Kyrelius Rising

Acknowledgements

I offer my humble and heartfelt thanks to

My loving and long-suffering wife, Debs, for giving me the encouragement and confidence to revisit this project and see it through to the end. Without her, it would likely have remained languishing on an obscure hard-drive amongst the digital mothballs.

Heather Bensch, for her time, encouragement and insightful treatise on the ellipsis!

Andy and Debs Brown, for their encouragement and advice concerning the arcane and daunting world of publishing.

The incomparable Alastair McLeod, for being my liaison with the information age and doing everything but write the text, which, I have come to learn, is rather a lot.

Dedication

To Mother, who was my first ever proof-reader, source of encouragement and dispenser of (mostly gentle) advice. I hope you would approve of the end result.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 1

The City

Early spring sunlight broke over the northern headland of the bay, brightening the upper levels of the monastery. The imposing edifice was home to The City’s only formal religious sect. The Monastery’s official name was All His Master’s Saints of the Congregation of the Enlightened or, more briefly, All Saints. Flanked by the prison and an asylum referred to as The Lodge, The Monastery gazed sternly down from its position atop the moral, spiritual and geographical high ground. All Saints served as a frowning reminder of the way things ought to be done and that, one day, those who had done otherwise were going to be very, very sorry.

Today would prove to be just such a day. High up in the east wing, something very unorthodox was going on…

You lied to me! The statement itself was not terribly unorthodox, monastery politics being what they are, but it had been spoken by a woman. A young one. A woman’s voice, young or not, hadn’t been heard in the east wing in anyone’s living memory.

Please, Elizabeth, keep your voice down! The others will be up, soon and we don’t want to run into any of them, we really don’t. The young man’s name was Thomas and he knew what he was talking about.

The girl’s voice moderated, but only slightly. When I asked if you were a monk, you said no.

Well, I’m not a monk. Thomas indicated his full head of hair. See?

That’s all very well, but you live in a monastery, and now you’re putting on that dress. If you’re not a monk, what are you?

I’m an acolyte. And it’s not a dress, it’s a cassock.

I don’t care. What’s an acolyte?

It’s a sort of apprentice monk… before you take your vows… of celibacy and all that. The technicality had frequently crossed his mind during the course of the previous, and in his opinion, wonderful night. He had a scant week before he was to take his final vows and viewed the evening as a sort of last meal for the condemned. So I haven’t really done anything wrong, have I?

Haven’t done anything wrong? Clearly, Elizabeth had reservations. Well, let’s see, you tell me all sorts of pretty stories; have your way and now you’re trying to sneak me out of here. How am I supposed to feel? It’s not as if I do this sort of thing often, you know! Whilst not entirely true, the outburst had been entirely too loud for comfort. Thomas knew that if the brotherhood were not to be made aware of his little indiscretion, now was the time to throw as much oil on the water as he could.

Look, Elizabeth, he began. I’m supposed to take my vows in a week’s time.

A week?

A week. He took a strangle hold on his conscience. But meeting you makes me look at my life in a new light. He paused, every inch a young man in the grip of bitter conflict and it wasn’t far from the truth, either. Elizabeth seemed quite taken by it, too. Up until last night, I was prepared to forsake the world and live my life for a higher purpose, not thinking of what I might be leaving behind, but...

Yes?

But then I met you. Now I am torn with doubt. Thomas was beginning to find his feet. I would never have believed it possible that anyone could come between me and the calling, and yet…

And yet? Elizabeth certainly fancied the idea of being able to rival the gods when it came to the hearts of young men.

Thomas plunged on. I am no longer sure that I will be able to find peace in a life that promises less than what you have shown me. Although this was not entirely without a grain of truth, Thomas thought he was laying it on a bit thick… But he was right on the money.

Oh, Thomas! That’s beautiful!

The acolyte warmed to his task, waxing romantic and sweating with desperation. He put on the finishing touch, declaring, If I could spend every night with you, I would consider myself blessed beyond the measure of the gods.

But you can!

Eh?

We can elope!

Oh. Er…

Thomas felt a chasm begin to open.

But…

But what? demanded Elizabeth - loudly.

Thomas’ thoughts began to spin out of control. I mean, but first we have to get you home. His mind scrabbled madly for purchase, and finding none, pitched headlong into the chasm. In a little while, I can come to you and we can be together…

Yes?

Forever!

Oh, Thomas!

Now let’s be on our way before the brothers find you. Here, put this on. He tossed the girl a spare cassock and she wriggled into the formless brown robe.

