An Abandoned House in Canglen, XXIII Firstblome, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Twelve. After Matins.
Valerius.
Suffocating in this confining blackness this utter blackness tenebrae and these cold walls pressing in so close and stone above unyielding miles of stone—immured, mewed up—and the sweet sky so far behind beyond where must the sun be now delfuo I cannot feel her anymore—Night’s Shadow—cannot breathe or fly with all this blasted stone and that taste metallic blood mine—or his? origin indeterminate—he is dead, quite certain along with the others but have to keep moving forward crawl stumble stagger nothing to be done about it now so forward and further and now that damned giggling again giggling and if only I could see it—them? number indeterminate—they would wonder what was so amusing then would they care for some nice fire ignem to brighten this incessant darkness yes think of the fire burning like this wet burning in my chest no stop this stop remember “Inuariablie the Magvs mvst needs presvme compleat and perfect masterie ouer euerie sitvation” yes and remember the first the first phrase of the incantation REDO AENEL O TERRONAX yes and no more giggling then keep moving there must be a way out here’s another damned intersection blackness each way cannot feel a breeze the air here is stifling stagnant where is she now which way to go which way is out left then left it is yes left down the darkness down keep moving. Dead. End. Damn—damn—damn—blind alley and giggling now “It was supposed to be for you” turn around giggling closer and the black welling up
Valerius awakens moaning and sweating, his heart racing, in the darkness of the cellar. Mot mumbles something and wipes his master’s brow.
“You have had a bad dream, my son,” says Friar Sidrach. “Nothing more, nothing more. Do not attempt to rise.”
Valerius sighs and slumps back. “I have been thinking, Friar,” he says, his voice thin and tired. “Rather than head directly for the Blackwell… perhaps we should return to Upchurch… first.”
Canglen Cathedral, XVII Firstblome. After Prime.
Sir Dunstan, Vandoren, Clement.
“Ah, ‘tis good to see you lads,” exclaims Sir Dunstan, bringing cups of wine to his son and Clement.
“Fivethanks to you, Sir Dunstan,” says Clement, eagerly putting the cup to his lips.
“And how fares your wife and son?” asks the old chancellor.
“Well, the both of them,” says Clement. “Young Simon is getting to be quite the handful. I think he may become a wandering vagabond like Vandoren here—the little ympe has quite a talent for songs. And Cynthia is as lovely as ever, though she runs me ragged. She is Geoffrey Carder’s daughter, after all, and not accustomed to want for anything.”
“Indeed,” says Vandoren with a smile. “And how fare your studies?”
“I fear that they are at an end, for now,” says Clement. “And I shall have to fend for myself soon enough. My wife’s father will be quite relieved to have me earning my own keep. We hope to move back to Heremac sometime this summer.”
“Splendid,” says Vandoren. “You shall have to come visit us in Upchurch, once you are settled.”
Achaela licks her master’s hand, and he reaches down to pat her shaggy coat.
“We shall have to see what happens with the rucks,” says Clement. “Let us pray that fortune continues to turn against King Tereus: with the rucks fighting amongst themselves, I hear that the Seekers are finally retaking ground that was lost in the invasion. And to think—if your story is true, our dear friends may have started it all. Why, I remember back when we were robbing from petty bandits…”
“Friar Sidrach himself told me how they tricked Briareus’s guards,” says Vandoren, “So I will vouchsafe for the truth of the tale.”
“I thought of you and your friends often this last winter,” says Dunstan. “I understand that you have had some rather… dramatic escapades.”
“Indeed, father. I hurried to Canglen as soon as learned my friends were here. In addition to the adventure with the Hagges and our narrow escape from Busirane, we have been busy in other endeavors. I understand that Friar Sidrach approached you, hoping for an audience with Bishop Martin.”
