“This is my fault,” Cormack said unexpectedly when they entered the now-empty dungeon.
The others turned to regard him.
“I should have recognized their ruse,” Cormack improvised. “Their unwillingness to eat.”
“What do you know of this?” Brother Giavno demanded.
“It was an enchantment, do you not see?” Cormack asked. “They were not starving themselves in protest, to die before converting to our ways. At their shaman’s instruction, they were starving themselves that he, or one of the others, could thin himself appropriately so that he could slip his bonds. Oh, but we should have guessed!”
“You babble!” Giavno said.
“Let him continue,” bade Father De Guilbe.
Cormack held up his arms and shook his head. “Their magic is tied to the natural way,” he tried to explain. “Perhaps—yes, I think it likely—their imposed starvation was merely so that they, their shaman, could enact some spell to further thin his wrists and hands.”
“Those bindings were tight,” another monk protested. “I tied them myself.”
“That was many days ago,” Cormack reminded. “The captives were far heavier then—all of them.”
“You cannot know,” Giavno said.
“Agreed,” said Cormack. “But somehow they managed to slip their bonds. It all makes sense now, I fear—their starvation, their confidence, their impudence. When first we encountered these people, before the lines of intransigence and battle were etched, I learned much of their ways, and I know their magic is tied to the natural. Their shamans have spells to make their warriors appear taller, to strike fear into their enemies. It is said that their greatest spiritualists can shape change into animal form, much like the great Samhaists of legend.”
“So you believe that their refusal to eat was a design to allow them escape?” Father De Guilbe asked.
To Cormack’s ears, the large man didn’t sound very convinced. Nor did Giavno, scowling at him from the side of the small dungeon, appear overly enthusiastic for Cormack’s improvised lie. But now Cormack had to carry it through, of course. “It makes sense in the context of what I know about their type of magic,” he said. “I should have guessed this ruse.”
He shook his head and moved aside, hoping to take their scrutiny off of him before more holes could be shot into his theory. To his great relief, Father De Guilbe merely said, “Perhaps your assessment is correct. Clever fools, though fools they remain.” He turned his attention to the other two lesser brothers in the room. “Search the whole of the keep, of the tunnels and the compound,” he ordered. “Likely they went out to the open lake—that would explain the departure of their stubborn kin. But if they remain, find them posthaste.”
The pair started right out, sweeping Cormack up with them as they began their exhaustive search.
“And doubly secure that grate,” Father De Guilbe called after them, and he paused to listen to the receding footsteps. “Brother Cormack thinks he has sorted out the mystery,” he said to Giavno when they were securely alone.
“Perhaps he has,” said Giavno as he moved around the wooden wall that had served to hold the bindings of the prisoners. “Though I wonder,” he said when he got to the back, “if the shaman reduced his wrist and hand enough to slip his bonds, then why are all four of the binding ropes cut?”
Father De Guilbe gave a noncommittal shrug as if it did not matter—and at that, it really didn’t seem to. The Alpinadorans were gone, escaped, and the men and women of Yossunfier had left Chapel Isle, bringing the whole ordeal to an end. That Cormack would be proven right or wrong seemed of little consequence. With a wave of his hand, a dejected Father De Guilbe left the dungeon.
Brother Giavno certainly understood that malaise. What had they been fighting for, after all? The souls of four men had been taken from them, somehow, some way, whether through Alpinadoran magic, or simple stubbornness, or …
A slight smile creased Giavno’s face as he considered the torn bindings, as he considered the explanation offered by Brother Cormack.
The unsolicited explanation.
I should never have doubted you,” Milkeila said breathlessly as she stood on the sandbar in Cormack’s arms under a brilliant, starry sky.
“Speak not of it,” Cormack bade her.
“But Androosis has already written songs to Corma—”
“I beg of you,” said Cormack, hushing her with finger pressed to her lips. “That battle, that siege, all of it, is nothing I wish to relive or remember at all.”