Are all the brothers as sweet as you are?

No, Thomas replied with certainty. Not at all.

Elizabeth continued to dress in silence as Thomas fought to control his anxiety.

Ready? He listened at the door. Just keep the hood low over your face and don’t say a word, I’ll tell them you’ve taken a vow of silence if anyone asks. We should be able to walk right out the front gate.

When will you come to me?

Soon. Thomas’ conscience was giving him merry hell, now.

When?

Shh! Some one’s coming.

When?

Thomas abandoned all hope. It’s full moon tomorrow. I will come to your window at midnight.

Oh, darling.

Shh! As Thomas listened, his conscience stopped screaming and went off to tap its foot in a corner, letting him know that he’d done it this time, and was on his own. The footsteps faded.

Right, let’s go. And try not to do that with your hips when you walk.

Sorry, my love.

Thomas grimaced.

The receding footsteps belonged to a young monk by the name of Brother Pious who, whilst unaware of the panic he had just caused, rather liked the crisp sound his heels made on the stone floor. To him, they sounded neat and precise, the tread of a man who knew where he was going in this world and, of course, in the next. Upon hearing his approach, the forces of the ungodly would know that they were faced with a man of steadfast faith, who enjoyed the full backing of a most mighty deity. Said forces would, of course, quail at the prospect of tangling with such formidable opposition and slink quietly back into the darkness whence they came. Pious’ thoughts continued along this well-worn path as he basked in the afterglow of a righteous job well done. One of the few early risers at All Saints, this morning he had already found an opportunity to strike a telling blow against the sinful. The thick stone walls echoed his footsteps and dripped a little moisture but seemed otherwise unaffected by the passing of the spiritual powerhouse.

On the other side of the impassive wall, lurked one of the forces of the ungodly with whom Pious had often found it necessary to cross swords. This particular menace was enjoying the spring sunshine whilst ineffectually snipping away at the hedge with a pair of blunt pruning shears. The aging foot soldier of darkness went by the name of Muggert and enjoyed the dubiously bestowed title of Head Gardener. True to form, as Pious contemplated the virtues of the spirit and how best they could be nurtured, the mind of Muggert was concerned with matters of a far less wholesome nature. For Muggert was not only the head gardener, but also the holder of an older and more time-honoured position within the ancient walls. He was responsible for the supply of all alcoholic beverages and other spiritual contraband to the residents of the monastery.

Though Muggert’s informal portfolio carried no official title, it was widely considered amongst almost all the inhabitants of the monastery, to be one of the most important. This was a view to which Muggert himself enthusiastically subscribed. For instance, were father Standfast, the official head of the monastery, to be overtaken by sudden misfortune, there would have been a certain amount of disruption, but life within the walls would carry on largely unchanged. However, if similar unpleasantness were to befall the wily Muggert, things would really fall apart!

It was this undeniable indispensability that, over the years, had allowed the venerable Muggert to rise within the confines of the monastery, to a station that far exceeded the one afforded by his lowly official position. Muggert’s elevated status, though not openly acknowledged, was universally accepted throughout the monastery as an unavoidable consequence of the way things worked.

Though the occupants of the monastery either accepted or, as was most often the case, actively supported Muggert’s enterprises, there was one notable exception to this otherwise happy arrangement. The proverbial spanner in the works was, of course, brother Pious. He did not suffer the same temptations as his more worldly colleagues and thus failed to grasp the importance of Muggert’s ministrations with the same clarity. Not to put too fine a point on it, Pious saw Muggert as an abomination that required some righteous seeing to. He also saw himself as the man for the job.

The conflict had begun on a similarly pleasant spring morning as the two passed each other on one of the paths through the gardens. Pious noticed the top of a suspicious bottle nosing around the edge of Muggert’s grubby old cloak. One glimpse of the bottle, incidentally, a fine dry red bound for the bursar’s office, had given the rope tied to Pious’ alarm bell of righteousness a hearty tug. He sought to intervene, arm extended.

What do you have there, my good man?

Muggert, unaccustomed to being questioned about his activities was, to say the least, a little annoyed.

Mind your own business.

"I beg your pardon!"

Oh, so you’re deaf, are you? Muggert spat on the ground. I’ll say it nice and slow for you then. Mind your own bloody business and sod off! The old man brushed Pious aside and stalked off.

Father Everly will hear about this! cried Pious. Muggert’s reply was a particularly obscene gesture over his shoulder, the meaning of which was, thankfully, lost on the young monk.

