The Death of Dulgath Read online

“There, doesn’t that make you feel better?” Melborn stepped past him and led the way back across the yard.

  Sherwood realized that the dark clouds had retreated a bit. That bottle—if he did get it back—would save his career and possibly his life. As much as he would loathe doing it, he could sell it in Mehan and use the coin to replace at least some of what was lost. There would be enough to get him painting again. Sherwood wouldn’t be able to take any noble commissions, not without his precious blue pigment, but merchants liked portraits, too.

  As he watched Melborn’s cloak whip behind him, and the man slipped into the shadows of the porch, Sherwood was reminded of the thing in the shadows. The thing that wasn’t quite human. He’d found his ghost.

  Chapter Eleven

  Brecken Moor

  Scarlett Dodge led Hadrian up the trail that corkscrewed around the balding hill. They were a few miles outside the village on the far side of the river—the bad side, as Pastor Payne called it. Didn’t seem bad to Hadrian.

  Down by the mill, where a big waterwheel turned, Scarlett had taken him across an arching stone bridge that was about as picturesque as they came. The rushing river churned below, its deep green waters frothing between sun-bleached boulders. A small mountain rose from the edge of the far bank. The river had cut a gash through it, revealing iron-rich layers of stone. There were no homes on the far side, no mills, no tilled fields, and everything was uphill. The little trail they followed had worn the roots of nearby trees, polishing them until the wood shone. Where the path passed over rocks—which was often—the surface of the stone was buffed as smooth as finished marble.

  The path started in a thick canopy of cottonwood and hawthorn. As they ascended, it graduated to birch and juniper. Farther up, the trail widened when they reached a world of fir, aspen, and pine. The “bad side” of the river had an enchanting, mythic quality. Moss and lichen covered the rocks, some of which were the size of two-story houses. They looked to have been dropped and forgotten by neglectful giants.

  “It’s beautiful here,” Hadrian said.

  “It is,” Scarlett agreed, striding up the trail with all the stamina of a mountain goat.

  “Some of the rocks are shaped like faces,” he observed. This was the sort of comment that made Royce cringe, and Hadrian expected the same reaction from Scarlett.

  Instead, she nodded and smiled. “People used to believe stones like these were alive, you know? Trees, too—they believed everything had spirits. People worshiped river gods, the sun, the moon, and the four winds.”

  “Is that what the monks think, that there are spirits everywhere?”

  “No, but that’s what our ancestors thought. Ages and ages ago, long before the empire, people lived in scattered villages like—well, like Brecken Dale, and every one of them had its own personal god. They worshiped a statue of him or her, and even took it with them when they charged into battles. There were hundreds of spirits and demons back then. But all that changed, starting here.”

  “Starting here? What happened?” Hadrian asked, but Scarlett had scampered ahead and disappeared around a bend of cliff. Catching up, he discovered they had reached the top.

  An open, rocky slope, covered in sedge, matt buckwheat, and forget-me-nots, spread out before him. He stood above the tree line, and below lay the world. Hadrian felt as though he could see into infinity. Green-blue ridges of forested hills ran south toward bluer, rocky mountains, and beyond those were white peaks. A cloud was caught between two ridges, a tuft of milkweed trapped in a cleft. Far below, the village was merely a smudge and the river only a shining ribbon wriggling through the green. To the east, and what looked to be just below their feet, the silver waves of the ocean shimmered. But what astounded him the most was the clear, blue sky threatening to engulf him. “Whoa.”

  Scarlett had stopped; she watched him, grinning. “Amazing, isn’t it?” she asked. “It’s like you’ve come to the end of the world and can see clearly for the first time.”

  On the still-rising slope that formed the bald head of the little mountain stood an ancient stone building. Massive, rough-hewn slabs were stacked without mortar. Corners had been worn and rounded, and while no ivy grew there, emerald-green moss and gold lichen decorated every block.

  “Welcome to Brecken Moor,” Scarlett said.

  Augustine Gilcrest looked like a monk, old and weathered, with a face that had suffered from the merciless sun, the wind, and the cruel whims of gods. But in his eyes was the blue of an endless sky. A long white beard showed he hadn’t shaved in decades, and the haphazard hair sticking out in all directions beneath a miserable flop of a hat told Hadrian the cleric likely hadn’t seen a mirror in about as long.

