Purer Dreams.
Night, deep and dark, and no thing moves in grey Eredy. No sound breaks the utter stillness.
In this silence Purer rises, whole once more, his lame legs straight and strong, his white hair now dark again. Ahead, he spies a bobbing light moving steadily toward him and he smiles.
A woman approaches, a petite woman of middle age, a pretty woman dressed in the habit of a Bergenian nun, and bearing in her hand a candle, its white flame shining brightly in the gloom.
“Dear little abbess of Clowes,” says Purer, bowing low before her feet. “I am glad to see you again. Surely you have heard my prayers, and know that I am troubled.”
The figure looks kindly upon Purer and nods.
“I have heard a tale most strange, concerning a certain son of the Ruckish King. This son, it is said, has left the ranks of evil for a more peaceful existence.”
The figure nods once more.
“Dearest Iseltis,” says Purer, “does this ruck truly seek atonement?”
The figure nods.
“Does he have allies?” asks Purer.
The figure nods.
“And these allies, are they loyal to him?” asks Purer.
The figure nods and now smiles, bending down to touch Purer gently on his shoulder. And then she is of a sudden gone, and now Purer looks upon a changed vision, a wild, craggy field of high grass. Dirty sheep, unshorn and lost, wander the scene.
Now a shepherd, trailed by his sons, walks the field, but rather than gather up the wayward flock, the shepherd throws down his crook, casts off his cloak, and falls to his knees, milling amongst the sheep.
His sons watch all this, and begin to slouch off and away from their father. One falls asleep, another begins drinking from a skin of wine, two set to quarreling with one another while another goads them on; and yet another steals their father’s discarded crook. Only one son remains, trying to collect the sheep together.
Purer awakes in his tent, rubbing his eyes, the sky above the eastern Sheldings begins to lighten and blush with the coming dawn.
“Strange,” Purer murmurs, to no one in particular. “Most strange…”
Eredy, XVI Harfesting, After Vespers.
Mendelor, Purer Grundy.
Night falls over the Seeker camp; a pair of horns blow to signal the changing of the guard. The woodsman Mendelor leans on the haft of his axe.
“We leave within the hour,” says Mendelor.
“Sir Hamral did not tell you why?” asks Purer. “Should I offer to come with you?”
Mendelor shakes his head. “Hamral said only that he needed me to lead him to Heremac tonight, and that naught but the two of us would be going. He seemed quite determined.”
“A queer time to leave,” says Purer, “given all the recent fighting. His errand must be most urgent.”
“Aye,” says Mendelor. “Had it been my choice, I would prefer to stay here. The camp is restless, as if the Seekers know that a battle is coming. You can feel it, like when the air grows heavy right before a great rain.”
“What do you make of the lost patrol?” says Purer. “A score of brother-knights, and twice as many brother-serjeants, overdue now for more than three days. I have considered mounting a search party for them.”
“No need,” says Mendelor, spitting. “Doubtless they are all dead, and that is no small force for Busirane to blot out. And worse, ‘tis the second such complete loss in the last month. There is great prestige to any Black-Blade who slays a brother-knight in battle. And even if some of the Seekers had been captured alive, they have hung from the ruckish scaffolds by now. Busirane’s orders: all captured Seekers or Warders are to be swiftly executed, with no hope for ransom.
“You shall need to keep a sharp eye out, while we are gone,” warns Mendelor, sternly. “Else you find yourself swinging from one of Busirane’s poles. I have heard rumors that Prince Serapis has moved a force into a hidden position nearby Eredy.”
“Serapis?” asks Purer.
“Another one of King Tereus’s foul sons,” says Mendelor, “Though we have not yet seen him on the field of battle. They say he is most cunning; it was he who surprised Gregory at Grimall Keep and routed the Seekers in one of their worst defeats in living memory.”
Purer shakes his head sadly. “It is a wonder that Gregory has been able to hold Eredy as long as he has, given all of the enemies we are sore beset by.”
“That is why I hope to perform an errand of my own while in Heremac,” says Mendelor. “I have wondered lately, how we might set up a meeting between Nestor and King Tereus? I think we have learnt enough about the King to know that he fears the Five’s power. And should he see his son whole in the Five’s graces mayhap he would realize it is time to lead his flock in another direction.
“So I will try to get word to an old friend of ours named Ruik. He has many friends, including some within the ruckish lands. He may be able to pass word to Tereus, an invitation to a meeting between him and Nestor at the Shrine of the Ebon Quill. I would swear to him safe passage in our company to and from the shrine. Tereus should know by reputation that our company is well equipped for such duties and that no one would be any wiser.”
“This sounds like a fine idea,” says Purer. “I had not realized that ruck-men were capable for true atonement, before hearing your stories of Nestor. I would very much like to meet with him, and see this wondrous site with mine own eyes. Perhaps a meeting between us could be arranged?”
“Nestor spends much of his time in the Shrine of the Ebon Quill,” says Mendelor. “There many converted rucks live. You will have ample chances to meet him, and the Five willing, sooner rather than later.”
Eredy, XXII Harfesting, Before Prime.
Vandoren, Valerius.
Thick morning fog hangs over the yellow wood. As the minstrel and the magician in black walk, the rustle of their feet through the dead leaves is accompanied by the soft flapping of Noxumbra’s wings as she hops from branch to branch overhead. The large shaggy hound Achrach quietly pads behind the two men, as Plucksome plays a slow, melancholy air.
