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COURAGE IS NOT THE absence of fear but action in the face of fear.
—Arbuckle Kyte, Lord of Ravenhold
* * *
“YOU DON’T HAVE TO GO,” Gwen said in a low voice when Madame Gabaldi had gotten out of earshot.
Rolf broke their interlocked gazes and looked over Gwen’s shoulder. “Yeah. I do. Who’s gonna watch out for him?”
She didn’t need to verify whom Rolf was referring to. She knew he was looking at Thomlin. “You can tell his father what you saw here. He doesn’t have to go either.”
“He will, though, because he can’t go home to Gilly if he doesn’t do this.” Rolf finally shifted his gaze back to Gwen. “And you’ll be here all alone.” Worry made him look twenty seasons older.
Her stomach knotted painfully. “Not completely. Madame Gabaldi will be here and . . .” If she couldn’t convince herself she wouldn’t be alone, she certainly wasn’t going to persuade Rolf not to worry, so she just stopped speaking and let the gravity of her situation, of all of their situations, fill the space between them.
“Where are you going to be?” he asked.
Her answer didn’t diminish the concern on his face. “I don’t know. Madame Gabaldi said it wasn’t far from here.”
“Give me a name,” he said, his voice insistent as his darting gaze replicated the extreme wariness it had when he’d been watching for the soldiers that first day of their journey. “Who do I look for?”
“Brother Jacques. That’s all I know about him.”
He leaned in closer to her, and Gwen stretched up to get her ear as near to his face as she could manage. His voice just above a whisper, he said, “If I need to get him out of here, I’ll find you. You just stay put for as long as you can.”
Gabaldi’s yells filtered back to the wagon, and several boys in front of them dismounted. The wagon’s gate suddenly dropped open, and Gwen turned with a start to see two of the recruits climbing up. “No, that’s mine. Please leave it,” she said to one who reached for her trunk.
“Master Gabaldi says to empty it. Take it up with him,” he replied as he grasped the trunk and shoved it to the edge of the wagon bed.
The schoolmistress’s voice came from behind her. “Not to worry, dear. Brother Jacques will send someone for your belongings.”
Rolf climbed down from the wagon and gave Gwen a knowing glance before walking toward Thomlin, who had dismounted and was stroking Buttercup’s cheek. Gwen assumed he’d fill in Thomlin on whatever scheme his brain was devising. For her part, Gwen couldn’t think straight. So much was happening at once, and the din of the marketplace only amplified the sense of chaos swirling around and inside of her.
“Come along, Gwendolin,” said Madame Gabaldi. “Brother Jacques has been on the watch for us. Let us not worry him unnecessarily.”
Her breathing shallow and rapid, she croaked out, “Yes, ma’am.” Gwen stood, her knees weak at first. She dropped the bunched-up skirt and reached for her shoulder sacks, which she held tightly against her until she made her way to the outstretched hand of one of the boys who’d been helping to unload the wagon. Still grasping the sacks with one hand, she balanced herself with a clasp of his hand then hopped down. The leather soles of her flats landed on cobblestones more uneven than they’d appeared from above, and the boy had to grab her by the waist to steady her landing.
She blushed when she followed his stare of disbelief at the fingers still gripping her midriff. “Thank you.”
The boy let loose of her and stepped back. “Welcome.” He fumbled over his own feet to get away from her and rushed around the wagon toward the other recruits, obviously shaken.
Madame Gabaldi called out from behind her. “Gwendolin. It’s time to go.”
“I just want to say good—” She looked behind the wagon, but neither Thomlin nor Rolf was in sight. Frantically she turned around and searched the crowd of recruits. No Buttercup. No hunter’s son. No plump Thomlin Frank.
She gave a quiet squeak as Madame Gabaldi’s hand touched her arm. “This way, dear.”
Though she wanted to break away, to find her friends, to thank Thomlin for caring so much about Gilly, to leave the keep that now felt like it, too, had been built to hold in someone or something, Gwen did none of those things. With arms folded around her bags and in stunned silence, she walked alongside the schoolmistress and didn’t turn around or look behind her. In truth, she didn’t think she had the strength to do either.
When Madame Gabaldi veered off the street and into an alleyway, Gwen realized she’d not paid attention at all to the landmarks in this part of the keep. She might be able to find the Cathedral again if she could locate the guild where Thomlin and Rolf were training, but she didn’t believe she could retrace her steps back to the stockade fence.
She let out a sigh of self-disgust for not being more alert, which was drowned out by a male voice chirping, “Praise be to the heavens. You’ve arrived safely!”
“Jacques!” Madame Gabaldi responded, her tone more cheerful than Gwen thought possible for the austere woman.
The hooded and gray-robed man stepped out of a gated entrance off the alleyway. The two embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks. When the monk leaned back, Gwen got her first unobstructed view of him. Gaunt and dark with full lips and skin glimmering as if freshly washed, the monk had green eyes overflowing with kindness. The overwhelming sense she got when he reached out for her bag and touched her hand confirmed what she saw in his eyes.
“Let me carry those for you, Sister Gwendolin,” he said.
His voice struck her as even more kind and gentle, but there also was strength underlying it. What came to mind as she tried to define his even, stable tone was an infusion of power. Peaceful, kind, and gentle, but powerful nonetheless, and Gwen found unusual comfort in it. It wasn’t until after he’d relieved her of the bags and hung them over his shoulder that she remembered the rip in her dress and folded her hands over the torn spot, embarrassed.