  Seeing Scarlett, the abbot of Brecken Moor howled with joy, then embraced her tightly, kissing her three times on the cheek. She returned the squeeze with the same comfortable closeness of a family accustomed to hugging.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come to visit. Let’s sit down in the shade. I know what a long stroll it is to get here.”

  They were out in the cloister, an enclosed garden surrounded by a pillared walkway. At the center, an artesian spring trickled down into a naturally formed pool. Around it, carefully cultivated plots of vegetables, herbs, and flowers grew. Around those, walkways and stone benches had been constructed.

  The monk led them to one of those, in the shade of an old and twisted bristlecone pine. He gestured for them to sit. “It’s so wonderful to see you again.” He beamed at Scarlett. “You need to visit more often.” His eyes darted over. “And who is this young man?” His tone was playful, mischievous, and his brows made an insinuating jump.

  “This is Hadrian Blackwater, just a curious stranger from up north,” Scarlett said. Her face looked a bit flushed, but it could have been from the mountain hike.

  “The question is,” Augustine said, continuing in his baiting tone, “what is he curious about?”

  “Actually,” said Hadrian, who was sticky with sweat and fixated on the trickling water, “I was wondering if you had anything to drink.”

  The abbot held out a hand to the bubbling spring. “That’s what it’s there for, the same as the air you’re breathing. Maribor provides.”

  Scarlett walked over, bent down, and sucked water from the surface of the pool as if she were a deer in a glade. She stood up, wiping her mouth. “Best you’ll ever have.”

  Hadrian followed her example. The water was cold, clear, and perfect. He drained almost half an inch before standing. Refreshed and revitalized, he took a deep breath of the fresh air and sighed.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” Scarlett asked.

  “I could live here,” Hadrian replied.

  “If you wish, you can,” Augustine told him. “We welcome anyone interested in a life of worship.”

  “Really?” Hadrian hadn’t seen more than two other monks—or at least two other men in the same drab habits. “Not a lot of takers lately, I’m guessing?”

  Augustine smiled. “We’re a bit out of the way here.”

  “Certainly is beautiful,” Hadrian said. “Everything here is. Even down in the village—across this whole valley, really.”

  “Yes, Dulgath is a little sliver of paradise perched at land’s end.” The abbot winked at Scarlett.

  “So much natural beauty in one place, and yet…”

  “Yes?” the abbot asked.

  “I don’t know, just doesn’t feel natural. Something strange about this place.”

  The abbot and Scarlett exchanged looks. “Would you like to know? Would you really?”

  Hadrian wasn’t sure he did. He wasn’t one for sermons. In the manor village where he’d grown up, they didn’t have a church. A priest of Nyphron would visit a few times a year. He came to perform weddings, to bless the dead and the harvest, but mostly to break bread and drink with Lord Baldwin. No one in Hintindar could be considered devout, and Hadrian’s father held an open contempt for the church.

  The years Hadrian had spent in the mi
litary, not to mention his time in Calis, had done nothing to improve his indifferent view of religion. He supposed it served a purpose: calmed fears, eased suffering, gave hope, and occasionally helped those whom others ignored. Still, he’d never understood the blind worship of the faithful.

  Deacons, priests, and bishops were ordinary men and just as prone to acts of good and evil as anyone else. From his perspective, there was only one difference: The religious loved to talk. Soldiers, merchants, even nobles were men of action. The devout were men of words—usually lots of them.

  That afternoon, however, Hadrian was tired from a long uphill walk, and sitting down to listen to a story didn’t sound so bad. It didn’t matter that he was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be a good one.

  “Okay.” Hadrian found his own slab of stone and got comfortable.

  Augustine smiled at him, then stood up. He lifted his eyes to the sky and took a deep breath.

  “Long, long ago,” he began, fanning his fingers as if he were evoking the birth of existence, “our people came to this valley and thought to make a life here. But their dreams became a nightmare, for this place was ruled by an evil demon of the old world: a monster capable of leveling mountains, blotting out the light of the sun, and calling down bolts of lightning. Paths were guarded by cruel thorns, soil was made barren, and the water”—he pointed at the trickling well—“was poison. This was a cursed land, an awful, terrible place of darkness and death…until Bran came.”