As it turned out, Father Everly was less than helpful in response to Pious’ assertion that Muggert should feel the full weight of monastic discipline.

Now, brother, he said, you must remember that the groundsmen are not the godly folk of our order and we can no more expect them to live as we do than we can all those beyond the walls. Everly had this speech by heart.

But he was downright disrespectful! countered Pious. And the book of Remes says that the followers of the Most Mighty shall be revered by all the nations.

It does? Well, er, yes, replied Everly. But does the prophet Ishan not urge us to endure the slings and arrows of the infidel?

Yes, you are right, father. Pious’ knowledge of the holy books was nothing short of phenomenal and he had the utmost respect for a good quote. He turned, as if to leave.

Everly was about to breathe a sigh of relief when the young monk turned back. But surely the word of Shanwar urges us ever to be vigilant for the ways of the evil doer and to seek to thwart them at every turn?

Eh?

Chapter six, verse fifteen.

Er, yes, I suppose. Never much of a scholar, Everly was acutely aware of being well out of his depth So?

So what, father?

So what’s your point?

Well, I’m sure he was carrying a bottle of liquor and…

What kind of liquor? Everly jumped at the loophole.

Well, I don’t know about that sort of thing, protested Pious. I just saw the top.

So it may not have been liquor after all?

Well, I suppose…

You see, brother Pious, I can’t be asked to haul a senior member of the ground staff over the coals without just cause, now can I?

Yes father, but Shanwar says no stone should be left unturned and…

I’m well aware of all that, brother, lied Everly, wisely unwilling to risk a scholastic rematch. But, without proof, I’m afraid my hands are tied. Now if you’ll excuse me… Everly escorted the unhappy monk to the doorway. I have some important business to attend to before devotions. Peace be with you, brother.

And with you, father. Pious bowed as he backed out of the doorway, followed closely by the door itself. There was a loud snort of derision and he whirled to face a sneering Muggert.

Pious summoned all the menace he could muster, which wasn’t a lot. You’re going to regret the day you ever crossed my path, he vowed. I’m going to get to the bottom of your little scheme and put a stop to it for good.

Fat chance of that, boy! retorted Muggert. You’re not going to stop to a damned thing. Now, dry your eyes and run along.

The gauntlet was thus thrown down and the battle lines drawn for a conflict that extended from that day forth. As it so happened, both parties were able to make good on some of their threats. Muggert found himself so harassed by his tenacious new foe that he did indeed regret ever meeting brother Pious. The young monk’s tenacity on the other hand had, thus far, made little impression on the trade plied by the cunning Muggert. Pious thought of Muggert as ‘That depraved servant of the enemy’ and Muggert referred to Pious as ‘That tight-arsed little bastard’. The struggle for the spiritual integrity of the monastery had been going on for a year and showed no signs of abating. If anything, things had been heating up of late. And they were about to get hotter.

Muggert stirred from his preoccupation with the hedge and creaked himself up to his full, if less than impressive, height. Picking at one of his few remaining teeth and staring thoughtfully at nothing in particular, he began to plan his business for the day. The previous afternoon had seen the delivery of a large consignment from a contact in the unwholesome district of Old Town. The goods were presently languishing in the shed he used as a warehouse, awaiting distribution to a number of eager recipients. Muggert shuffled off to collect the first item on his list of sinful substances.

The old man grumbled as he walked. His job as provider of all things less than righteous was, in principle, reasonably straightforward. The tricky part of the whole operation was the need for stealth. Muggert found himself having to sneak about in front of the very people for whom he had to do all the sneaking in the first place. He found little humour in the irony. Had he lifted his head from its ground-ward outpouring of dissatisfaction, his grumbling would certainly have stopped, but his humour would not have improved. An ominous column of smoke was rising from the front gate where Muggert’s shed was located. Pious had indeed been busy.

As it happened, Muggert had gone quite a way before the sounds of frantic shouting disturbed his discontent. The sight was quite unexpected. A platoon of monks was frantically running around in front of his warehouse, apparently bereft of organisation or, for that matter, dignity. The shed, for its part, was burning with a fierce sense of purpose. Muggert did something he had not done in a very long time; he began to run. As he did so, the old gardener screamed, but his instructions had nothing to do with fetching water or throwing sand. It was far too late for any of that. Without its accompanying profanity, his instruction to the brothers was to run for their lives. Muggert knew what was in the shed and that it was about to make the day a lot more interesting.

