CHAPTER FIVE

BROTHERHOOD

THE FRATREX MARCHED STEPHEN across the yard and through a small arched doorway. Stephen held his tongue, afraid that anything he might say at this point would simply dig a deeper grave for his self-respect. Instead, he tried to remember what he had heard about Decmanusian penance. What did it involve? Whippings? Confinement?

“Come, come, hurry up!” Fratrex Pell said. “Through here.” He pointed to a very low doorway; the lintel was only as high as Stephen's waist. “Yes, yes—on your knees.”

Stephen sank down contritely, crawling through the opening, steeling himself for whatever was to come. He said a small prayer and raised his head.

Then he uttered a loud gasp.

“We come to the saints on our knees,” Fratrex Pell said, behind him. “And so we come to knowledge—humbly.”

“It's wonderful,” Stephen said. Tears stung his eyes. “It's like a hundred thousand presents, all waiting to be opened.”

“Move through, son, that I may follow.”

Stephen did so, mute with awe.

The scriftorium rose around him, a tower with walls of tomes, scrolls, tablets, parchment cases, maps. Nowhere could he see bare stone; the whole structure might have been held together by the insectile scaffolding of ladders that spindled up from the floor to the next level. There he saw no more than a narrow walkspace that ran around the base of yet another level of shelves and provided a footing for the ladders that climbed up to the third level. Four levels in all, then a dome set with crystal panes, so the sun's light fell in to illuminate it all.

Tables at ground level overflowed with scrifti, and studious monks remained absorbed in their studies and copywork as Stephen and the fratrex entered. Others worked at tables set precariously on balconies jutting at strange intervals up and down the wall. Ropes and pulleys were working everywhere, as monks lowered and raised baskets of manuscrifts from level to level or sent them hurtling horizontally across the room.

And the smell! Ink and vellum, paper and chalk and melted wax. Stephen realized he was beaming like a fool.

“Here is your punishment,” Fratrex Pell said quietly.

“How do you mean?” Stephen asked. “The sight of this room brings me nothing but joy.”

“Your sin was pride; you think you are knowledgeable, and indeed you are. But when you stand here, you must be reminded of how very much you do not know. Can never know. Be humble, Stephen. You will be a better man, and a better member of this order.”

“Thank you, Reverend Fratrex. I'm so …” He shook his head. “So grateful. And eager! When may I begin? What should I do?”

“Today? Anything you want. Familiarize yourself with the scriftorium. Browse. Tomorrow we'll see how you are with Vadhiian. We have a pressing obligation to translate those texts; it's one of the reasons I pushed to have you appointed here.”

“You mean you—”

“Go to it, son. I'll see you at vespers.”

“Well. You must be the new fellow.”

Stephen glanced up from the text he was hunched over and found a pleasant-faced man with cropped brown hair regarding him.

“Ah—yes, Brother.” He carefully put the scrift aside and stood, finding himself a head shorter than the stranger. “My name is Stephen Darige.”

“Desmond Spendlove.”

“You're a Virgenyan!”

“Indeed I am,” Spendlove replied.

“What part?”

“Just south of Quick, on the Nerih River.”

“I know the place!” Stephen said. “We used to take the boat down to Cheter-by-Sea. We'd stop there in the little town—the one with the statue of the pig—”

“Wildeaston. Yes, that's just a furlong from where I grew up.”

“Well. I'm pleased to meet you,” Stephen told him.

“Finding your way around the scriftorium, are you?”

Stephen chuckled. “I haven't got very far. I ran across this right away. It's an original text of the Amena Tirson, a sort of geography of this region from—”

“—pre-Hegemonic times,” Spendlove finished. “Yes, I'm quite familiar with the Amena Tirson. It was my project in the college at Pennwys.”

“Really? Sorry, I've just got a lesson in humility, and here I am condescending to you.”

“It's no matter. The old man got you with the wood-carrying trick, yes?”

“Trick?”

“No one can approach d'Ef without his knowledge. He greets most of the novices, in some similar fashion.”

“Oh.”

Spendlove gestured at the scrift. “But you were going to say something about the Amena Tirson,” he reminded.

“Yes. This version is different from the ones I've seen.”

“It's a little different. The chapter on trees goes on longer.”

“That's not what I meant. There's a list of fane names and other locations I've never heard of, and talk of walking them.”

“Well, there is the faneway here, the way of Saint Decmanus.”

“Yes, of course. But these others—”

Desmond shrugged. “Are surely dead now, or so faint with the sainted presence as to be unwalkable.”

“I know,” Stephen replied. “It's just odd. There were murders—” He broke off. “Saints! How could I have forgotten that? I was just so overwhelmed, I mean, first carrying the wood, and then discovering he was the fratrex, and then all of this!”

“What are you going on about?” Desmond inquired mildly.

“There have been murders in the King's Forest.”