“It was painful to you to see the truth of your Church brothers,” Milkeila reasoned. “And to betray them.”
“And to see the truth of your people, no less stubborn.”
Milkeila moved back to arm’s length, scrutinizing Cormack sternly. “We did not hold prisoners,” she reminded him. “We did not invade your lands insisting that you convert to our ways!”
Cormack hushed her again, and tried to kiss her, but she avoided him. “I know,” he said. “And you know how I feel about it.” She started to argue, but he wouldn’t let her get a word in at that point. “And you know what I just did. Have you forgotten so quickly?”
“Of course I’ve not!”
“Then kiss me!” Cormack said playfully, trying desperately to turn this conversation to a lighter place.
Milkeila recognized that and smiled, and did indeed kiss Cormack, surrendering to him as they slid down together to the sandbar. As they fumbled with their clothing, Cormack paused and brought forth the gemstone necklace. Milkeila didn’t argue with him as he placed it over her head.
Sitting idly and alone in a small boat out on the lake, Brother Giavno listened to their lovemaking as he had listened to their conversation, marveling at how well sound traveled across the dark waters on a night so clear.
He wasn’t really surprised that Cormack had been the one to betray them, of course, but it stung him profoundly nonetheless. The young and handsome brother, so full of fire and potential, strong of arm and strong with the gemstones, simply did not understand the meaning of what it was to be an Abellican brother as they moved toward completion of the first century of their Church. Cormack’s way was the art of exhaustive compromise, and that in a world full of enemies who would accept such Abellican concessions only as a pretense for their continued road to dominance.
For the Abellicans were at that time involved in a great struggle with the Samhaists, who would not forsake their old and brutal ways. Were it not for that ancient cult, Cormack’s overly abundant tolerance of others—even of powries—might itself be tolerated within the Church.
But that was not the case. Not now. Not with all of Honce aflame as laird battled laird and both churches, Abellican and Samhaist, struggled mightily for supremacy. The other races, human and otherwise, had no choice but to pick sides. Neutrality was not an option.
Nor was tolerance for barbarians who would not see the truth and beauty of Blessed Abelle.
Brother Giavno had always liked Cormack, but hearing the man fornicating with a barbarian, a shaman no less, was more than his sensibilities could handle.
Cormack glided his craft easily onto the sand, lightly scrambling out and dragging the boat the rest of the way out of the water. Another boat rested nearby, flipped over, and the two handlers, whose job it was to make sure that all the craft were properly stored and secured whenever they were not in use, rested aside the paddles of the first returned craft and hustled over to help Cormack.
“Father De Guilbe wishes to speak with you,” one of them told the returning sailor monk. “And what did you catch for us this day?”
Cormack held up a pair of trout strung on a line—fish that Milkeila had given to him, as was their custom whenever they met on the sandbar.
“You always do better when you’re out alone,” the other boathandler said. “They should put you out there every day!”
Cormack grinned and nodded, thinking that meeting Milkeila at their special place daily
wouldn’t be so bad a thing. None of the three on the beach understood the prophetic nature of the remarks, however.
With a noticeably lighter step, Cormack trotted back up from the beach to the chapel, and indeed all of Chapel Isle seemed as if a great weight had been lifted from it, as if perpetual storm clouds had at last parted. The three-week siege had taxed the brothers greatly, and though they were not all thrilled that their prisoners had escaped, and less thrilled that four of their ranks had been lost to battle and several others would be a long time in recovering, life got back to somewhat normal fairly quickly.
It occurred to Cormack that the work on the walls hadn’t been this frenetic since the early days of construction. Frenetic and with true zeal, he realized, for the brothers were going at their labors with a renewed sense of purpose, as if they were finally, finally, doing much more than the simple tasks necessary for day-today survival. They had built the chapel for defense and as a celebration of Blessed Abelle. Now they had seen it through its former purpose firsthand. They had witnessed what had worked and what hadn’t; already many plans had been drawn up for strengthening the walls and giving the brothers more and better options for repelling any future attackers. Mingled in with those practical plans were the requisite glorious design features, the marks of pride and gratitude to their patron.