His senses, sharpened by the situation, were able to make an informed inventory cum recipe of the shed’s contents. The abbreviated version went something like this:

Four barrels of Estamar Brandy, two cases of Gathian white spirit and three of assorted, locally concocted fire-water. Mix that lot with a consignment of very fortified wine from The South and two bottles of Dragon’s Back Rum. Combine it all with a drum of paint thinners, (same as the Dragon’s Back, really) and leave it to simmer in a warm shed.

Now add a little fire…

Muggert gave up shouting and threw himself into a flowerbed.

The shed began to emit a dull roar, signalling its intentions to progress from a simple blaze to a phenomenon of greater consequence. Muggert risked a look at what was going on. It was at this point that the dull roar turned into an ear splitting screech and the shed began to ascend heavenwards on a cloud of super-heated gasses. That’ll be the thinners, thought Muggert as he followed the structure’s fiery progress. The inferno that had once been the shed accelerated, shrieking like an enraged banshee and trailing twenty feet of flame as it cleared the outer wall. For a second, it seemed that the blaze would dispose of its self without causing further upset. But it was not to be. About a hundred feet up, the shed detonated.

There was a sharp crack as the two bottles of Dragon’s Back, anxious to join in the fun, released their catalytic contents into the agitated mixture of combustibles. This ill-disciplined act of chemistry provided all the encouragement the main charge required in order to bring matters to a head. The resultant explosion was nothing short of cataclysmic. Muggert watched in awe as the fireball rapidly expanded behind a cohort of escaping bottles, each trailing a sheet of flame and ending its flight in a flash of violence. A fiery rain of mixed liquor fell on all in the immediate vicinity.

The display went far from unmarked throughout the rest of The City. In the establishments of Old Town, those patrons still standing after the previous evening’s festivities quickly joined their less hardy companions under the tables in a mad scramble for cover. In the cattle yards there was pandemonium as two hundred head of beef headed purposefully for the hills. The four galleons in the bay sprang as one to action stations. Obviously no one owned up and it took some frantic semaphore before they agreed not to fire upon each other.

Standing at a palace window, the Queen looked across the bay as the debris began to pepper the water’s surface and sighed. It was going to be an uncharacteristically interesting day. Silently she thanked the foresight of the long dead Administrator who had seen fit to sequester all The City’s lunatics at its furthest point. She could just make out the figures of people rushing about in the gateway of the monastery and wondered what in the world was going on.

Lunacy reigned at All Saints. Monks in various stages of combustion were running around, hotly pursued by other members of the brotherhood who were trying manfully to put them out. There was a great deal of shouting and screaming, little of it saintly and none of it helpful. Enough holy water was being flung about to exorcise an army of demons and any unfortunate brother who so much as smouldered was immediately set upon with branches of the (now denuded) sacred olive tree. One young monk, who had been told that, if on fire, the best thing to do is to roll, took the advice to heart and managed to roll down two flights of stairs. He ended up in the infirmary, burn free, but sporting three cracked ribs, a broken arm and severe concussion.

As the confusion began to die down, the attention of many of the monks was drawn to the plight of one particular brother who was still very much on fire. Mad with panic, he was trying to fend off all would-be rescuers, oblivious of the fact that his cassock was rapidly losing the good fight. Brother Fortitude, a strapping young monk, stepped in to take charge.

Hold him! he roared, that cassock has got to come off.

Uh, said the young acolyte who had been trying to extinguish the cassock in question, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.

Don’t be ridiculous, boy! yelled Fortitude, grabbing the flaming robe. We’re all brothers here!

He heaved with all his might, ripping the garment in two.

The brothers stared dumbstruck, as Elizabeth was revealed before them, wearing very little.

Wha… began Fortitude.

But… tried another.

How…

It was no use.

And what do we have here, gentlemen? The inquiry came from behind the crowd of traumatised brothers. It was not the sort of voice one ignored. It somehow combined glacial momentum and the crack of a whip. The monks parted instantly to allow the passage of a tall, broad-shouldered figure, in the robes of a senior father.

He halted before Elizabeth. What indeed.

It’s a woman, Father, blurted brother Fortitude.

Your keen powers of observation and vast knowledge of anatomy are truly an asset to this institution, Fortitude. However, if that is the only light you are able to shed on this matter, I suggest your talents would be better utilised elsewhere.

Yes, father.

The newcomer removed a robe and handed it to a grateful Elizabeth.

Now, gentlemen, I wish to be enlightened as to the reason for this young lady’s presence by the person or persons who are in the unenviable position to do so. Furthermore, this is a discussion that will take place privately.

