abbot's face as he ran those devotional words through his mind again.