Outside the wreckage of the front gate of the Monastery of Pastoral Solitude, Prelate Quardov’s carriage rattled to a stop. A roil of dust billowed about as the coachmen hopped off the rear of the carriage and trotted over to its ornate doors, windows sealed from within. In unison they opened the double doors, and a step automatically dropped into place for the single passenger.
Inside, the prelate blinked at the sudden onset of the bleary late morning sunshine. He extinguished the sole lamp in the carriage with a sigh of regret. He disliked the monastery—more so, he hated it. Visiting the place was a flagellation of torment. It reminded him of many things he’d rather forget, things that should have been abandoned in the past to wither and die, unremarked, unremembered. The Last War, the Quiet Touch, and …
He glanced out the open doorway; within the overgrown courtyard of the monastery, Quardov saw Master Keiftal leading several other monks to greet their visitor.
He scowled, wanton loathing in his heart, but finally mastered his face and exited the carriage, descending the folding wooden step with the sedate pace of a swan.
He stood fully and surveyed the surroundings—the broken stone walls, the charred remnants of the gate, the sickly yellowed sky, and the blood-red grass all around. Dissatisfied as usual with the area, he worked the wax-and-cotton plugs from his ears.
As he did so, a limpid wind stirred the air, bringing the echo of a warbling wail to Quardov’s ears. “They make no difference,” he grumbled to himself, fingering the waxen plugs in his hands. “Why is it that no matter how hard I try to seal my ears, I can always hear those noises?”
“I cannot explain it, my reverence,” said Keiftal, drawing closer.
“Excuse me?” asked Quardov.
“I said I cannot explain it, good prelate.”
“Explain what? Why the gnome is coming?”
“You asked why you hear the noises, my reverence,” said Keiftal, slight confusion furrowing his brow. “I cannot explain it, other than to say that this place in unnatural in many ways, and natural ways of opposing its influence may not be particularly effective.”
“You heard that?” asked Quardov. “Yet you tell me you’re half-deaf at best.”
“Mm. Perhaps my reverence spoke rather more loudly than intended,” said Keiftal, blushing.
“Be that as it may,” said Quardov, forcing much more joviality into his words than he felt, “I shall have to take care to watch my words while you are around, old man.”
“Shall we—” began Keiftal.
“Yes,” replied Quardov tersely. He strode forward to the monastery, trying hard to look at nothing. At last his annoyance got the better of him, and he glanced at Keiftal. “Why do you linger here?” he asked.
“Excuse me, my reverence?” said Keiftal, trotting beside Quardov like a well-trained dog. His slurred voice boomed in the empty courtyard.
Quardov stopped and turned to face the monk directly. “I said,” he repeated, enunciating carefully, “why do you linger here? You condemn yourself to remain trapped in the pain of the past. We must forgive our neighbors, but forgiveness does not come when we immerse ourselves time and again in the pain of the past. Forgiveness begins with forgetting.”
Keiftal nodded, but his brows, with their long wiry hairs, wrinkled pensively. “But my reverence,” he said, “how can we forgive something that we do not remember?”
Quardov’s face pinched in annoyance, then he regained his composure and clasped his hands, one fist inside another, behind his back. To him, the Crying Fields were a blight upon Aundair, and so, therefore, was this monastery, this twisting knife, this ruined relic that remained here in the face of all reason and kept the painful memory fresh. He wished he could remove the whole area from the world, cut it away and burn it like a gangrenous limb. Even walling it off would have been preferable. “Let us finish our business that I might leave this foul place,” he said.
“As my reverence wishes.”
The party crossed the courtyard, wending its way through the larger stones scattered years ago by the collapse of sections of some of the buildings, to what had become the main hall. This portion of the monastery had suffered less than other sections—especially the former Great Gallery—although it still had a few holes in its walls and roof from Thrane trebuchets.
Quardov entered the main hall and exhaled in relief when the monks closed the doors behind him. “Very well, then,” he said, turning to Keiftal and raising one gentle hand to his forehead, “has that blasted University gnome yet arrived?”
Keiftal’s brow creased with concern. “He has, my reverence, and—”
“Then fetch him,” he said. “Where have you stashed the academic little beast?”
“Actually, I’m right here,” said a bright voice.
Quardov’s heart skipped a beat, and he turned to look down the long hall. Light slanted in from several open doors, and Quardov watched as a small silhouette drew closer and then stepped into view, illuminated by the slanting light.
“Praxle Arrant d’Sivis, University of Korranberg, at your service, your reverence,” said the gnome, sweeping his hat off his head and wafting the scent of clove in its wake.
“Ah, here he is,” said Keiftal. “Praxle d’Sivis, this is Prelate Quardov Donrain, Patriarch of the Faithful in Fairhaven, High Archdeacon of the Cathedral of the Heavens, Blessed Apostle of the Church of the Sovereign Host, and Keeper of the Divine Wrath. My reverence, this is Praxle, famed son of the dragonmarked House Sivis and respected lecturer of the University of Korranberg.”
Praxle bounced forward and kissed the prelate’s ring. Quardov’s eye twitched once with the realization that, Praxle being as short as he was, he didn’t have to bow to do so.
“My apologies to all if I stampeded your formal introductions by introducing myself,” Praxle said. “It was not my intent at all.”
“Professor d’Sivis,” said Quardov, a gracious if ungenuine smile smearing itself across his lower face, “it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Our thanks to you that you have troubled yourself to visit our humble monastery.”
“Humble is the word, all right,” said Praxle. “This place has seen better days. What in the name of the Mockery happened here? Urn, begging your pardon, your reverence, I … I didn’t mean to let my mouth run off like that.”
Quardov smiled. “It is of no worry, my good gnome. As a priest, I assure you that I deal with the Dark Six on a regular basis. Mention of their names bothers me not, and in fact it may be said that those gods are certainly more at home in this … territory than are those that we serve.” He gestured back down the hallway in the direction from which Praxle had come. “If you would be so kind as to accompany master Keiftal and me, we have a comfortable room in which we may talk.”
With a swish of his silken robes, Quardov strode down the hall. Praxle followed, while Keiftal trotted to keep up with Quardov, casting frequent glances over his shoulder at the gnome.
“Don’t look so flustered,” said Quardov. “We’ll meet in the choral chamber. Go open the door and shoo away anyone else who’s there. Now.”
Keiftal scurried ahead, leaving Quardov alone to gather his composure again. His gaffe, Keiftal’s bumbling introductions, and Praxle’s casual demeanor had put the staid cleric off kilter, and he was determined to regain control of the conversation. He needed to control the situation; the very presence of a University gnome was enough to send chills up his spine.
Quardov swept past Keiftal into the choral chamber, Praxle following a bit behind. The chamber was done all in wood, perfectly cut, lustrously polished and immaculately dusted; even the exterior stone walls were paneled over in oak. The arches in the room bespoke acoustic architecture. The room had been built for the pure pleasure of creating and enjoying vocal music. A thick carpet with a geometric design covered the floor and dampened the footsteps. Heavy, dark curtains covered the narrow windows that reached from floor to ceiling. Only a corona of light around each drapery proved that the sun still shone. Two simple iron chandeliers, each with a trio of everbright lanterns, provided a soft glow that failed to fully illumine the room.