The imposing monk was soon deserted, except, of course, for a dishevelled Elizabeth and her visibly terrified escort.

Thomas, isn’t it?

Yes, Father.

This young lady is a guest of the order at your invitation?

Yes, Father.

May I assume that her visit has involved pursuits contrary to any that could conceivably merit the order’s approval?

Yes, Father. One did not lie to Father Constantine. Everybody knew that.

Well, in that case, you are to see the young lady home. Upon your return you will report directly to my quarters. We have much to discuss.

Yes, Father.

The young couple exited the gate on less than steady legs. Constantine watched them go and the ghost of what could have been a smile flickered briefly across his face. Presently he stirred and sighed. Now, where would I find that idiot?

He was referring to Brother Pious.

Chapter 2

The lunatic should be hanged, drawn and quartered! thundered Father Standfast. At the very least, he should be clapped in irons down at The Lodge for the rest of his life.

Grey heads nodded.

Clearly a few sandwiches short of a picnic, agreed one.

Mad as a hatter.

Bonkers.

An emergency synod of the monastery fathers had been called following the spectacular demise of Muggert’s shed and the venerable assembly had been rumbling along in this vein for some time. There were few who disputed the assertion that brother Pious had finally lost whatever passing acquaintance he had ever enjoyed with reality. Having concluded Pious to be in the grip of some sort of psychosis, the assembly had turned their eager imaginations to the question of what should be done about - or rather to - the inconvenient young monk.

Opinions varied. There were those, like Standfast, who recommended an indefinite stay in an unpadded room at The Lodge. Others, who had paid Muggert in advance, were less sympathetic. This latter faction felt that remediation of a more acute nature was called for and were advocating some rather extreme measures. The only person trying to save Pious from such a fate was an unassuming old monk with an unruly tangle of hair. He was Pious’ personal mentor and went by the name of Father Serenity. He was not enjoying much support.

The monastery is never going to live this one down, mourned Standfast.

Oh, come now, brother, said Father Serenity. I’m sure it’ll all blow over in a little while.

Standfast remained unmollified. I’ve had complaints from half the people in the city. According to Father Goodstead, it’s still absolute madness down at The Lodge.

"Well, it is an asylum, Brother."

Maybe so, but half of them won’t come out from under their beds. Apparently there’s a group of assorted psychotics leaping about in the yard, refusing to come in and one crazy old bugger who keeps pointing at the sky and giggling.

They’ll calm down eventually, I expect.

I’ve even had a complaint from Major Thurlow at the prison. He says all hell has broken loose and he’s had to call in the executioner on his day off.

By unfortunate chance, a few bottles of rather potent moonshine had landed, unbroken, in the muddy exercise yard just as the inmates were having their morning trudge. The prison guards, still gaping in awe at the aftermath of the explosion, failed to realise what was going on. The routine walk turned, at first, into a pronounced stagger and progressed swiftly into a full-blown riot. The executioner became a busy man and got the whole of the next week off. On full pay.

We’ll be the laughing stock of the city, concluded Standfast.

The reputation of All Saints is tarnished! cried one old monk. We must move quickly to clear our good name.

The assembly met this assertion with voluble approval.

Immediate discipline!

Strong action!

Hear, hear!

In the midst of the hysteria, the door swung open to reveal the forbidding frame of Father Constantine. Silence descended.

Gentlemen. He entered. What passes?

I called this synod to determine what we are to do about this morning’s outrage, snapped Standfast. Where have you been?

At the palace.

Oh.

More silence.

Though resident at All Saints, Constantine did not belong to the order; he had been seconded there, holding no official position. What exactly his duties were, no one seemed to know. He had arrived some months previously, accompanied by a young acolyte and bearing with him a message from the Archbishop of Estamar. The missive, after enquiring politely as to the health and spiritual well being of All Saints and assuring one and all of His Grace’s good wishes, stated that Constantine and his assistant would be visiting the monastery indefinitely. And that was it.

Father Standfast, while very intrigued and slightly uncomfortable with the arrangement, promptly wrote to the Archbishop pledging compliance. His subtle enquiry as to what Constantine’s duties were went pointedly unanswered.