“That's hardly new. The place is swarming with bandits.”

“Yes, I know. But this is different, I think. Blood rituals on the old sedoi, and some sort of monster involved.”

“Monster? Does this have to do with old Symen up at Tor Scath?”

“Yes, yes. That's where I heard about it.”

“Then I have to warn you, the old knight is well known for his exaggerations. He sent a man down here a fortnight ago, to warn us of some evil in the forest. We set extra watches, just in case, and the fratrex made a report to the praifec in Eslen. Yet the search parties we sent out for you didn't find anything strange.”

“Oh, I'd had my doubts about his story, too, but—” But Sir Symen had seen something. Of that Stephen was certain.

But the holter had gone to find the truth, and he hadn't wanted Stephen along. Whatever it was, Aspar White would surely kill it. Stephen would write a report for the fratrex, but there his obligations ceased. Then he could throw himself head-to-toe into his studies.

“Come on,” Desmond said, clapping him on the shoulder. “It's just a bit before vespers and evening meal. Let's go for a walk. There are things about life at d'Ef that the fratrex wouldn't have told you.”

Stephen glanced reluctantly at the Amena Tirson, then nodded. He recased the thin sheets of vellum in their cedar box and replaced it on the shelf.

“Ready!” he said.

Evening calm had settled outside. In the distance, cows lowed, the crickets had begun their nightly stridulations, and the frogs in the Ef lowlands warbled throaty tunes. The evening star was a jewel on velvet in the eastern sky, while the west was still a bed of fading embers. The forest was distant and green across acres of rolling pasture and vineyard. Stephen and Desmond stood upslope of the monastery, where soft candlelight was beginning to glow in windows.

“The faneway starts in the chapel,” Desmond said, “and finishes out there. It takes about two days to walk.”

“You've walked it, then?”

“Yes. You will, too, soon enough. You aren't a normal novice, from what I hear. The mysteries will be unfolded to you more quickly, I think.”

“I hardly deserve it.”

“No. You don't.”

Something in Desmond's voice didn't sound right. Stephen looked at his companion and saw a hardness set on his face.

“There is an order to things,” Desmond explained. “Or ought to be. I'm here to see that order is kept, do you understand?”

Stephen took a few steps back from the monk. “What do you mean?”

Desmond smiled. It wasn't a very comforting smile. Stephen backed up further, wondering if he should run. He backed right into another monk. It was Brother Lewes, the giant who had lifted the firewood like a willow wand. Stephen tried to jump away from him, but the monk grabbed him by the arm.

Stephen started to shout, but a meaty hand clamped over his mouth. It smelled like hay and cow manure.

“You're new,” Desmond explained. “As I said, there are some things you ought to know. It starts with this: I don't care who you are, or who your family was. Here, you start over. Here, your life begins again. And here, I am your father, your brother, your best friend. I will help you through everything, but you have to trust me. You have to believe me.

“The fratrex thinks you're special. That means nothing to the rest of us. To us, you have to prove yourself. It won't matter what the fratrex thinks of you if you slip and hit your head on a rock, or fall on a pitchfork, or eat the wrong mushroom. It's only the rest of us that can keep you safe from things like that. Do you see what I'm saying?”

There were other monks gathered around now, at least ten of them. They had their cowls up, and Stephen couldn't see their faces. He was beyond panic; he knew he shouldn't struggle, but he couldn't stop. Since being kidnapped, the very thought of being restrained was intolerable. Now, caught in this steel grip, it was reality, and still intolerable. He could barely think, he was so frightened and angry. Tears started in his eyes.

“Brother, release Brother Stephen's tongue, so he can tell me he understands.”

The hand came away.

“I understand! Of course I understand! Whatever you say.”

Desmond nodded approvingly. “That sounded sincere. But I don't know you, Brother Stephen. I can't be sure. And you can't be sure of me. So let's have a lesson, shall we?” He jerked his head, and the other monks converged. Stephen tried to scream, but a cloth was forced into his mouth. His arms were pulled up straight and then his shift was yanked off. He was shoved to earth, facedown, and held spread-eagle.

“Here is your lesson,” Desmond's voice said, from somewhere far away and much too close. “The seven virtues. The first is solidarity.”

A streak of the most intense pain Stephen had ever felt cut his back in two. He screamed into his gag, a shrill hysterical shriek of pure animal terror.

“The second virtue is chastity.”

Another stroke of fire fell, and droplets spattered across Stephen's cheek.

He lost track of the virtues after number three. He might have fainted. The next thing he was aware of was Desmond's voice very near his ear.

“I'm leaving you new robes and a rag. There's a well just down the hill. Clean yourself up and come to dinner. Sit at my table. Speak to no one of this—no one. There are, as you know, more than seven virtues. There are seven times seven.”

The gag came out, and he was released. He lay there, unable to move, to even think of moving, as full night fell.