White Wolf Read online

  “What about his boys?” asked Braygan.

  “After he was beaten by the mob some of the children came to where he lay and kicked him. You think it is over now, Brother Braygan?”

  “Yes. Yes, I think so. Everything seems calmer.”

  “It is these Arbiters, you know,” said Anager. “They stir up trouble. Is it true that Brother Lantern thrashed one of them?”

  “He did not thrash anyone. The man was clumsy and fell badly.”

  “It is said that there have been many killings in the capital,” said Anager, blinking rapidly. He lowered his voice. “It is even said they might loose the beasts. What if they come here?”

  “Why would they allow the beasts to come here? The war is in the south and east.”

  “Yes, yes you are right. Of course you are. They won’t send beasts here. I saw one, you know. I went to the Games earlier this year. Ghastly. Huge. Four men went in against it. It killed them all. Horrible. Part bear, they said. Dreadful. A monstrosity. It is so wrong, Braygan. So wrong.”

  Braygan agreed, and thought it best not to point out that priests were forbidden to watch blood sports.

  He left the kitchens and made his way up to the lower hall and out into the vegetable gardens. Several of the brothers were working there. As Braygan arrived they asked after Brother Labberan. He told them he thought him a little better today, though a part of his mind considered that to be wishful thinking. Brother Labberan was a broken man in more ways than one. For an hour Braygan worked alongside them, planting tubers taken carefully from large brown sacks. Then he was summoned to the abbot’s offices.

  Braygan was nervous as he stood outside the door. He wondered which of his many errors had been pointed out to the abbot. He was supposed to have organized the mending of the chapel roof, but the new lead for the flashing had not arrived. Then there was the error with the dyes. It had not been his fault. The sack had split as he was adding the yellow. It should only have been two measures. More like ten had spilled into the vat. The result was a horrible, unusable orange color, which had to be flushed away. It wouldn’t have happened had Brother Nasley not borrowed the measuring jug.

  Braygan tapped at the door, then entered. The abbot was sitting by a small fire. He bade Braygan to take a seat. “Are you well, Younger Brother?” he asked.

  “I am well, Elder Brother.”

  “Are you content?”

  Braygan did not understand the question. “Content? Er . . . in what way?”

  “With your life here.”

  “Oh yes, Elder Brother. I love the life.”

  “What is it that you love about it, Braygan?”

  “To serve the Source and to . . . and to help people.”

  “Yes, that is why we are here,” said the old man, looking at him keenly. “That is what we are expected to say. But what do you love about it?”

  “I feel safe here, Elder Brother. I feel this is where I belong.”

  “And is that why you came to us? To feel safe?”

  “In part, yes. Is that wrong?”

  “Did you feel safe when the man attacked you in the town?”

  “No, Elder Brother. I was very frightened.” The abbot looked away, staring into the fire. He seemed lost in thought and Braygan said nothing. At last the abbot spoke again.

  “How is Brother Labberan faring?”

  “He is not improving as fast as he should. His spirits are very low. His wounds are healing, though. I am sure that in a few days he will begin to recover.”

  The abbot returned his gaze to the fire. Then he turned toward Braygan. “Brother Lantern thinks we should leave. He believes the mob will gather once more and seek to do us harm.”

  “Do you think that?” whispered Braygan, his heart beginning to pound. “It cannot be true,” he went on, before the abbot could answer. “No, it is getting calmer now. I think that the attack on Brother Labberan was an aberration. They will have had time to think about the evil of their deeds. They will understand that we are not enemies. We are their friends. Do you not think so?”

  “You come from a large town, don’t you Braygan?” said the abbot.

  “Yes, Elder Brother.”

  “Did many people own dogs there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were there sheep in fields close to the town?”

  “Yes, Elder Brother,” replied Braygan, mystified.