Generally, Constantine kept to himself, spending most days in the monastery’s library with his assistant, emerging infrequently to deliver an occasional lecture to the young monks and acolytes. Standfast felt that Constantine had offered to do so as a means to reconnoitre the younger inhabitants of All Saints. He was right. Another thing that had annoyed Standfast was that soon after Constantine’s arrival, a messenger arrived from the palace. The Queen had requested an audience with the new father at his earliest convenience. Standfast was rather put out. When his own presence was required at the palace, he was simply summoned. Constantine seemed to be able to pop over and visit whenever he wanted. It rankled.

And so, Brothers… Constantine let his gaze roam the assembly. How have you decided to reward the young man’s zealous defence of the institution’s spiritual integrity?

Defence? Are you… spluttered an incensed father. But his outrage faded as Constantine turned to him.

I think the last suggestion involved a load of firewood and a large stake, said Father Serenity. Something like that, anyway.

I see, said Constantine, but while I must admit the young man’s methods lacked subtlety, I am at something of a loss as to how what he did was wrong in the eyes of the church. Enlighten me, brothers.

There was a general mumbling, but no one accepted the invitation.

It would seem to me that our young brother’s actions would be a source of vexation only to the keeper of that hoard of liquor… and of course, those wayward members of the order who fail to resist temptation.

Not a lot of eye contact was being made at this stage and more than a little embarrassed shuffling of feet was going on out of sight. Constantine tended to have that effect on people.

I think, said Serenity, with a faint twinkle in his eyes, that the concerns of my esteemed brethren have more to do with the possible damage that this unfortunate event could have done to the monastery’s reputation.

There was some nodding.

Ah yes, said Constantine. Quite understandable, really. Any monk worthy of the calling would spring to the defence of his order’s good name.

This was greeted with more nodding and a few grunts of approval. The assembly gathered for a rush at the loophole that was opening before them.

But in that case, Brothers, I am glad to bring you good news. Constantine smiled. The quite unexpected change in his usually severe expression took the assembly entirely by surprise. The Queen herself regards this morning’s events as a firm commitment by yourselves to the law of the church and she appreciates the no nonsense approach the order has shown. The people of the city are aware of the statement that has been made. Constantine congratulated the assembly on their unwavering adherence to noble traditions and the general good work for which they were - he maintained - well known throughout the church. Such an outpouring of affirmation from Constantine was, in their experience, unprecedented. And most welcome. This was definitely more like it. Gentlemen! Constantine’s voice resounded in the chamber. This great institution’s standing has been edified. All Saints serves as the conscience of the people - it is a reminder of how things ought to be done!

The synod erupted in assent. More liquor could be bought, but moral rectitude was without price. There were smiles all round as well as a little back slapping, some of which went the way of an amused father Serenity. Even those who had bemoaned their financial loss saw some compensation in their reaffirmed perch atop the moral high ground. Besides, the shed may have gone, but not so the durable Muggert.

Now, brothers, said Constantine. As for the question of what to do about young Pious…

He addressed the assembly for a while, his suggestions enjoying the full support of Father Standfast and his brethren. Eventually, all minds having been set at ease, the assembly adjourned in righteous spirits.

On his way out, Constantine approached father Standfast. If we might have a private word, brother?

But, of course, Father Constantine! Standfast was clearly revitalised. May I enquire what it is about?

Your nephew, the acolyte Thomas.

Oh. Standfast deflated.

Do not worry, brother. Constantine put a friendly arm around the man’s shoulders. I have an idea that I think offers an acceptable solution.

Standfast sighed. Yes, I thought you might.

*

Tucked away in a room off the library in the rambling basement, Constantine’s assistant was hard at work, hunched over an aging table that groaned beneath a load of books. The young monk’s name was Andreas. As he read, the light from the oil lamps played across his face, showing the high forehead and fine features that characterised people from the mountains. He did not notice as the door behind him swung open. Constantine made a soft sound to alert Andreas to his arrival. Mountain folk could be highly-strung; a consequence of living in a place where anything that crept up on you was likely to possess large teeth and a healthy appetite. Andreas tensed, but then relaxed and raised his eyes.

For a big man, you make far too little sound, do you know that?

It is a talent for which I have often been very grateful. Constantine pulled up a chair. It’s not a habit I can afford to give up just yet.

Does that mean we’re leaving? Andreas’ face brightened. The young man, though content in the service of his master, was not accustomed to spending a great deal of time indoors and the months in The City had been a something of a trial for him.

No, I’m afraid we have to wait a while, said Constantine. We must cover the backs of those who go before us. But don’t be too upset, we’ll be following in due course. Besides, at least you’ll not have to spend all your time in this dungeon any more. Things have been set in motion.

