R. Salvatore - The Ancient

“This is my fault,” Cormack said unexpectedly when they entered the now-empty dungeon.

The others turned to regard him.

“I should have recognized their ruse,” Cormack improvised. “Their unwillingness to eat.”

“What do you know of this?” Brother Giavno demanded.

“It was an enchantment, do you not see?” Cormack asked. “They were not starving themselves in protest, to die before converting to our ways. At their shaman’s instruction, they were starving themselves that he, or one of the others, could thin himself appropriately so that he could slip his bonds. Oh, but we should have guessed!”

“You babble!” Giavno said.

“Let him continue,” bade Father De Guilbe.

Cormack held up his arms and shook his head. “Their magic is tied to the natural way,” he tried to explain. “Perhaps-yes, I think it likely-their imposed starvation was merely so that they, their shaman, could enact some spell to further thin his wrists and hands.”

“Those bindings were tight,” another monk protested. “I tied them myself.”

“That was many days ago,” Cormack reminded. “The captives were far heavier then-all of them.”

“You cannot know,” Giavno said.

“Agreed,” said Cormack. “But somehow they managed to slip their bonds. It all makes sense now, I fear-their starvation, their confidence, their impudence. When first we encountered these people, before the lines of intransigence and battle were etched, I learned much of their ways, and I know their magic is tied to the natural. Their shamans have spells to make their warriors appear taller, to strike fear into their enemies. It is said that their greatest spiritualists can shape change into animal form, much like the great Samhaists of legend.”

“So you believe that their refusal to eat was a design to allow them escape?” Father De Guilbe asked.

To Cormack’s ears, the large man didn’t sound very convinced. Nor did Giavno, scowling at him from the side of the small dungeon, appear overly enthusiastic for Cormack’s improvised lie. But now Cormack had to carry it through, of course. “It makes sense in the context of what I know about their type of magic,” he said. “I should have guessed this ruse.”

He shook his head and moved aside, hoping to take their scrutiny off of him before more holes could be shot into his theory. To his great relief, Father De Guilbe merely said, “Perhaps your assessment is correct. Clever fools, though fools they remain.” He turned his attention to the other two lesser brothers in the room. “Search the whole of the keep, of the tunnels and the compound,” he ordered. “Likely they went out to the open lake-that would explain the departure of their stubborn kin. But if they remain, find them posthaste.”

The pair started right out, sweeping Cormack up with them as they began their exhaustive search.

“And doubly secure that grate,” Father De Guilbe called after them, and he paused to listen to the receding footsteps. “Brother Cormack thinks he has sorted out the mystery,” he said to Giavno when they were securely alone.

“Perhaps he has,” said Giavno as he moved around the wooden wall that had served to hold the bindings of the prisoners. “Though I wonder,” he said when he got to the back, “if the shaman reduced his wrist and hand enough to slip his bonds, then why are all four of the binding ropes cut?”

Father De Guilbe gave a noncommittal shrug as if it did not matter-and at that, it really didn’t seem to. The Alpinadorans were gone, escaped, and the men and women of Yossunfier had left Chapel Isle, bringing the whole ordeal to an end. That Cormack would be proven right or wrong seemed of little consequence. With a wave of his hand, a dejected Father De Guilbe left the dungeon.

Brother Giavno certainly understood that malaise. What had they been fighting for, after all? The souls of four men had been taken from them, somehow, some way, whether through Alpinadoran magic, or simple stubbornness, or…

A slight smile creased Giavno’s face as he considered the torn bindings, as he considered the explanation offered by Brother Cormack.

The unsolicited explanation.

I should never have doubted you,” Milkeila said breathlessly as she stood on the sandbar in Cormack’s arms under a brilliant, starry sky.

“Speak not of it,” Cormack bade her.

“But Androosis has already written songs to Corma-”

“I beg of you,” said Cormack, hushing her with finger pressed to her lips. “That battle, that siege, all of it, is nothing I wish to relive or remember at all.”

“It was painful to you to see the truth of your Church brothers,” Milkeila reasoned. “And to betray them.”

“And to see the truth of your people, no less stubborn.”

Milkeila moved back to arm’s length, scrutinizing Cormack sternly. “We did not hold prisoners,” she reminded him. “We did not invade your lands insisting that you convert to our ways!”

Cormack hushed her again, and tried to kiss her, but she avoided him. “I know,” he said. “And you know how I feel about it.” She started to argue, but he wouldn’t let her get a word in at that point. “And you know what I just did. Have you forgotten so quickly?”

“Of course I’ve not!”

“Then kiss me!” Cormack said playfully, trying desperately to turn this conversation to a lighter place.

Milkeila recognized that and smiled, and did indeed kiss Cormack, surrendering to him as they slid down together to the sandbar. As they fumbled with their clothing, Cormack paused and brought forth the gemstone necklace. Milkeila didn’t argue with him as he placed it over her head.

Sitting idly and alone in a small boat out on the lake, Brother Giavno listened to their lovemaking as he had listened to their conversation, marveling at how well sound traveled across the dark waters on a night so clear.

He wasn’t really surprised that Cormack had been the one to betray them, of course, but it stung him profoundly nonetheless. The young and handsome brother, so full of fire and potential, strong of arm and strong with the gemstones, simply did not understand the meaning of what it was to be an Abellican brother as they moved toward completion of the first century of their Church. Cormack’s way was the art of exhaustive compromise, and that in a world full of enemies who would accept such Abellican concessions only as a pretense for their continued road to dominance.

For the Abellicans were at that time involved in a great struggle with the Samhaists, who would not forsake their old and brutal ways. Were it not for that ancient cult, Cormack’s overly abundant tolerance of others-even of powries-might itself be tolerated within the Church.

But that was not the case. Not now. Not with all of Honce aflame as laird battled laird and both churches, Abellican and Samhaist, struggled mightily for supremacy. The other races, human and otherwise, had no choice but to pick sides. Neutrality was not an option.

Nor was tolerance for barbarians who would not see the truth and beauty of Blessed Abelle.

Brother Giavno had always liked Cormack, but hearing the man fornicating with a barbarian, a shaman no less, was more than his sensibilities could handle.

Cormack glided his craft easily onto the sand, lightly scrambling out and dragging the boat the rest of the way out of the water. Another boat rested nearby, flipped over, and the two handlers, whose job it was to make sure that all the craft were properly stored and secured whenever they were not in use, rested aside the paddles of the first returned craft and hustled over to help Cormack.

“Father De Guilbe wishes to speak with you,” one of them told the returning sailor monk. “And what did you catch for us this day?”