  “I came from such a town. Men would walk their dogs close to the sheep, and there would be no trouble. Occasionally, though, a few dogs would gather together, and run loose. If they went into a field of sheep they would suddenly turn vicious and cause great harm. You have seen this?”

  “Yes, Elder Brother. The pack mentality asserts itself. They forget their training, their domesticity, and they turn . . .” Braygan stammered to a halt. “You think the people in the town are like those dogs?”

  “Of course they are, Braygan. They have come together and indulged in what they are led to believe is righteous anger. They have killed. They feel empowered. They feel mighty. Like the dogs they are glorying in their strength. Aye, and in their cruelty. These have been harsh years—crop failures, plagues, and droughts. The war with Datia has sapped the nation’s resources. People are frightened and they are angry. They need to find someone to blame for their hardships and their losses. The church leaders spoke out against this war. Many have been branded as traitors. Some have been executed. The church itself is now accused of aiding the enemy. Of being the enemy. The mob will come, Braygan. With hatred in their hearts and murder on their minds.”

  “Then Brother Lantern is right. We must leave.”

  “You have not yet taken your final vows. You are free to do as you wish. As indeed is Brother Lantern.”

  “Then you are not leaving, Elder Brother?”

  “The Order will remain here, for this is our home and the people of the town are our flock. We will not desert them in their hour of need. Think on these things, Braygan. You have perhaps a few days to consider your position.”

  2

  * * *

  Abbot Cethelin felt heavy of heart as the young priest, Braygan, left the study. He liked the boy, and knew him to be good-hearted and kind. There was no malice in Braygan, no dark corners in his soul.

  Cethelin moved to the window, pushing it open and breathing in the cool Tantrian mountain air.

  He could taste no madness upon it, nor sense any sorcery within it. Yet it was there. The world was slipping into insanity, as if some unseen plague was floating into every home and castle, every croft and hovel. A long time ago Cethelin recalled seeing a host of rodents, close to his home, scampering toward the distant cliffs. He and his father had walked to the clifftops, and watched as the rodents hurled themselves into the sea. The scene had amazed the boy that he had been. He had asked his father why these little creatures were drowning themselves. His father had no answer. It happened every twenty or so years, he had said. They just do it.

  There was something chilling in that phrase. They just do it.

  Mass extinction should have a better reason. Now, at sixty-seven, Cethelin still pondered the reasons behind the madness—not this time of rodents, but of men. Had it begun when Ventria had invaded the Drenai? Or had that merely been a symptom of the madness? War had spread like an unchecked bushfire through the heartlands of this eastern continent. Civil war still raged in Ventria, a result of the Ventrian defeat at Skeln five years ago. Rebellions spread throughout Tantria as well, only to be followed by war with the country’s eastern neighbors Dospilis and Datia—a war that continued still.

  In Naashan, to the southeast, the Witch Queen’s forces had invaded Panthia and Opal, and even the peaceful Phocians had been drawn in to help defend against the invaders. To the northwest the Nadir had swept into Pelucid, crossing the vast deserts of Namib to raze and plunder the cities of the coast. War was everywhere, and in its wake came the carrion birds of hatred, terror, plague, and despair. Cethelin felt the last worst of all. To s
pend a lifetime offering love to all, only to see it brutally transformed and twisted—obscenely reshaped into a blind, unreasoning hatred—was hard to bear. His thoughts swung to Brother Labberan. The children he had nurtured had turned on him, kicking and screeching.

  Cethelin took a deep breath, and fought for calm.

  Kneeling on the bare boards of the study floor, Cethelin prayed for a while. Then he rose and walked down to the lower levels and sat for an hour at Labberan’s bedside. He spoke soothingly, but the old priest was not comforted.

  Cethelin was tired by the time he climbed again to his own rooms, and he took to his narrow bed. It was still early afternoon, but Cethelin found that short naps at such times helped maintain his vigor. Not so today. He could not sleep; he lay upon his back, his mind unable to relax. Cethelin found himself thinking of Lantern and Braygan, opposites in so many ways. I should have sent Lantern across the water to found an order of the Thirty, he thought. He would have made a fine warrior priest.