“Purpose,” Cormack whispered as he crossed into the courtyard. He wondered then if that need to find meaning wasn’t in some twisted way responsible for the continuing warfare among the various peoples and powries of the Mithranidoon islands. Without the ever-present enemies, could the folk of the islands find meaning in their lives?
It was a truly chilling thought for the gentlehearted man, but he didn’t let it weight the spring in his step.
Brother Giavno’s look at him as he entered Father De Guilbe’s office did exactly that, however, a withering gaze that immediately sent Cormack’s thoughts back to the beach, to the second, overturned boat, which had obviously been recently returned.
“Fa … Father De Guilbe, I was told that you wished to speak to me,” Cormack managed to stutter, though his eyes never left Giavno as he spoke.
“Where have you been?” the leader of Chapel Isle replied, and Cormack couldn’t miss the undertone of his voice, so full of disappointment.
He turned to regard the man, and paused just a few moments to collect his thoughts and to try and sort all this out before answering, “Fishing. I go often, and with Brother Giavno’s blessing. I landed two this day—one of good size—”
“You fish from your boat or from another island?”
“The boat, of course—”
“Then why were you on an island?” Father De Guilbe demanded. “It was an island, was it not? Where you met with the barbarian woman?”
Stunned, Cormack shook his head. “Father, I …”
This time De Guilbe did not interrupt, but the stammering Cormack couldn’t find a response anyway.
“You freed them,” Father De Guilbe accused. “During the frenzy of battle you slipped into the tunnels and freed our four prisoners.”
“No, Father.”
De Guilbe’s sigh profoundly wounded the young monk. “Do not compound your crime with lies, Brother.” He paused and sighed again, shaking his head, before finishing, simply, “Cormack.”
“Four souls for Blessed Abelle released to pursue heathen ways that will surely damn them for eternity,” Brother Giavno put in harshly. “How will you reconcile your conscience with that, I wonder?”
“No,” Cormack said, still shaking his head. “We thought they were not eating in protest, but it was an enchantment, perhaps. Or …”
“Brother Giavno followed you out onto the lake, Cormack,” said Father De Guilbe, and again, his omission of Cormack’s Abellican title struck hard at the young monk’s sensibilities. “He heard you with the woman—all of it. And while your lust could be rather easily forgiven and atoned for—brothers often surrender to such urges—the action which precipitated your tryst is a different matter.”
Cormack stared at him blankly, and indeed, that was exactly how he felt. He replayed his conversation with Milkeila in his head, and quickly recognized that an eavesdropping Giavno had heard more than enough to erase any doubt, or to defeat any protests coming forth from him. So he stood there and took Father De Guilbe’s stream of anger, and he felt an empty vessel through it all, though he would not let that venom fill him.
“How could you betray us like that?” De Guilbe demanded. “Men died to protect that treasure: the souls of four Alpinadoran barbarians. Four of your brethren are dead, and a fifth might soon join them! What would you say to their families? Their parents? How would you explain to them that their sons died for nothing?”
“Too many were dying,” Cormack said, his voice barely above a whisper, but the room went absolutely silent as he started to speak and all heard him well enough. “Too many were still to die.”
“We would have held them!” Brother Giavno insisted.
“Then we would have murdered them all,” Cormack retorted. “Surely there is nothing holy in that action. Surely Blessed Abelle—”
The name had barely escaped his lips when a bolt of lightning erupted from Father De Guilbe’s hand and threw Cormack back hard to slam into the doorjamb. He crumpled to the floor, disoriented and writhing in pain.
“Strip him down and tie him in the open courtyard,” Father De Guilbe instructed, and Giavno waved a couple of monks over to collect the fallen man.