“You had asked me,” says Vandoren, “to learn what I could about the shadowy figure known as the Grand Magus as well as the ancient Adept Maecenas.”
Valerius nods.
“Of the two,” says Vandoren, “Maecenas is quite a bit better known—though even with that said, the details of his life and deeds are sketchy at best. As a student of philosophy, you know all-too-well how much knowledge of the ancients is now lost to us, swallowed up by the passing years. And considering Maecenas’s vocation, I would not be surprised if the Church has actively suppressed the record, as well.
“In any case, the histories tell us that Maecenas was a Tynan Adept, active after the Martyrdom, and sometimes called the last great Adept in the north. It is written that shortly after the Tynan Empire was divided into two halves, North and South, Maecenas looked at the sudden rise of Pentianity in the north and realized that a great change was overtaking the ancient world. Soon after, he converted to worship of the Five and began seeking out other Adepts in Northern Tynar, presenting them a simple choice: convert to the Five or die.
“Several Adepts resisted, and were destroyed in turn. Eventually Maecenas gathered a band of nine converted Adepts, who formed the group known as the Decad. During this great campaign, the Emperor Horace converted to Pentianity and outlawed all pagan religions in Northern Tynar, touching off much strife between the Tynans.
“During this time Maecenas was said to have destroyed one of the Nine Colossi of the Limites, which had been set at Demerian’s Wall to guard over the Ruckish Hills. Maecenas died shortly after, slain while driving a foul demon back into the mouth of Hell. Even after his death, the Decad continued Maecenas’s work, and actively sought out pagan Adepts for destruction, claiming their apprentices as the Decad’s own. But the Decad did not take any new apprentices themselves, and eventually the line died out completely.”
“This comports with my own understanding,” says Valerius.
“Of the Grand Magus,” says Vandoren, “I could gather much less information. In cathedral school we had at least read enough histories to come across occasional mentions of Maecenas. But I never had heard of a Grand Magus in all my studies.
“I have been able to glean that the Grand Magus, like Maecenas, was also an Imperial Adept, active sometime before the Martyrdom. It is said he was an apprentice to the Adept Sarius, who in turn was said to have assembled an important catalog of spirits, and who wrote A Treasury of Necromancy.
“The Grand Magus was said to have studied and practiced necromancy until a rather mysterious death. The most prevalent account I know of was that while away from his study, a friend found his way into his study. Among his manuscripts on the black arts he read passages that called up a spirit. The spirit demanded what request he would make to have conjured him but the man did not answer and was strangled by the devil. The Magus returned to find the spirit dancing on the rooftop. He commanded the spirit to enter into his friend’s body and move it to a local gathering area. When the spirit left the body it fell lifeless with only the marks of his death around his throat. Eventually the Grand Magus was suspected and had to flee to hiding.
“I have written to my father at the Canglen Diocese for more information, and in his response he expressed grave concern over my line of inquiry, and strongly urged me to follow other pursuits. He was most wary about providing me with any specifics.
“I am beginning to suspect that somehow, some of the Grand Magus’s written works survived his death and the fall of Northern Tynar, much to the great dismay of the Church.”
Eredy, XXVIV Harfesting, Complines.
Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, Owen, Purer, St. James.
“But gracious, why would he not have told us?” exclaims Friar Sidrach, his eyes wide.
Mendelor shrugs.
“Sir Hamral, a man of few words to begin with, said hardly nothing on the road to Heremac. You might have thought we were going to an execution. By the time we got to the Shrine, Garnfellow and Dame Alice were already there.
“So we went straight up to the chapel, where Abbot Peter was waiting, along with Isabelle herself. Hamral gave her a ring, she gave him one, and then they both plighted their troths, and it was all over.
“Garfellow and I went for an ale at the Bristling Boar, while Dame Alice and Hamral packed up Isabelle’s belongings. We swapped a couple of tales, and then they were off, back to Upchurch.”
“How long is Hamral going to stay in Upchurch?” asks Owen.
“I’d wager just long enough to get his fill of married life,” says St. James, with a laugh.
“Not long,” says Mendelor. “He was just going to get her settled in to Upchurch, and then back here to Eredy.”
St. James mumbles something and Owen laughs.
“I still do not understand why he wouldn’t have told us,” repeats Sidrach, “His own dear friends?”
Mendelor shrugs again.
“Not to worry,” says Vandoren. “We’ll be able to wish them well at the church wedding, probably after the Yule.”
“We have to survive Busirane, first,” says Mendelor, “before we see any church wedding. And by the sounds of it, that might not be a sure thing at all.”
Lownell Manor, X Storing, Sext.
Sir John, Sir Harold Grimpate, Ruik.
The thickset bald man with a dark black beard approaches, while Sir John and a small, cowled figure sit at the long oaken table in the great hall of Lownell Manor.
“Why, my dear Harold,” says Sir John, with a smile, “What is the news?”
“A courier comes from Derwich,” growls Harold, carelessly slinging a heavy sack on to the tabletop in front of the two sitting men.
Sir John rises quickly, the color drained from his face, looking suspiciously at the dark sack.
“What… what… is it?” he stammers.
Ruik scowls and rises himself, drawing a dagger from his belt. Gingerly, the small man cuts the heavy rope tying the sack and pulls back the cloth.
“I fear,” says Ruik, “that this is our answer.”
Lying on the table, now revealed, is the severed head of a Gory Moon ruck.