CHAPTER TWELVE

SPENDLOVE

WHEN STEPHEN DARIGE AWOKE from the grips of Black Mary for the fourth time in one night, he cursed sleep, rose, and crept from the dormitory. Outside, the night was clear and moonless, with a feel like early autumn in the air. He walked a small distance, to where the hillside started its roll down to the pastures, and there sat gazing up at the stars.

The stars eternal, his grandfather had called them.

But his grandfather was wrong; nothing was eternal. Not stars, not mountains. Not the saints, nor love, nor truth.

“Saint Michael,” he murmured. “Tell me what truth is. I don't know anymore.”

He felt as if there was something spoiled in him, something he badly needed to vomit up. But he feared if it came out, it would take a life and form of its own, and devour him.

He should have told the fratrex what the scroll was as soon as he understood. He shouldn't have translated it. By the saints, he shouldn't have.

Now it was too late. Now he had those evil words in him. Now he couldn't get them out.

A faint brush of shoes on grass told him someone was behind him. He was sure he knew who it was, and didn't care.

“Hello, Brother Desmond.”

“Good morning, Brother Stephen. Taking some air?”

Stephen turned enough to see the shadow of the man standing against the stars. “Leave me alone or kill me. I don't care which.”

“Don't you?” It sounded strange, the way he said it, almost like a lullaby. Then a fist knotted in Stephen's hair and yanked him down flat. Desmond dragged him a few feet and then crouched, brought the edge of a broad-bladed knife against Stephen's throat.

“Don't you?” he whispered again, almost in Stephen's ear.

“Why?” Stephen managed. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because. I don't like you. You're going to walk the fanes next month. Did you know that?”

“What?”

“Yes. You're done with your translation, aren't you?”

“What? How did you know that?”

“I know everything that goes on around here, you little pissant. Why wouldn't I know that?”

“I haven't told anyone.”

“Don't worry. I took your notes to the fratrex for you, after I read them.”

The knife came away, and Brother Desmond stood. Stephen expected a vicious kick, but instead, to his surprise, Desmond sighed and sat next to him on the grass.

“Wicked stuff,” Spendlove said, almost whispering. “Spells to turn men to jelly, prayers to the Damned Saints. Blood rites, deformation of children. First-rate wicked. Is that why you can't sleep?”

“You read it,” Stephen said dully. “Can you sleep?”

Desmond growled up something like a laugh. “I never could,” he replied.

“Why did you steal my work?”

“Why not?”

“But you gave it to the fratrex.”

“Yes. Believe what you might about me, Brother Stephen, but I do serve my order.” His voice dropped even lower. “Very well I serve it.”

Stephen nodded. “Well, you've done me a favor. I didn't know if I would have the courage.”

“What do you mean?”

Stephen suddenly wished he could see Brother Desmond's eyes. For the first time since they had met, the other man sounded puzzled.

“You know,” Stephen said. “You know very well I won't be walking any fanes after the fratrex reads what I wrote and realizes what I've done.”

“You did what he told you to do,” Spendlove replied, and this time there could be no doubt about it, the monk was puzzled, or doing a blessed good imitation.

“Brother Desmond, the work of the church has always been to destroy such foul texts. The moment I knew what it was, I should have consulted with the fratrex. Instead, I barreled ahead and translated a forbidden scrift. I've probably damned myself, and I will certainly lose my position here.”

That got a wry chuckle from Spendlove.

“Brother Stephen, you may think I'm your worst enemy in this place. I'm not. You're your own worst enemy. I wouldn't wish that on anyone.” With that, Brother Desmond stood. “Good luck walking the fanes,” he said. He almost sounded as if he meant it.

A moment later Stephen was alone again, with the stars.

The fratrex looked up from a desk cluttered with books, paper, and several inkwells.

“Eh? Good morning, Brother Stephen.” He tapped some sheets of paper on his desk. “Excellent work, this. Are you quite sure of it all?”

“Reverend? As sure as I can be.”

“Well. I am not disappointed in you, I can tell you that.”

“But, Reverend—” He felt as he had in the woods, when the hounds were coming, and for an instant he really had believed Aspar White's Grim Raver was stooping on him. He had felt the same way when he was halfway through the manuscrift and really understood what he had.

