Beyond the dining hall, Drakken found himself in a curving stone passage. Three more turns brought him to the simple staircase leading to the second floor of the chapter house. A few more twists and the half-dragon stood before the stone door to Brother Arranoth's cell.
He hesitated for a moment, listening to the soft murmurs of whispered prayers and the creaking of settling stone and timber. All around him in the darkness, the holy house hummed. Drakken took a deep breath, and opened the door, blowing out the wildly flickering lamp as he did so.
It took a moment for the half-dragon's eyes to compensate for the darkness. Drakken experienced a passing disorientation, and the contours of the room resolved in ever crisper detail. A simple straw mat lay neatly against the far wall, coarse wool bedding folded neatly at one end. Beneath a closed and shuttered window, Drakken could see a solidly made oak desk and a simple, straight-backed chair. A somewhat drab armoire stood in the far corner. The half-dragon found the starkness of the dead cleric's quarters heightened by the black and white lens of his darkvision.
Everything in the austere cell, from the placement of the simple furniture to the orderly arrangement of quill, paper, and ink upon the desk, spoke of the man that Drakken knew. For Arranoth was an ascetic, even by the rigorous standards of the Ilmatari. Contemplative and serious, the cleric's wisdom was known throughout the community, and yet he had carried himself with an air of true humility. The sub-prior's only concession to his exalted place within the abbey's leadership was an old, dented coal pot stored beneath the writing desk. For some reason, the presence of the decrepit metal pot brought a smile to Drakken's face. He thought of the bright light that shone behind the sub-prior's eyes whenever he was asked a question that required thought, a light that death's domain had dimmed. The smile faded.
Remembering why he had come, the half-dragon gave the room a perfunctory search, uncomfortable with the thought that the ghost of Arranoth might even then be looking at his killer as he ransacked the man's humble sanctum. He rooted through the cleric's frayed robes hanging in the armoire, looked around the mattress and bedding, and scanned the surface of the desk. Besides several prayer beads and a small silver symbol of Ilmater, the half-dragon found nothing that might point to the man's killer.
Frustrated, he sat down on the chair and gave the desk one final look. Beneath a neatly arranged pile of paper, he found a thin book, covered in calfskin-something he had almost missed in his first hurried examination. He opened the book, instantly recognizing the crisp, flowing script that was so characteristic of Arranoth's hand. Drakken traced his finger along the uneven cut of the page's edge, marveling at the simple beauty of the cleric's work. The lines of script eventually resolved themselves into words, and soon the half-dragon found himself engrossed in the inner thoughts of the dead cleric. Wry observations about abbey life were interspersed with prayers to Ilmater and to Drakken's great surprise, insights about the nature of the spiritual life that touched him so deeply he would have shed tears if he were able.
Without warning, the journal came to an end mid-sentence. The effect jarred Drakken out of his reflective mood. He would have slammed the book closed, but saw, at the last second, a jagged strip of paper along its spine. Looking closer, the half-dragon could see that the last few pages of the journal had been torn out.
But why would Arranoth tear out just those pages when he showed no sign of editing the rest of his journal? Drakken's mind raced with possibilities. Perhaps someone else tore those pages out. The question of why, however, still remained.
He flipped through the rest of the book, quickly examining the empty pages. As he neared the end, a small swatch of dyed wool fell into his lap. He picked it up between clawed fingers. His darkvision couldn't reveal much else, but the acrid stench of the dye still hung about the wool. Drakken started to stand up and reach for the unlit lantern he'd placed on the floor- and he froze.
At the edge of his hearing, barely perceptible in the night, something scuffed against the stone floor. The half-dragon cocked his head, listening more intently. There it was again, but closer.
Someone was just outside the door!
Drakken crept toward the opening, careful to keep out of anyone's line of sight should they be peering into the cell from the hallway. Though he didn't want to frighten a sleepy cleric on his way to the garderobe, the half-dragon was not about to allow anyone to offer him a knife to the back. Years of peaceful service did little to erase the warrior's habits. A moment more of waiting…
And he pounced-only to grab empty air.
The hallway stood empty. Only the muted rumble of distant snores registered to his sensitive ears. He was alone.
As the half-dragon turned back to the empty cell, something caught his eye. A small piece of paper lay crumpled on the ground. Drakken swept the paper up and quickly unfolded it.
What he saw forced him to catch his breath. There, written on paper clearly torn from Arranoth's journal were the words:
Meet me two nights hence in the Upper Cellar
— A Friend
The half-dragon's heart raced. There, perhaps, was some proof that he was not personally responsible for the noble cleric's death! But if so, he thought soon after, then darker wheels were turning within the abbey's slumbering walls.
Drakken hurried out of the room, barely shutting the door, and sped off into the darkness. He was halfway to his own cell when he realized" that he had forgotten his lantern.
Mid-morning sun bathed the courtyard in rosy radiance.
Drakken inhaled the early spring air, tinged with the aroma of flowering buds and the sharp spice of frost. Around him, gray-robed clerics and abbey servants went about their business in dignified chaos. Livestock and wagons laden with nuts, grain, and barley crossed paths with burly men, sweat dripping from thick beards as they labored beneath earthen jugs of water and wine. Off in the distance, a cock crowed, undaunted by its lateness in announcing the sun's presence.
Drakken, however, paid none of it any heed. Despite a morning spent in fruitless search for anything or anyone connected to the swath of dyed wool he'd discovered in Arranoth's room, the half-dragon felt little frustration. He'd slept undisturbed the previous night-the first time in tendays-after returning to his cell. Perhaps, he thought as he continued on his way, he was finally free of the anger that had plagued him for so long. At that moment, a thick gray cloud passed overhead, hiding the sun. Despite himself, the half-dragon shivered.
Moving away from the main courtyard that functioned as the heart of White Willow Abbey, Drakken followed the small alleyways between several stone and wood buildings. After morning prayer, he'd walked quietly among the Ilmatari, inquiring about the possible origins of the dyed wool. Since no one could provide him with anything other than generalities about the quality of the dye and the craft-worthiness of the wool's spin, he'd decided to visit Brother Phenotar in the healer's workshop to see if the man had any more information on Arranoth's death.
Well known for his noxious potions and noisome unguents, the young brother set up his workshop against the south wall of the abbey, farthest away from the chapter house-to the approval of all the brothers. It took Drakken a few more minutes to arrive at the small wooden building that housed the abbey's resident herbalist. He knocked once and entered.
It took the half-dragon a moment to adjust to the riot of sights and smells that greeted him. Clumps of dried and drying herbs hung from every rafter, while a number of small, soot-blackened pots bubbled and boiled in the corner. The tables-old battered trestles burned and scarred with the remains of the herbalist's experiments-looked ready to buckle beneath the weight of countless thick librams, weathered alembics, and the detritus of tools for which Drakken had no name. A cloud of conflicting smells made war in the low-roofed structure, nearly choking the half-dragon.