You’ve convinced them already?

Yes. Well, of course our two young pilgrims unwittingly conspired to make it a lot easier. The worthies of All Saints couldn’t wait to get Pious out of the way. I suspect they’re lining up to place a bumper order with old Muggert even as we speak.

And Thomas? inquired Andreas. I wouldn’t have thought Father Standfast keen on his nephew accompanying such an… expedition.

No, probably not, but he also provided some assistance. Constantine gave Andreas a colourful account of Thomas’ indiscretion and its subsequent discovery.

Eventually, Andreas got the better of his laughter and became his usual, serious self once more.

So how did you convince him to go to Estamar?

Eh? Constantine had been trying to remember when last he’d seen the young man laugh and reflecting, a little guiltily, that it had been far too long. Oh, well it was quite simple, really. He’s rather ashamed of himself. I believe he sees our little venture as an opportunity to atone - a sort of noble exile. Then again, the girl’s father is a rather important, yet unsavoury character down in Old Town. This may also have contributed to his new found wanderlust.

Some atonement, said Andreas. I’d rather have taken my chances with the father.

No doubt. But then you’ve a little more experience in these matters, haven’t you?

Andreas nodded. And Pious… how did you get him to throw in his lot?

Before Constantine could reply, the door crashed open, slamming into a table and scattering books across the flagstones. It was father Serenity and he looked anything but serene. His eyes blazed.

Put that away, boy! He snarled, glancing at the thin dagger that had materialised in Andreas’ hand. It wouldn’t do you any good.

Constantine nodded at Andreas and the weapon vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Besides, Serenity aimed a finger at Constantine, my business is with this conniving bastard.

Hello, Simon, said Constantine.

Don’t you bloody ‘hello Simon’ me! What the hell do you think you’re playing at, this time?

What are you talking about?

"Don’t bugger me around, Constantine! Pious is an innocent, you hear me. The boy knows nothing. Now he is to ‘visit a small order in Estamar’. You didn’t even tell him the place’s name." The last word was a shout. The old man was very close to losing his temper. Andreas noticed, with alarm, that the room grew suddenly cold and the flames of the oil lamps were tinged with a strange violet colour.

Stop it, Simon, said Constantine. Please.

The old monk’s eyes regained their focus and the air of menace faded. When he spoke, his voice sounded tired. How can you be sure?

"You’ve studied the book, Simon. Chapter thirteen, as you well know…‘They will be found at the water’s edge in the home of the saints. In one there will be no vice and on him all arts shall fail. He will embody piety, in nature…

And in name, completed Simon. Yes, that’s all very well. But he’s hardly the only monk called Pious. Not to mention that, unless one views sanctimony as a virtue, he’s hardly pure.

You said so yourself, Simon. He’s an innocent. He’s not supposed to be pure. After all, there is only one pure being. Constantine paused. She’s nearly ten years old, now.

I know, Simon snapped. Stop changing the subject. I’m still not convinced that we should send the boy. He is utterly without preparation.

That’s the point, said Constantine. You don’t prepare an innocent; it defeats the object. Sending him has to be an act of faith and you know it. I really don’t understand your objections. The book is quite clear.

That bloody book was written by an incontinent lunatic!

Andreas gasped at the blasphemy. He was about to protest, but the old monk cut him off. Besides, I’ve seen the results of these acts of faith - getting involved in them seldom has happy consequences.

I understand your concerns for the boy, said Constantine. And I share them, but go he must. He has been chosen for a reason. Granted, the Prophet was not without his little idiosyncrasies, but that book has been accurate in every one of its predictions so far.

I’m well aware of that. Simon grimaced. But surely he should receive some training, first?

"What are you going to train him to do, Simon? He is suited to go because of what he is, not what he knows. You cannot train an impune."

An impune? exclaimed Andreas. "Pious?"

Yes, said Constantine. But not the partial we see every now and again. Pious is a total impune - utterly unaffected by any form of magic. Very much a case of ‘on him all arts shall fail’. Not so, Simon?

True, but I wouldn’t mind knowing how you found out.

Well, the fact that you’d taken the boy on was a clue. Normally you have little time for those of the righteous persuasion. So I tested him.

You tested him? This seemed to amuse the old man. "How did you manage that? As I recall, you have difficulty spelling magic, let alone using it."

Constantine shrugged. I sent word back east to Maria and she provided me with a simple spell. She said I should read it to the boy and if he were anything but an impune, his reaction would reveal it.

Simon was grinning. And?