“Yes, yes—the Gerardian was most persistent, but his Grace is terribly busy, and could not spare the time.” Dunstan looks hard at his son, who coolly returns his father’s gaze. The old chancellor frowns and continues. “But ‘tis more to that story, as you may well guess.
“The very suggestion of converting ruck-men is extremely… controversial… within certain quarters of the Church, and His Grace must proceed cautiously. The debate is intensifying, and we must guard our position carefully.”
“I am unsure if I understand,” says Clement.
Dunstan nods. “When Sir John of Lownell approached us about converting ruck-men, my first impulse was to laugh at the notion of those wretched Canemites embracing the Five. But Bishop Martin—who is a far shrewder man than I could ever hope to be—did not laugh. No, he immediately grasped the possibilities inherent in Sir John’s proposal.
“You see, the Church has always held that the ruck-men are abominations, the cursed descendants of Canem, and cut off forever from the Five’s grace. The Popes have always been eager to sanction wars against the rucks. But there are certain passages in the scripture—obscure passages mind you, which give credence to the Bishop’s position. These passage foretell of the holy word traveling onward to more and more distant lands, expanding the bounds of Pentiandom and even reaching the ears of strange, misshapen men.”
“The rucks,” murmurs Vandoren.
“Perhaps,” says Dunstan. “Now the Seekers, who are warriors and not theologians, have never paid much heed to these interpretations. But Bishop Martin has speculated—if the ruck-men could actually be converted…”
“Then they must not be beyond the Five’s Grace, after all,” finishes Clement.
“Exactly,” says Dunstan. “The implications are staggering. First, it would mean that the Church might have been in error by sanctioning the outright slaughter of these creatures. The Church teaches us that all killing is a sin—even killing another knight in a just war is sinful and demands penance to absolve that sin. There are degrees of sinfulness, to be sure. Accidentally killing a stranger is serious, but not nearly as blackly sinful as intentionally murdering your neighbor. But because the rucks have never been considered subject to the Five’s grace, no injunction has ever been set against killing them. But just consider every ruck who ever died on the point of a Pentian sword…”
“I see why the Bishop would be wary,” says Vandoren.
“But there are political considerations in addition to the theological,” says Dunstan. “Right now the Seekers are considered the bulwark of Pentiandom. But if the ruck-men could be converted—the very idea undermines the legitimacy of the Seeker Order. Their founding mission was the wholesale slaughter of the abominations. If Pope Augustine recognizes the conversion of the rucks, suddenly the Diocese of Canglen becomes the most important representative of the Church on the Frounter.”
“But father,” says Vandoren, “What should we do in the meantime about these Pentian Rucks of the Ebon Quill? What should happen, Five forbid, if the rank-and-file rucks were to turn on their leaders, or to relapse into harassing innocent folk. I would not like my fellows or the Bishop held liable for actions of some fallen rucks.”
“I wot not,” says Dunstan. “We must pray that your ruck-men remain on the path of righteousness for now. Hopefully, in the fullness of time Mother Church will be ready to welcome this new flock into the fold.”
Vandoren leans back and is silent for a moment. “Father, there is one more matter that is sorely troubling me. You know that I am an avid seeker of wisdom. And in my studies of philosophy, I have dabbled in the secret arts. I have even learned a charm or two. But I am concerned about where these pursuits are leading me. The Church has always held these arts in suspicion. I have an associate… another philosopher, one who is deeply steeped in the secret arts. He sometimes seems poised between the Five and the Shaithim, and lately I have been concerned for his soul… and mine. Father, I have a great appreciation for philosophy but also tremendous faith and love for the Five. I am not sure how to reconcile these feelings.”
“Magic and miracles,” says Dunstan. “What is the difference between the two? Saints have been mistaken for witches, and witches mistaken for saints. I have seen theurgists acting as vessels of the Five in this world, to work astonishing wonders. I have seen the lame made to walk, and the blind made to see. Some within the Church have argued that there is no power beyond the Five’s own intercessions, that anything else is trickery or deceit: a falsehood.