It was that spinning sensation that came of suddenly realizing he truly didn't understand the world. Of having too many secure assumptions upset at once.

The fratrex sat waiting for him to continue, one eyebrow cocked.

“The nature of the scrift,” Stephen explained. “I should have told you as soon as I knew. I should have stopped before I finished it. I'm sorry. I'll understand if you ask for my resignation.”

“You don't have to tell me that,” the fratrex said. “If I ask for your resignation, I shall get it, and whether you understand or not is entirely beside the point. But why should I ask for it? You did exactly what I requested, and splendidly.”

“I don't understand, Reverend. Church policy—”

“Is much better understood by me than by you,” the fratrex finished dryly. “The church has concerns you cannot begin to understand, and which I cannot, at this time, explain to you. Suffice to say that there is evil in the world, yes? And that evil may remain silent for many years, but when it speaks, we should at least know the language. If we do not, it may well talk us all into its spell.”

The implications of that walked through Stephen like a ghost, leaving chill footprints on his heart.

“Reverend, may I confide in you?”

“As in no other.”

“I heard … things on the way here. On the road. At Tor Scath.”

“Go on. Please, sit. You look as if your legs are ready to give way.”

“Thank you, Reverend.” He settled onto a small, hard stool.

“So tell me these things.”

Stephen told him the rumors of the greffyn, and the terrible rites on the abandoned sedos fanes. When he was done, the fratrex leaned forward.

“Such rumors are not unknown to us,” he said, in a low voice. “Nor should they be spread any further. Keep them to yourself, and be assured that the church is not complacent in these matters.”

“Yes, Reverend. It's just that—the sacrifices at the fanes. They resemble certain rites described in the scrift.”

“I have seen that. What reason do you think I had for wanting this translated?”

“But—I think whoever is doing these things only half understands what they are about.”

“What do you suppose they are about?”

“I'm not sure, but I think they are trying to revive an ancient faneway, one of the forbidden ones. Perhaps the very one that the Black Jester walked to gain his unholy powers. The rites are a sort of test, to help them learn which of the thousand fanes in the forest still have power, and to determine the order in which they ought to be walked.”

“But they aren't doing the rites correctly, so we have nothing to fear—yet,” the fratrex reasoned.

“Yet my work would help them,” Stephen said softly. “Some of the missing pieces to their puzzle may lie in what you have before you.”

The fratrex nodded solemnly. “Of course, we are aware of that. But we cannot risk fighting this enemy in the dark. They have some of the secrets. They got them somewhere. We cannot oppose them when we know nothing.”

“But, Reverend—” The image of Desmond Spendlove flashed through his mind. “—what if our enemies are in our midst already? In the church itself ?”

The fratrex smiled grimly. “The surest way to catch a weasel is to set a trap,” he said. “And for a trap, bait is needed.”

He stood. “I thought I taught you a lesson in humility, Brother Stephen. I wonder now if I succeeded. I am no doddering fool, and the church is too canny to be cuckolded by evil. But your loose tongue and your questions could do a great deal of damage, do you understand? Perform the tasks I set before you. Do not speak of them to anyone but me. Do your best to keep anyone else from seeing your work.”

“But my work has already been seen.”

“By Brother Desmond, yes. That was not unforeseen. But do better in the future. Hide your progress. Write faulty translations as well as sound ones.”

“Reverend? The translation is done.”

For answer, the fratrex stooped, and from beneath his desk he brought up a large cedar box.

“There are more,” he said. “I expect the same alacrity that you have already shown.” He smiled thinly. “And now, I suggest you meditate and prepare. Soon you will walk the faneway of Saint Decmanus, and you must be in the proper state of mind.”

Stephen knelt and bowed. “Thank you, Reverend. And I apologize for any impertinence. I assure you it comes entirely from concern for the welfare of the church.”

“In this place, that is my concern,” the fratrex reminded him. He waved the back of his hand. “Go on,” he said. “Put away your worries, and prepare for revelations.”

But Stephen left feeling that he had already had one revelation too many. He feared another might break him.