I read it to him and he just looked at me with a confused expression on his face.

Yes?

Well, if you must know, the next thing I could smell smoke and it felt as if my backside had caught alight. I was half way to the door before I realised what was going on. The illusion had somehow bounced back. It took a while to go away, too.

That sounds about right. Simon chuckled. He’s not just impervious to magic, but seems to somehow reflect any that is directed at him. Never heard of anything like it before.

How do you know about this? asked Andreas. I thought magic was forbidden in this order.

Ah well, you see, said Constantine, Simon here has not always been a monk. Beneath that disarming cassock lurks a rather accomplished magician.

You forgot to mention the bare knuckle boxing, said the old monk.

An oversight. But now surely, Simon, you would agree with me that this boy has to be sent.

I don’t disagree that he may have to go to Estamar. I just don’t like the idea of sending an untried and untrained young man to face what you’re dealing with. It’s sending a lamb to the slaughter.

I don’t like it any more than you do. But he has to be sent… and he must go immediately.

That’s where I disagree. What’s the rush? Just a few months of preparation would be a great help to the boy. Why so soon?

The events of chapter fourteen have begun, said Constantine. The darkness grows again.

What events?

Before I explain, could you ensure our privacy?

Privacy? Simon raised an eyebrow. Well yes, I suppose, if you really think it necessary. He stepped into the room and closed the door. Now if you two would stand still for a moment. The old monk bowed his head and began to mutter. After a pause, he raised his eyes and made a vague, circular motion with one hand. Andreas felt the air in the room change, his ears popping as the spell of isolation took hold.

There you go. Simon seemed quite pleased with himself.

Handy folk, magicians, said Constantine.

Anyway, as you were saying…

It all started about a year and a half ago, Constantine began. Our advance scouts on the Carn border began reporting increased troop movements in the area. It seemed that His Eminence was beginning to gather forces along the frontier. There were also reports detailing expeditions of Carnian soldiers into the mountains, some of them deep into the territory of the High Queen.

Surely she would have been aware of them? They couldn’t have lasted too long.

Many patrols were too small to warrant her reaction. Just a couple of troops at a time. She saw to the larger ones, but it didn’t seem to be much of a deterrent. They kept on coming and varying their routes. She eventually decided that they were just testing her defences. Considering her frontier has its weak points like any other, she felt that responding to the incursions was giving them intelligence that she’d rather they didn’t have. She stopped wiping out the patrols as a matter of course and started orchestrating her responses in such a way as to give them the wrong impression.

She’s always been smart. How does she deal with those patrols, still ice storms and avalanches?

Pretty much, although she’s taken to using the Snowbeasts from time to time.

Nasty.

Mmm… Anyway, things continued like that for quite a while and then the abductions began.

Abductions?

At first no one noticed anything strange. A monk would go missing here, a priest there, that sort of thing. You know what life is like up there - people go missing occasionally. It’s a hard place.

I remember. So how do you know they were abducted?

The disappearances followed a pattern. When people went missing, it always seemed to coincide with reports of Carnian incursions and the abducted were of a certain sort. All of them possessed some sort of magical or mystical ability.

Anyone I know?

I’m afraid so.

Who?

Michael was one of the first they took.

Simon became still. Anyone else?

There were one or two others whom you may remember, but…

But what?

Well, it’s unconfirmed, I cannot be sure.

Just tell me, Constantine.

The last word I had was that Martin was missing.

The old monk bowed his head at the sound of his brother’s name. Missing for how long? he asked, his voice strained.

A week when the message was sent. replied Constantine. That was four weeks ago.

I see. Simon took a slow breath. So what is that evil bastard doing? Killing us off, one by one?

Well, it would take him a long time, at this rate. Besides, Mariah does not think they are dead.

What do you mean, think? She should know, one way or the other. Especially in Martin’s case.

She cannot sense the life of those missing. But she also says that so far she has not sensed their passing, either. It’s as if they are somehow hidden from her.

But that’s impossible.

Constantine shrugged. I’m only telling you what Mariah has told me. It appears we are dealing with some new evil that Kyrelius has conceived.

Andreas shivered at the name.

It would seem, however, to be consistent with the predictions at the beginning of chapter fourteen. Constantine began to quote. The lost will not be found among the mountains. They are in darkness and their voices will not be heard. And so the evil will stir anew.

Simon waved his hand impatiently. "Yes, I know all that, but don’t you have a more specific idea of what’s going on. At least something a little bit clearer than stirrings and darkness and all that