  Scarlett grinned at the name like a child hearing a favorite tale and eager to share—to experience it again through the reactions of someone new.

  Augustine’s attention was distracted by a pair of monks who entered the cloister. “C’mon.” He invited them with a wave.

  One young, one middle-aged, they shuffled over silently and sat on the ground. They, too, had the eager, excited expression.

  It must be really boring up here, Hadrian guessed.

  “Now then,” Augustine went on, “Bran was the protégé of Brin, the legendary hero of old. When Brin was a boy, no more than fourteen years old, his parents were killed by a marauding army of giants, who were so big they used trees as toothpicks. Brin slew every last one with his bare hands. But that wasn’t his only exploit. He stole the secret of metal from the dwarven king, who back then ruled from the ancient city of Neith.” The abbot pointed to the southwest, causing Hadrian to turn and look, but all he saw was a cloud-covered mountain range snaking down the back of Delgos like a jagged spine.

  “The dwarven king’s name was Gronbach, his heart so black it bled ink. He was worse than any fiend of Phyre.”

  “I’ve heard of that dwarf,” Hadrian said. “He’s in nursery rhymes. An ugly creature that promises girls treasure and then betrays them. He locks the poor child in a prison of stone, but the girl—usually a princess—manages to escape by some clever trick or magic.”

  Augustine nodded. “Which demonstrates how such tales take form. It’s a less-than-accurate retelling of a real event between the mighty Brin and the evil Gronbach. But that’s a tale for another day. I merely wanted to set the stage, and let you know that Brin’s adventures ranged far and wide. It’s because of Brin that we have blades like the ones you carry.”

  Everyone was staring at Hadrian’s swords, heads nodding in unison.

  Hadrian smiled politely and was thankful the abbot wasn’t telling the whole story, or this would be a very long visit.

  “There are many legendary tales of adventures featuring Brin. It is said he slew the last of the dragons, invented writing, and fought beside Novron at a crucial battle in the Great Elven War. He even saved the first emperor’s life.

  “But his greatest feat was leading a band of heroes into the underworld—into the land of death itself. That trip changed everything. Bran’s tales of his teacher’s adventures taught us about the real gods. Did you know that long ago men worshiped every tree and leaf?”

  “I told him,” Scarlett said.

  “Oh good,” he replied, but his face suggested otherwise. “Well…” Augustine stumbled, trying to find his place. “It’s from Bran—the founder of the Brotherhood of Maribor—that we know of Phyre and the truth that there are only five gods. Erebus is the father of all; Ferrol, the father of the elves. Drome brought forth dwarves, and of course Maribor created mankind. As for the plants and animals, that was the work of Muriel.”

  “What about Novron? The Nyphron Church worships the son of Maribor as their god. Do the Monks of Maribor not?”

  Scarlett cringed, but the abbot just smiled politely, as if placating a child who didn’t know better.

  “We are the keepers of the truth. We don’t involve ourselves in what others believe.”

  Maybe monks were as adept as nobles at obfuscation, because Hadrian noticed Gilcrest hadn’t answered the question. Still, he wasn’t going to be rude and dig deeper.

  The abbot once more stumbled to find his place. “While Brin’s accomplishments are legion, his most important contribution is the knowledge that no one, no matter how vile their past, is beyond redemption.”

  “Sounds like a great guy,” Hadrian said. “But what does this have to do with Dulgath?”

  The abbot grinned, and a twinkle shone in his eye. “Several years after the Elven War, when the empire was still young and the capital city of Percepliquis was just being built, Bran heard of the hardships the people in this valley were up against. So Bran the Holy, student of Brin the Magnificent, came to help. He stood in this very place, the ground where this monastery now stands. On this hilltop, Bran faced the Demon of Dulgath. He wrestled with the monster and forced it to yield. Wise as he was, Bran didn’t slay it, but rather made it repent for its cruelties. He charged it with making right every wrong it had perpetrated against the people of this land. Exhausted from his efforts, Bran took off his shawl and rested. Then he prayed for Maribor to bless this valley. Overnight everything changed. The waters became pure, the thorns were replaced with ivy, and the weather turned ideal.”