  A fine warrior priest.

  A contradiction in terms, thought Cethelin, sadly.

  Unable to take comfort from rest he rose from his bed and made his way to the east wing of the monastery, moving past the kitchens and through the silent weaving rooms. Mounting the circular steps he climbed to the First Library. His right knee was aching by the time he reached the top, and he felt his heart thudding painfully. There were several priests present, studying ancient tomes. They rose as he entered and bowed deeply. He smiled at them, and bade them continue with their reading. Moving through the aisles, he ducked beneath the last arch and entered the Reconstruction Room. Here also there were priests, meticulously copying decaying manuscripts or scrolls. So engrossed were they in their work, they failed to notice him as he continued through to the eastern reading room. Here he found Brother Lantern sitting by a window. He was reading a yellowed parchment.

  He glanced up and Cethelin felt the power in his sapphire gaze. “What are you reading?” asked the abbot, sitting opposite the younger man. He winced as he sat, then rubbed his aching knee. Lantern noticed his pain.

  “The apothecary said he would have some fresh juniper tisane for your arthritis within the month,” Lantern told him, then suddenly smiled and shook his head.

  “We may yet have another month,” said Cethelin, sensing the irony that caused the smile. “If the Source wills it.” He pointed to the parchment and repeated his question.

  “It is a listing of little known Datian myths,” replied Lantern.

  “Ah. The Resurrectionists. I recall them. The stories are not Datian in origin. They come from the Elder days, the days of Missael. The hero Enshibar was resurrected after his faithful friend, Kaodas, carried a lock of his hair and a fragment of bone to the Realm of the Dead. There the wizards grew Enshibar a new body and summoned his spirit back from the hall of heroes. It is a fine tale, and has many resonances through many cultures.”

  “Most myths contain a grain of truth,” said Lantern, warily.

  “Indeed they do, Younger Brother. Is that why you carry a lock of hair and a fragment of bone within the locket around your neck?”

  For a moment only, Lantern’s sapphire eyes glinted with anger. “You see a great deal, Elder Brother. You see into men’s dreams, and you see through metal. Perhaps you should be reading the dreams of the townsfolk.”

  “I know their dreams, Lantern. They want food for their tables and warmth in the winter. They want their children to have better and safer lives than they can provide. The world is a huge and terrifying place for them. They are desperate for simple answers to life’s problems. They fear the war will come here and take away all that they have. Then they are told that it is all our fault. If we were dead and gone everything would be fine again. The sun will shine on their crops, and all dangers cease. However, at this moment I am more interested in your dreams than theirs.”

  Lantern looked away. “You do not believe in this . . . this hidden temple of the Resurrectionists?”

  “I did not say that I disbelieved. There are many strange places in the world, and a host of talented wizards and magickers. Perhaps there is one who can help you. On the other hand perhaps you should let the dead rest.”

  “I cannot.”

  “It is said that all men need a quest, Lantern. Perhaps this was always meant to be yours.” He leaned back in his chair. “If I asked a favor of you would you do it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do not be so swift, young man. I might ask you to put aside your search.”

  “Anything but that. Tell me what you need.”

  “As of this moment I need nothing. Perhaps tomorrow. Have you visited Labberan?”

  “No. I am not much of a comforter, Elder Brother.”

  “Go anyway, Younger Brother.” The abbot sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “And now I will leave you to your reading. Try to locate the Pelucidian Chronicles. I think you will find them interesting. As I recall there is a description of a mysterious temple, and an ageless goddess who is said to dwell there.”

  It was late when Skilgannon entered the small room where Brother Labberan was being tended. Another priest was already beside him. The man looked up and Skilgannon saw it was Brother Naslyn. The black-bearded priest had the look of a warrior. A laconic man, his conversation was mostly monosyllabic, which suited Skilgannon. Of all the priests he had to work alongside he found Naslyn the easiest to bear. The powerful priest rose, gently stroked Labberan’s brow, then moved past Skilgannon. “He’s tired,” he said.

