Carol Berg - Breath and Bone

“I don’t understand why I must remain locked in this god-cursed chamber all morning, dressed like a ducessa’s lapdog,” I said, scraping the frost off the window mullion. The distorted view through the thick little pane revealed naught but the snow-crusted ruins of the abbey brew-house, a sight to make a stout heart weep. “You seem to forget that I’m yet a vowed novice of Saint Ophir’s Rule. I should be helping the brothers rebuild their infirmary or salvage their stores if there’s aught to be found under the rubble.”

Storm, pestilence, civil war…the world was falling apart all around us. Abbot Luviar’s hope to protect the knowledge of humankind against this growing darkness dangled by the thinnest of threads. A monk I had believed holy…and my friend…had abducted a child I’d vowed to protect. And I was stuck here in Gillarine Abbey with a guard who never slept, awaiting who knew what. I needed to be doing something useful.

I wrenched the iron casement open and let the snow-­riddled wind howl through for long enough to remind me of the dangers abroad. Setting off alone on a mad chase through the worst winter in Navronne’s history was a ludicrous idea for anyone, much less a man who was like to lose his mind at any hour. My unlikely nursemaid, a warrior whose presence turned men’s bowels to water even before they glimpsed his mutilated face, blocked the doorway of the abbey guesthouse bedchamber. A pile of velvet and satin garments draped over his arm, and a pair of low-cut doeskin court boots—large enough they might possibly fit my outsized feet—dangled from his thick fingers. He waited until I slammed the casement shut before vouchsafing a comment.

“His Grace wishes you to dress as befits his pureblood adviser. You must be ready whenever he summons you, so you should do it now.” Voushanti twisted the unscarred half of his mouth in his unsettling expression of amusement. “And you’re as suited to be a Karish monk as I am to be a pureblood’s valet.”

Though my dealings with Voushanti were anything but amusing, I could not but laugh at the bald truth stated so clearly. My novice vows had bought me a haven here two months previous, when I’d been a wounded deserter with no prospects of a roof, a meal, or a kind word anywhere. That my attachment to Gillarine Abbey had grown into something more was a virtue of the people here and no reversal of my own contrary nature. Circumstances—the law, my loathsome family, and the contract with which they had bound my life’s service to the Bastard Prince of Evanore—had halted my brief clerical career…and every other path of my own choosing.

I peered into the wooden mug on the hearth table, discovered yet again that it was empty, and threw it across the chilly room. “Let me dig graves, if naught else, Voushanti. The brothers have not had time to bury their dead since the Harrower assault. Prince Osriel has not yet arrived at Gillarine, so he couldn’t possibly need me before afternoon. I’ll not run away. I gave him my word. Besides, I’m still half frostbit and wholly knob-swattled from the past seven days, so I’m hardly likely to wander off into this damnable weather again.”

Were I the same man who had claimed sanctuary at Gillarine two months past, I’d have broken my submission to Osriel the Bastard, bashed Voushanti in the head with a brick, and gone chasing after the villain monk and his captive, be damned my word, the weather, and the consequences. But for once in my seven-and-twenty years, I had tried to think things through. Brother Gildas wanted Jullian for a hostage, a tool to manipulate me, thus he would keep the boy alive. I had already sent word to the lighthouse cabal, people who were far more likely to be able to aid my young friend. And in my own peculiar interpretation of divine workings, I believed that breaking my oath of submission, given to save Jullian’s life on another day, would somehow permit the gods to forsake the boy. Two months past, Jullian had saved my life. Perhaps the best service I could do for him was to behave myself for once. Dear Goddess Mother, please let me be right.

Voushanti tossed the fine clothes on the bed. “Dress yourself, pureblood. Remain here until you are summoned. You don’t want to know how sorely Prince Osriel mislikes disobedient servants.”

I pulled off the coarse shirt the monks had lent me and threw it to the floor. Propping my backside on a stool, I began to untie the laces that held up the thick common hose so I could replace them with the fine-woven chausses Prince Osriel expected to see on his bought sorcerer. Deunor’s fire, how I detested playing courtier to a royal ghoul who wouldn’t even show me his face. Though, in truth, if Osriel’s visage was more dreadful than Voushanti’s purple scars and puckered flesh, it would likely paralyze any who saw it. His Grace of Evanore had the nasty habit of mutilating the dead, and was reputed to consort regularly with the lord of the underworld.

Argumentative murmurings on the winding stair slowed my fingers and stiffened Voushanti’s spine as if someone had shoved a poker up his backside. The prior of Gillarine, a black-robed monk with a neck the same width as his shaven head, swept into the room, laden with drinking vessels and a copper pitcher. A ginger-bearded warrior burst through the doorway on Prior Nemesio’s heels.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the frowning warrior, a robust Evanori by the name of Philo. “The monk insists on seeing the pureblood. I know you said to keep everyone away, but to lay hands on a clergyman—”

A second warrior, also wearing my master’s silver wolf on his hauberk, joined his fellow. Their drawn swords appeared a bit foolish with none present but one stocky, hairless monk, one gangle-limbed sorcerer wearing naught but an ill-fitting undertunic and one leg of his hose, and their own commander.

“For mercy’s sake, Philo, Melkire, sheath your weapons,” I said, stuffing arms and head back into the shirt I had just shed. “Father Prior! Iero’s grace.” Hose drawn back up and laces retied, I jumped to my feet and touched my fingertips to my forehead. “I was shocked to find such devastation here, holy father. If I can do aught to help…”

Though protocol ranked any pureblood, even an illiterate, incompetent one like me, above nobles, clerics, or any other ordinary, I prayed my respectful address might prevent Voushanti and his men from hustling Nemesio away. The prior was my only link to my friends of the lighthouse cabal. I hoped for news of Jullian.

Nemesio’s nostrils flared as if an ill odor permeated the room. Difficult to imagine this unimaginative and slightly pompous man conspiring with the passionate, aristocratic Abbot Luviar to create the magical cache of books and tools they called the lighthouse.

The prior set his copper pitcher on the table and arranged the five cups beside it in a neat row. “Indeed, I have come to request your aid, Brother Valen.”

Voushanti rumbled disapproval.

I acted quickly, lest protocol violations end the visit. “You must not address me directly, Father Prior, but only Mardane Voushanti, as he represents my contracted master, Prince Osriel. But I’m sure the prince would hear your petition favorably in appreciation for your hospitality.”

I held no such assurance, of course. Though I had served him less than a fortnight and met him only twice, Prince Osriel seemed even less likely than most of his ilk to express gratitude of any sort. But perhaps he liked to pretend he was reasonable.

Prior Nemesio’s thick shoulders shifted beneath his habit. He clutched the silver solicale that hung about his neck as if the sunburst symbol of his god could protect him from these minions of the Adversary. The dark blots in his wide, pale face spoke of a sleepless night. “Mardane, a few weeks ago, one of our young aspirants disappeared. We have searched, questioned, and expended every resource to find him without success. We fear greatly for his life. Perhaps you remember Gerard, Brother Valen? A good, devout boy, just fourteen.”