As Cormack was dragged away, Brother Giavno faced Father De Guilbe directly. “Twenty hard lashes,” De Guilbe started to say, but he stopped and corrected himself. “Fifty. And with barbs.”
“That will almost surely kill him.”
“Then he will be dead. He betrayed us beyond redemption. Administer the beating without remorse or amelioration. Beat him until you are weary, then hand the whip off to the strongest brother in the chapel. Fifty—no less, though I care not if you exceed the mandate. If he is dead at forty, administer the last ten to his corpse.”
Brother Giavno felt the deep remorse in Father De Guilbe’s voice, and he sympathized completely. This business was neither pleasant nor pleasurable, but it was certainly necessary. The fool Cormack had made his choice, and he had betrayed his brethren for the sake of barbarians—barbarians who were assailing Chapel Isle at the time of Cormack’s treachery.
That could not stand.
Brother Giavno nodded solemnly to his superior and turned to leave. Before he got to the door, De Guilbe said to him, “Should he somehow survive the beating, or should he not, put him in a small boat and tow him out onto the lake. Leave him for the trolls or the fish or the carrion birds. Brother Cormack is already dead to us.”
More than two hours later, the semiconscious Cormack was unceremoniously dropped into the smallest and worst boat in Chapel Isle’s small fleet as it bobbed on the low surf at the island’s edge.
“Is he already dead?” one of the monks asked to the group congregating around the craft.
“Who’s to care?” another answered with a disgusted snort—which pretty well summed up the mood. Many of these men had been friends of Cormack’s, some had even looked up to him. But his betrayal was a raw wound to them all, and too fresh a revelation for any to take a step back and see any perspective on this other than the harsh sentence imposed by Father De Guilbe.
For other friends of theirs, like Brother Moorkris, had died in protecting the prisoners and the chapel. Arguing about whether or not Father De Guilbe’s decision to keep their prisoners and accept the siege and battle was not their prerogative, nor had any found the time to do so. Their jobs had focused simply on survival, on beating back the enemy whatever the reasons for the enemy being there.
On a logical level, some might come to understand and accept Cormack’s treacherous actions. On a visceral level, the fallen brother had gotten exactly what he had deserved.
“If he’s still alive, he’s not long
for it,” another brother said.
Giavno stepped forward and tossed a red beret, Cormack’s powrie cap, into the boat atop the prostrate, bleeding man. “It is a wound to every heart on Chapel Isle,” he said. “Cast him out that the currents might take him to a cove where the beasts will feast, and when he is gone we will speak no more of fallen Brother Cormack.”
Giavno turned and walked away and a group took hold of the small craft, guiding it toward the water. One man paused long enough to take the beret and set it upon Cormack’s head, and when he looked at the curious stares coming at him for the action, he merely shrugged. “Seems fitting.”
They all laughed—it was either that or cry—and brought the boat out onto the lake, giving it a strong shove to get it away from the island far enough so that one or another of the many crisscrossing currents caused by the underground hot streams that fed the lake would catch it.
“If it washes back in, I’ll tie it to another and tow it far out,” one brother volunteered, but that wasn’t necessary. As a brilliant orange sunset graced the western sky, the stark, low silhouette of Cormack’s funereal boat at last moved out of sight.
EIGHTEEN
Dame Gwydre’s Trump
He walked with a sure and determined stride that mocked time itself, for he had seen seven decades of life and could pace men one-third his age. He stood tall and broad-shouldered, but his thick muscles had slackened, and his skin, so weathered in the northern sun, had sagged a bit. Still, no one doubted that the large fist of this man, Jameston Sequin, could flatten a nose and take both cheekbones with it!
His hair was long and gray, his beard not so long and still showing hints of the darker colors of his earlier years, and his great and thick mustache stood out most of all. He wore a tri-cornered cap, one he had fashioned, one that had been considered unique when he had fashioned it. Long and narrow, it trailed back from a roundpointed front to a flattened back that was just a bit wider than his head, and he kept a black feather along its right side, bent low to follow the line of the hat.