  “I will not stay long,” Skilgannon told him.

  Moving to the bedside he gazed down at the broken man. “How much do you remember?” he asked, seating himself on a stool at the bedside.

  “Only the hatred and the pain,” muttered Labberan. “I do not wish to talk of it.” He turned his face away and Skilgannon felt a touch of annoyance. What was he doing here? He had no friendship with Labberan—nor indeed with any of the priests. And, as he had told Cethelin, he had never developed any talent as a comforter. He took a deep breath and prepared to leave. As he rose Labberan looked at him, and Skilgannon saw tears in the old man’s eyes. “I loved those children,” he said.

  Skilgannon sank back to the stool. “Betrayal is hard to take,” he said. The silence grew.

  “I hear you fought one of the Arbiters.”

  “It was not a fight. The man was a clumsy fool.”

  “I wish I could have fought.”

  Skilgannon looked into the old man’s face and saw defeat and despair. He had seen that look before, back on the battlefields of Naashan four years ago. The closeness of defeat at Castran had seemed like the end of the world. Retreating soldiers had stumbled back into the forests, their faces gray, their hearts overburdened with fear and disillusionment. Skilgannon had been just twenty-one then, full of fire and belief. Against all the odds he had regrouped several hundred fighting men and led them in a countercharge against the advancing foe, hurling them back. He gazed now into the tortured features of the elderly priest and saw again the faces of the demoralized soldiers he had rebuilt and carried to glory. “You are a fighter, Labberan,” he said, softly. “You struggle against the evil of the world. You seek to make it a better and more loving place.”

  “And I failed. Even my children turned against me.”

  “Not all of them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When did you lose consciousness?”

  “In the street, when they were kicking me.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Skilgannon. “Then you do not recall being dragged into the schoolroom?”

  “No.”

  “You were taken there by some of your pupils. They pulled you inside, then locked the door. One of them then ran here to tell the abbot of your injuries. Because of the riot we could not reach you immediately. You were tended by some of the children. They covered you with blankets. It was very brave of them,” he added. “Brother Naslyn and I came to you before the dawn and
carried you back. Several of the children had remained with you.”

  “I did not know.” Labberan smiled. “Do you know any of their names?”

  “The boy who brought us to you was called Rabalyn.”

  Labberan smiled. “An unruly boy, argumentative and naughty. Good heart, though. Who else?”

  “A slender girl with black hair and green eyes. She had a three-legged dog with her.”

  “That would be Kalia. She nursed the hound back to health after it fought the wolves. We all thought it would die.”

  “I do not recall the names of the others. There were three or four of them, but they left when we arrived. But the boy, Rabalyn, had a swollen eye. Kalia told me he got it when he fought the other boys attacking you. He beat them off. Well, he and the three-legged dog.”

  The old man sighed, then relaxed and closed his eyes. Skilgannon sat for a while, until he realized the old priest was sleeping. Silently he left the room and walked out into the night. As he crossed the courtyard he saw Abbot Cethelin standing below the arch of the gate. Skilgannon bowed to him.

  “He feels better now, does he not?” said the abbot.

  “I believe so.”

  “You told him about the children who helped him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Why did you not tell him? Or someone else?”

  “I would have, had you not. You still believe they are all scum, Lantern, these townspeople?”

  Skilgannon smiled. “A few children helped him. Good for them. They will not however stop the mob when it comes here. But, no, I do not think they are all scum. There are two thousand people living in the town. The mob numbers some six hundred. I make little distinction, however, between those who commit evil and those who stand by and do nothing.”

  “You were a warrior, Lantern. Such men are not renowned for understanding the infinite shades of gray that govern the actions of men. Black and white are your colors.”