Chapter 7.3.4

Christians are a strange people, often inviting personal assault so that they can demonstrate their faith by not fighting back, yet killing if they think their god has been insulted. It is a strange logic to think that their god would demand violent justice when they may not, but people are rarely logical. Why should we expect more of the gods?

So it was that I, standing beside a devoted follower of the faith and wearing his trappings as a disguise, felt myself to be in grave danger. On the other hand, Silent Monks are sworn to do good by all.

And the way back led me into the hands of Sharp.

We stopped before an old, cracked screen, its brittle frame propped up by a heavy trunk. The monk handed me his candle, then stooped and shoved the trunk away. He pulled back the screen, exposing a crevice in the wall. Taking back his candle, he motioned for me to enter.
Nervously, I stepped in – and my heart slammed in my chest when I heard the screen move back. I turned as a loud scrape announced that the trunk was back in place. Through the cracks in the screen I could see his candlelight, and how it faded as he walked away.

I was trapped, quite alone, and no one knew I was there. For so many years I had prayed for such obscurity and loneliness, yet now I wanted to give it back. I had met a wonderful woman, and I did not want to die without her ever knowing what had become of me. Yet it seemed I had no choice, for I was trapped in a tunnel of rock, in silence, and when my flickering candle burned down, I would not even see death come.

Flickering candle. Candles do not flicker when there is no draft. The flame bent away from the depths of the tunnel; fresh air came from below. This wasn’t a trap, but an escape. I thanked the strange monk for his generosity, and took the path before me.

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.