  Hadrian asked Scarlett, “You believe all this?”

  “I’ve lived here for five years,” she said. “I’ve never seen a drought, a storm, or a famine.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “The winters here are never very cold and always stunning. It’s as if the only reason it snows is for the beauty it brings. You can see for yourself how lush everything is. Ivy is everywhere, and plants usually found much farther south thrive here. We have oranges, and there are palm trees along the coast. The growing season is incredibly long, and the land is never exhausted, no matter how often the farmers plant. They don’t even rotate the crops. They plant whatever they want, wherever they want.”

  “Still doesn’t—”

  “Five years, Hadrian,” she said with a smirk. “I’ve been here five years, and I’ve only seen it rain once in the daytime. You can see storms that devastate other parts of Maranon from up here. Hurricanes that wreck ships on the coast—or dark clouds filled with rain and hail—never reach us. They either turn aside or die altogether. If you travel, you’ll find it blistering hot or deathly cold just outside this valley, but here, in this place, it’s always sunny, always warm, always—perfect.”

  The monks nodded in agreement.

  “Fruits grow heavy, there’s never a blight, and crops are always plentiful. This land is blessed, Hadrian. Either we’re benefiting from the efforts of a reformed demon or Maribor loves this valley—maybe both. The only problems we face are the occasional accident or sickness, and for those we had Maddie Oldcorn and now Lady Dulgath. Augustine can tell you about that. He was there when it happened.”

  The abbot turned thoughtful, a sadness leaching through his previous energy and making him appear old for the first time. “Her Ladyship had been in the steeplechase and fell. Landed badly. Blood was in her eyes and leaking from her ears.” He shook his head, grimacing. Having a few gruesome memories of his own, Hadrian knew the abbot was seeing it all over again. “
She was close to death when they carried her into the castle and laid her on the bed. Maddie was called. She had always been the thorn on the rose, the sting of a bee, but she had the heart of a racehorse and would come when needed, no matter how late the hour. She would kill herself racing for the finish line. Most people think that night was what did her in. Maddie saved Nysa Dulgath and poured everything she had into the effort. The old woman saved that girl, but died doing so. We buried her on a hill in the village where folk lay flowers in her memory.”

  “And after that Lady Dulgath started healing people?” Hadrian asked.

  Augustine nodded. “Apparently Maddie gave her more than just life. Maybe she knew she was dying and wanted to pass on her gift. In any case, it wasn’t long before Lady Dulgath began healing the sick the same way Maddie had.”

  “No explanation for how she does it?”

  Augustine raised his hands to the sky. “She has the grace of our Lord, and he listens to her.”

  “But you’re the abbot. Shouldn’t you be the one your Lord listens to?”

  “Maribor chooses whom he works through. He has his reasons. That we might not understand them is a fault in us—not him.”

  That was more the sort of talk Hadrian was used to hearing from clerics. Experience had likely taught Augustine to expect skepticism. Hadrian figured the abbot had encountered it often—getting people to entrust their souls to something they couldn’t validate had to be a hard sell. Doubt must have been readable on his face, as Hadrian hadn’t learned Royce’s art of the dispassionate stare.

  Augustine stood up, clapping his hands together. Old and soft as they were, they made a muffled noise, but the old man’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Come with me.”

  He led them through the nave of the church. The other two monks must have known where he was going, because they grabbed a pair of dead torches off the wall and lit them from a white-coal brazier near the entrance. The church was little more than a large hall with a raised altar and a podium. There were paintings on the walls and ceiling, but in the dim light Hadrian couldn’t make them out. The middle-aged monk took Augustine’s hand as they came to stairs that led down into the solid rock of the mountaintop. When they reached a door, the abbot pushed it open. Inside, a shaft of light cut through the ceiling on a slant that shone on a pedestal, which was actually a stunning sculpture of four kneeling people, their arms upraised. In their hands they held a golden chest. The brilliant box dazzled under the beam of sunlight.