Carol Berg - Flesh and Spirit

The middle floor was dark. I raced upward and burst into a firelit chamber that smelled of scorched plaster and spiced cider.

Stocky, pale-skulled Prior Nemesio knelt by the meager fire, a sooty poker in his hand. He was alone. His startled expression quickly smoothed into satisfaction. “Brother Valen! It’s Iero’s own blessing to see you safe here again.”

“Where is Gildas?” I snapped.

“At Vespers, I would think.” Worry carved a mask on his big-boned cheeks. “What’s wrong? Brother Anselm said you’d had quite an ordeal. I offered to bring his posset so I could tell you—”

“Where are the Evanori—Thane Stearc, his secretary?” I said. Jullian had vouched that Nemesio was one of us. “I must speak with them outside Mardane Voushanti’s hearing.”

“That’s what I’ve come to tell you. Thane Stearc and his party moved on to Fortress Groult with the rest of the Evanori. When they saw what’s happened here, they dared not stay.”

Cold dread bound its fingers about my rage. “Did Gildas go with them? Or Jullian?”

“Brother Gildas thought they would do better to remain here. It’s entirely unsuitable that an aspirant run about the countryside in the midst of—”

“Father Prior, Gildas murdered both Brother Horach and Gerard.” My hands trembled with scarcely held rage. “We must find him. Confine him.”

“What slander is this?” Nemesio surged to his feet, his thick neck scarlet. “Gildas is your vowed brother! The lighthouse Scholar!”

“I’d wager my life that Gildas is a Harrower. He took Gerard to Clyste’s Well and bled him to death. You must send this news to Stearc right away. Don’t you see? Gildas betrayed Victor and Luviar to Sila Diaglou. He knows your identities. I’d give much to be wrong, but to be certain, we must secure him tonight.”

“I cannot credit this.” Prior Nemesio chewed his full lips. “Gildas is a pious man. Holy and generous. Hours ago, when the Sinduria said she’d heard your call for help, both he and Jullian wished to set out with her at once to succor you. Your sister refused, unwilling to risk his safety. The two of them went straight off to the church to pray for your return.”

I glanced about the room, dread and helplessness threatening to undo me. “Father Prior, where is the Cartamandua book? Please tell me that Stearc took it to Fortress Groult.”

“No.” Nemesio looked up. Uncertain. “Gildas kept it. To study, he said—”

I bolted for the stair.

Plainsong floated on the bitter air, along with the mingled odors of charred wood, of broken sewage channels, of incense and peat fires. The monks stood in a circle about the high altar of the ruined church, under vaults now open to the sky, and sang of their god’s joy and care. Depleted ranks of lay brothers stood in a small area of the nave that had been cleared of rubble and dirty snow. Only a few heads moved as I sped through the nave yelling Gildas’s name and Jullian’s.

The boy was nowhere to be seen, and, as always, the monks’ hoods were drawn up, hiding their faces. Knowing the search was futile, I snatched a lit candle from the high altar and intruded on their circle, peering at the hands clutching tattered psalters. Gildas’s hands, backed by their thatch of wiry brown hair, were not among them.

I replaced the candle and strode out of the church, cursing. Halfway across the trampled garden, hurried footsteps behind me spun me in my tracks.

“Brother Valen? Is that really you?” The hard-breathing monk lowered his hood. The round head and fringe of gray hair identified my novice mentor.

“Yes, Brother Sebastian.”

“The mask makes it difficult…and no tonsure anymore…” Uncertainty snagged his speech.

“I’m happy to see you alive, Brother. But I’m in a great hurry.”

“Well, of course, I knew it was you. Not so many purebloods come here, and none so tall. Brother Gildas said this pureblood life”—he fluttered his hand at my mask and my clothing, giving no impression of having heard me—“has changed you. Secular law forbids me to speak to you, but Saint Ophir’s Rule says you are yet my charge.”

I stepped back, brittle with impatience. “Excuse me, Brother. Unless you can say where Gildas—”

“Brother Gildas is gone off to Elanus. Left something for you, he did. Said you would come looking for him…angry…saying terrible things. Said he wanted you to have this.” From his cowl Brother Sebastian pulled a thumb-sized wooden box, tied with a string. He laid it in my hand. “And he said to tell you that an archangel would be his shield when the last darkness falls. Brother Valen, what did he—?”

“How long?” I said, scarcely able to shape words. My shaking fist threatened to crush the little box. “When did he go?”

Sebastian hesitated, his unsteady gaze not daring to meet my own. He expelled a sharp breath, as if he knew how close he stood to the blood rage threatening to crack my skull. “Just after Sext I encountered him coming out of the chapter-house undercroft, where we’ve stored what supplies we’ve salvaged from the fires. Young Jullian was with him. I remarked that they had missed the service—understandable, as they had just ridden in this morning with the Sinduria. But I said that I would expect to see both of them at Vespers. Our vows must not founder on the shoals of trial and sorrow. That’s when he told me they had borrowed a horse from the Evanori and would be off to Elanus right away on Father Prior’s business. Then he gave me the box and the message for you. The two of them rode out well before Nones.”

“Thank you, Brother Sebastian. Please excuse me.” Nones rang two hours before Vespers. I gave no credit to the stated destination. Gildas was taking the boy and my book to Sila Diaglou.

“The night drowns us, Valen,” Sebastian called after as I hurried away. “Go with Iero’s light.”

I ran for the guesthouse. Nemesio would know if the Evanori had left horses for Voushanti and his men. If so, I could ride out…use my bent to follow Gildas. But before entering the guesthouse, I paused by the stoop and ripped open Gildas’s parting gift. One glance and I launched the damnable thing into the night, scattering its contents into the churn of mud and snow. I could not find a curse vile enough for Gildas, and so I cupped my arms over my throbbing head and leaned against the stone wall, screaming out self-hatred and rage. The scent lingered: spicy, earthy, pepper and mushrooms, lighting an ember in my belly, where lurked a diseased knot the size of a fist. Nivat’s claws settled into mind and body, ensuring I could not ignore it, could not forget, could not commit what wit I had to any other cause but servicing my hunger.

Smug, Silos had called him that morning in Palinur, and rightly so. Gildas, the scholar who had surely read about herbs and medicines among all his studies, would have known that giving me too much nivat would turn my head to muck and would grow my craving when the need came on me again…and again…and again. He had abetted my escape before calling down Thalassa’s hunters and then so very kindly had fed my perversion. He knew his service would put the weak and gullible fool in his debt, give him a leash to control the ignorant sorcerer. Who in the world had measure for my folly?

I shoved open the guesthouse door. Harsh reality dispensed with my silly imaginings of riding off on my own to retrieve Jullian. Of a sudden every fiber and sinew of my body ached. Exhaustion weighed my limbs with armor of iron. And Voushanti sat on the stair beside the rushlight, paring his fingernails with his knife.

“So, pureblood,” he said, without looking up from his task, “I thought perhaps you had gone wandering again. Lost yourself in the bogs and forgotten your oath.”