“And yet, there are clearly other sorts of magic all around us—and the use of this magic is known only to the few. Take Clement here—as a Physic, he has learned the properties of herbs of the field, the powers of the stars above our heads, and the nature of humours within this mortal flesh. This knowledge is magic. Reading—that is magic. And writing and counting. I can close my eyes, and I see a magnificent palace surrounded by a flowering summer garden—is that not magic? You know a charm to make the wind carry your messages upon the very air.
“Is it wrong to know that one herb will heal when boiled in water and drank, while another herb will kill when ground into paste and eaten with porridge? I do not think knowing these things is sinful. Is it sinful to use a healing herb to restore a friend to health? I think not. But is it sinful to use a poisonous herb to murder an enemy? Or course it is!
“The Five made the world, Vandoren, and everything upon it. I think that all things have their place in the world—even the secret arts. You must be careful, though, for these secrets give power, and just as pride follows power, ruin follows pride. The snares of Hell are everywhere—but fortunately, so are the Five.”
Upchurch Manor, XII May. Vespers.
Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, St. James, Valerius, Mot.
The east road into Upchurch Manor is narrow, dry, and deeply rutted from the wheels of many oxcarts. To the right the fields lie fallow, while the left hand fields are dark and newly planted. Three teams of peasants harrow this parcel, guiding the massive workhorses that drag bundles of brushwood behind them. A few men follow after with heavy mallets ready to break up the largest and most tenacious clods. Small stands of trees dot the fields, their branches flushed with yellow-green. The road curves gently to the right as it approaches the Manor House, affording a glimpse of the barn and chapel steeple. A fenced pasture holds a dozen cows in full milk, enjoying the new-grown fodder.
Ahead on the road, three riders approach from the manor-house. Sir Hamral, his lance at ready, gallops ahead while Sir Garnfellow and Serjeant Oswald fall behind. As soon as he recognizes his friends, Hamral reigns in Fiasco—though the spirited war-horse whinnies and bucks in protest, as if spoiling for a fight.
“Well met!” cries Vandoren. Achaela eyes the larger animal cautiously, and slinks behind her master.
“Well met!” answers Hamral, lowering his lance. “We are wary of strangers, these days.”
“By the Cup!” cries Sir Garnfellow, pulling up beside Hamral. Both the fat knight and his tired old horse, Justicar, appear out of breath from the exertion. Garnfellow sits back in the saddle and mops his brow with a rag. “‘Tis good to see you, friends. I had feared it was another band of ruck deserters.”
“You actually feared we were rucks, Fatty?” asks St. James.
Garnfellow sits up and laughs, deeply. “Ha Ho! A good one, you merry rogue. No, I am just weary from dispatching so many legions of these sneaking cowards. I tell you lads, it has been far too long since the mighty Welsung here has tasted the blood of a worthy opponent.”
“Of course,” says Valerius, turning to Hamral. “Are there really so many ruckish runaways about?”
“Aye,” says Oswald. “We have heard that Briareus has lost maybe a quarter of his army to desertion, or to fighting with Busirane’s troops.”
“So the rumors are true!” exclaims Vandoren, shaking his head. “One Ruck-Prince warring with the other.”
Hamral nods. “They appear to have made peace. But a month ago they were fighting tooth and nail. Hard to say how many rucks they buried before reaching a truce.”
“Excellent,” declares Valerius.
“This infighting gave the Seekers enough leverage to make some real advances,” says Oswald. “Bowlen and New Hull are again Pentian lands, and they say that Deal will soon be free as well. And these victories have taxed the rucks in other places, as well—Prince Argus was forced to send troops to reinforce Briareus, which in turn has given our Count of Kirke some much-needed relief.”
“And we bring even more good tidings,” says Vandoren. “While in Canglen, we learned that King Weremach is raising an army, even as we speak. He hopes to be in Antace Castle by summer’s end!”