Chapter 7.3.3

Nothing happened. The door closed behind me, and I was wrapped in flickering shadows. At the front of the room, a prayer table stood before an ornate gilded screen, and above it hung a sculpture of their god, in the form of a man nailed to a wooden cross. Briars cut his head and deep slash wounded his side. I knew that the Christians worshiped the painful death of a man, claiming that all goodness and mercy flowed from this act of horror, but I was not prepared for the emotion which flowed from this statue, their god. It was not anger and judgement, which I would have expected, but grace and forgiveness.

Is this, then, why they so freely tortured others? Did they expect that all people would follow their example of their god, and forgive those who hurt them the most? It made a strange sort of sense.

A dozen people sat in the pews, waiting, but for what I did not know. Nor did I know what I would do when the monk took me before them, and I would be expected to sing. Perhaps the guardians of the Christian shine were not the stone gargoyles, but the flesh and blood within. My heart now slammed against my rib cage as I looked at the man on the cross and saw that there were worse ways to die than by Sharp’s sword.

But the monk turned and took me to one of the alcoves on the side of the chapel, where a brace of candles lit the statue of a robed man. The monk bowed to the statue, then signed to me, "Go now while the Bard thinks you are in the service."

"Go where?"

The monk pointed behind the statue. Then, plucking two candles from a basket beside the statue, he lit them from one of the candles in the brace, and led the way to a hidden entrance. Beyond it was a tightly circling staircase leading down. Songless Castle has a tower which is five stories high; I think we traveled twice that distance.

We came out in a rough cut chamber filled with books and old furniture. The room smelled musty and mildewed, and everything was covered with a layer of fine, white dust. We followed a winding path past racks of wine bottles, battered chests, and faded screens. Our feet left marks on the floor, and empty shadows danced along the walls. This was a room rarely visited, a place to leave things, a tomb for forgotten dreams.

What better place to murder a Pagan intruder?

Chapter 7.3.2

Just then a arm slid though mine, and I was guided away from the keep door and toward a smaller door in a castle tower. My savior was a Silent Monk, the taller of the two I had seen singing in the chapel days before. His hands moved as he said, "We must not be late for prayers, brother."

I nodded.

Within the shadow of his hood, I could just barely see his face. It was narrow, with a strong chin and a beak of a nose, and sharp blue eyes set close together. He was half-familiar to me – when had I seen him? During my one visit to Rockridge, years before? In Slatten? A visitor to Songless Castle? Nothing seemed right.

This was not the time to discuss our previous acquaintance, however. Sharp followed us closely as the monk led me to the chapel, his sacred shrine. What would happen when I put my Pagan foot upon that sacred floor? Would their god come out in fury and fire, and consume me where I stood? Would the stone guardians on the lintel come to life and tear me limb from limb? Would their angels and demons rip out my soul and feed my flesh to their dogs? Master Meiltung had told us all these stories, and more, and my heart hammered as I came closer to my doom.

Wary, Sharp stopped at the threshold, while I was led like a sacrifice over it.

Chapter 7.3.1

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My plan was to loiter in Rockridge castle until midnight, when I would slip out the sally port and then make my way down the mountainside to the town of Krast, where the others would be waiting at the tavern. It was a logical place for a badly wounded emissary to spend the night, and the visit of a Silent Monk to a dying man should bring no suspicion. My plans, however, faced a sudden fault in the form of the Bard leaning against the doorsill.

Sharp was wrapped in his traveling cloak, with his lute strapped to his back. His arms were crossed – but at the sight of me his narrow chin jerked upwards. Monk, he mouthed, as he reached for his sword.

Damn it, he should have been in the Great Hall, playing for his supper and smiling for his bed, not preparing himself for a journey. Once again I had no sword to defend myself, for it was locked in my trunk. Along with Skyfire.

Sharp’s eyes narrowed as his hand closed on nothing. But he still had his hands, and the power to pull back my disguise. He moved toward me.

Chapter 7.2

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Torches barely touched the sodden darkness of the courtyard where my carriage waited for us. Sounds of merriment came from the Great Hall, where Lord Guerney and his castle enjoyed their dinner while we were being sent on our way without ours. Only a few soldiers, the castle Steward, and a Silent Monk were there to watch us leave.

Jason and Ison came out first, carrying my trunk between them. They carefully lifted it to the top of the carriage and lashed it down, then went back to get the rest of their things. When those were secured, Ison climbed up to the driver’s seat while Jason went back to help Charles with my limp form. I was wrapped up tight against the cold, with scarf and gloves, and it was obvious that I was in no shape to travel. The Silent Monk signed a blessing at the travesty.

As I was placed into the carriage, the Steward came forward and spoke to Charles, and handed him a folded letter. He tried to look into my face, but I was not about to give him the satisfaction of seeing his Lord’s handiwork. I lay slumped in the seat.

Jason took his seat beside Ison, and Charles climbed in and shut the carriage door. And then the Captain of the guard moved forward with a tall, muscular man. The Captain gestured to the other man, who hefted a broadsword and drove it into the side of my trunk.

My men promptly protested this destruction of my property, but could do nothing else. The Captain responded that if were not smuggling anything from the castle, then no harm had been done.

Then the castle gates opened. My carriage rolled through, and the doors shut soundly behind it. I turned, pulling my bare feet from the ankle deep mud, and walked toward the keep. On my way I signed a blessing on the ashen-faced Steward who still stared after the departed carriage.