Page 30 of Crucible of Chaos

‘If any of that is true, you make a poor case for seeking the support of a King’s Magistrate,’ Estevar said.

But Strigan was not so easily dissuaded. ‘Don’t you see? We were protecting the abbey.’ He spread his arms wide. ‘This whole island, it’s important– and not just because of all the wealth amassed by its abbots over the centuries. People all over the country look to us for spiritual guidance. That boy-king you serve? He’s weak. His castle is half in ruins, his treasury hollowed out before he’s even paid for a truce with Avares that he can barely afford. The new First Cantor of the Greatcoats is rumoured to be some girl who can barely swing a sword–I’ll bet she’d like to have a strong ally here in the Duchy of Baern!’

Strigan walked over to the room’s writing desk and reached for a small bronze ink pot. ‘Agree to support my faction as the rightful rulers of Isola Sombra and I’ll sign a pact here and now, swearing our fealty to King Filian and promising to obey the rulings of his magistrates.’

‘You are already subjects of the king, and while I’m sure he appreciates your loyalty, I doubt he expects to pay for it. Similarly, you and your fellow “Wolves”, along with these “Trumpeters” and “Bone-Rattlers” and all the other lapsed monks wandering this abbey, remain bound by the laws of this land.’

Strigan chuckled. ‘Go and try that speech out on Mother Leogado after you’ve climbed to the top of her vigilia. She’ll hurl you from the watchtower window herself.’

The watchtower, Estevar thought.Was it this General of the Trumpeters who’d stood there blocking the light of the window while I rang the bell in vain? Why then did she wait for Brother Agneta to open the gate before sending two of her yellow-habited brethren to take me prisoner?

He stopped his meandering to pat Imperious’ neck. ‘We shall test your theory, Wolf-King.’

‘Hmm?’ Strigan asked, still fiddling with the ink pot.

Estevar took the reins and began leading the mule towards the door. ‘I will visit this Queen of Trumpeters and allow her the opportunity to make her case for control of the abbey, just as you have. In the meantime, I suggest you remain in this tower with your own supporters. When I am ready to begin the trial into the death of Abbot Venia and determine the future of Isola Sombra, I will summon you all in the old way.’

Strigan abandoned his pretence at composing some grand treaty, sweeping paper, pen and ink across the floor in petulant fury. ‘You seriously think you’ll ever discover who killed Venia?’ he demanded, rounding on Estevar. ‘Nobody wants you here, Greatcoat. Nobody trusts you, either, and the moment you try to impose your “verdict” on the monks of this abbey, somebody’s going to slip a blade into that big belly of yours.’

‘Perhaps you are right,’ Estevar conceded, leading Imperious to the door and handing the reins to Caeda before turning back to face the Wolf-King one last time. ‘Perhaps justice has no purchase on the treacherous soil of this island. But you asked earlier whether I had the stomach to kill you, so I will answer honestly and without guile. Cross me once more,Brother Strigan, threaten my colleague or my mule, and the next faction you’ll join will be the one filled with men and women far more skilled, far more vicious than you pretend to be, who tried the patience of Estevar Valejan Duerisi Borros once too often.’

He turned on his heel and abandoned the tattooed monk standing there in his towel, surrounded by borrowed opulence and well-deserved unease. When he caught up with Caeda halfway down the stairs, she paused to look up at him curiously. ‘Just how dangerous are you really, my Cantor?’

Estevar gave no reply, just took back the reins to lead Imperious down the stone stairs and out of the tower. He’d learned long ago that some questions were best left unanswered, especially when the answer was,Not nearly dangerous enough for what lies ahead.

PART THE FOURTH

THE SIGILS OF INVITATION

Steady your hands before inscribing the sigils which follow these words, for such symbols are no mere testament or abjuration, but rather, a coaxing for sin to swallow sin, for darkness to devour shadow. Only when evil has had its due will the sacrifice of the purest among us redeem the wickedness of all.

CHAPTER 19

A MATTER OF FAITH

The rains had died down again by the time they left the Venerance Tower. The last few sparkling stars were disappearing from the sky, dispersed along with the darkness by the first glimmer of dawn. Estevar paused before an iron-gated arch in the curtain wall looking out over the sea. In the eerie morning light, it looked as if a gargantuan oil painting were suspended over the water, awaiting only the artist’s finishing touches– a few birds in the sky, perhaps, and a sail on the horizon.

The abbey’s solitude won’t long outlast the storm, Estevar thought. The urgency of solving Venia’s murder and restoring the rule of law to Isola Sombra was a weight hanging round his neck.Unwitting merchant ships will stop to trade with the monks; scholars whose journeys began weeks or months ago will arrive expecting to find ancient wisdom within these walls. When turned away, those peaceful pilgrims will be replaced by the Margrave of Someil’s troops bearing some dusty tome of ducal law to justify the use of force in re-establishing order.Had he time, he might cross the causeway and find a messenger to take word to King Filian, along with an entreaty to send as many Greatcoats as could be summoned to protect the abbey from within and without.And what would they find when they arrived?he wondered, a sense of helplessness pricking at him like a fencer waiting to begin the match.A spiritual community at peace with its contradictions, or a blood-soaked battlefield?

‘What do you make of Strigan’s claims?’ Caeda asked.

Estevar turned away from the serene vista beyond the wall. ‘Which one? There were so many.’

‘When he said there was no more need for gods in Tristia, silly.’ She poked him playfully and painfully in the ribs,a suspiciously intimate gesture, but her eyes, he noted, were focusing somewhere past him to the other side of the cloister.

So, she’s noticed our clumsy stalker, he thought approvingly. Three times since they’d left the Venerance Tower, his ears had caught the faint rustle of leaves; when he’d turned, he’d seen furtive movements in the shadows beyond the bushes and silver-barked trees growing either side of a path in the cloister. He had no idea who this fretful spy might be, but for now, feigned obliviousness suited his purposes better than some futile chase through the abbey grounds.

‘Faith has always shaped the lives of the Tristian people,’ he said in answer to Caeda’s question and, resuming their walk towards the Vigilance Tower overlooking both the sea and the flooded causeway, continued, ‘That the Tristian people can, in turn, shape the gods with their faith is a more complex phenomenon rumoured to involve the veins of mystical ore deep beneath the rocky ground of this island and a few other holy sites across the country. Whether in theory those same forces can be harnessed for personal power as Strigan and the Hounds intend, I cannot say, only that he is unlikely to succeed.’

‘You mean because he’s such a prat?’

Estevar stopped when Imperious dropped his head, tugging on the reins, to crop a patch of long grass surrounding one of the columns holding up the cloister’s stone roof. He made a show of examining a carving of the face of Amoria, Goddess of Love, on the column. Across the open gardens, a figure in the grey robes of a traditionalist–one of the so-called ‘Bone-Rattlers’–ducked down behind an iron-banded oak bench. Was this some frightened novice following them, or one of Brother Agneta’s fellow inquisitors? Estevar had no particular use for either right now.

‘How well do you know the brethren of Isola Sombra?’ he asked Caeda quietly.

She was tracing Amoria’s lips, apparently entranced. ‘Only a little. I’m not allowed in the grounds, officially speaking. You might say I’m a bit notorious around here. They all think they know me, which is why that pustule Strigan was so free with his attentions, but in truth, I hardly know them at all.

Notorious.An interesting choice of word, but not pertinent to Estevar’s current line of enquiry. ‘Have you no allies here at all? Not even—?’

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