Gwen felt certain Brother Jacques must have noticed because he looked away, craning his neck to look down the alleyway as if watching for someone as he spoke to them. “Come in and have some cool water and fruit. You must be hungry and parched from the ride on that dusty road.”
“Indeed, we are. Thank you,” said Madame Gabaldi.
Jacques dipped his head and folded his hands into a prayer gesture. “It is my blessing to provide sustenance and a soft place for you to rest, my friends.”
His tone drew her in with its sincerity, and for the first time since entering Sutherhold, Gwen felt secure.
He led them through a narrow passageway and across a courtyard into a small building with a flat roof and a single doorway with open windows on either side. They stopped in the first room, the inner walls of which were lined with doors, each painted with symbols that varied in design and color. Between the doorways stood gray stone statues of people Gwen didn’t recognize, but all of whom wore robes not unlike those of Brother Jacques. Modestly furnished with piled cushions surrounding a low table in the center of the room, the space smelled of lilac, the source of which she located and identified as a tightly wrapped bundle of dried branches with fully opened flower petals. She remembered Mignon calling such a bundle a smudge stick. The healer had used them to detoxify rooms in which the sick lay while she tended them, though she’d said coneflowers were the preferred plant for such cleansings. The smudge stick’s stream of smoke drifted upward from a copper bowl on a small table next to the door and out the window. Gwen wondered why she hadn’t noticed its smell as they approached.
No sooner had they paused in the room than another monk, this one wearing a tan robe, came out of the first doorway on the wall to their left.
“Brother Vaughn,” he said, giving a friendly nod to the man. “This is my friend Madame Gabaldi and our new charge, Sister Gwendolin.”
The monk folded his hands as Brother Jacques had and gave a warm smile and dip of his head to each of the two women. Something about the way the monk looked at her made Gwen feel as if he’d been there all along and had overheard their conversation in the courtyard. “I’ll bring refreshments,” he said before shuffling back the way he’d come.
“He is not accustomed to visitors, I’m afraid. We don’t have many, and he’s been here with us only a short time,” Jacques said apologetically.
“No need for apologies, my dear friend. Tell me, Jacques. How are you these days?” said Madame Gabaldi.
Her tone bespoke what Gwen perceived as genuine fondness, and it made her all the more curious about how her teacher had come to know the monk.
“Come and rest.” Jacques motioned toward the piles of white cushions as he set Gwen’s sacks on the floor next to the nearest pile. When he folded his legs and lowered himself onto one of the piles, the fluffy pillows billowed around him. “I wish I could say that all is well in the monastery and . . . the keep.” He accompanied his hesitation with a quick glance toward the door.
Madame Gabaldi plopped onto a pile and let out a sigh of delight. Gwen mimicked the monk’s cross-legged lowering and positioned herself by degrees on a pillow, taking care to configure her dress so the rip didn’t gape open. She was comforted when the cushions plumped themselves around her body, providing a cozy and safe-feeling haven for her weary body and her damaged dress.
“There’s been trouble?” Madame Gabaldi asked.
Jacques shrugged. “Not directly, no. Mostly whispers. One cannot rely on them, of course, but there are many whispers, and that in itself is troubling.”
“The border? The Zjhon?” she asked.
He nodded. “Among other stories, yes. There is much unrest among those in the orders as well. Concern swells about the zealousness of the Zjhon masters.”
“They have always been zealots, no? Why would that be of concern now?”
The first door on the left opened, and Brother Vaughn entered with a cloth-lined tray holding a pitcher and three mugs, which he placed on the table.
“Please sit with us, Brother Vaughn. I believe you may have something to share with our guests.”
Without speaking a word, the second monk did as the first had but descended so gracefully his robe seemed to pour over the seating like hot glaze. Gwen envied his grace even more when he reached out to the tray and poured them a drink. As it streamed into the clay mugs, even the water took on the smooth and delicate movement of the monk’s fingers.
The first sip of the water flowed down her throat just as smoothly, Gwen thought, and she tipped the mug and drank until it was empty. She thought she caught a mild taste of lemon and honey. Immediately her scratchy throat felt rejuvenated, and she held up a hand in refusal when Brother Vaughn asked if she’d like more.
“Brother Vaughn is from the east. He has come for his last worldly rites before taking final vows. Tell them what happened to you at the cathedral, Brother.” This last statement Jacques said while looking at the other monk.
His demeanor showing no emotion whatsoever, Vaughn began to speak. “I went to the cathedral a few days ago. Upon entering, I was ushered out of the vestibule in a most inhospitable manner.”
Jacques interrupted in a whisper, “By Zjhon soldiers and rather roughly, I might add.”
Madame Gabaldi gasped. “How dreadful. Soldiers in the cathedral?”
“I was taken to an antechamber and questioned at some length by one of the Zjhon masters.”
“Tell them what he asked about,” said Jacques.
Gwen was sure she caught a gleam of annoyance in Brother Vaughn’s quick glance at the other monk.
“He wanted to know the names of other monks who do not worship the Zjhon gods.”
“Why would he care what other orders do?” Madame Gabaldi asked. “Why is that his concern?”
“I do not know,” Vaughn replied. “I told him I could not speak as to what others might or might not believe and that I was not yet a monk.”
“And what happened then?”
“I was escorted out of the cathedral and informed it has been closed to those not of the Zjhon faith and would be henceforth entered only by those who follow the True Path of the Scripture.”
Gwen remembered seeing the man in the streets yelling to passersby about a scripture.
Madame Gabaldi frowned. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“So was I, Sister Gabaldi. The library in the cathedral holds some of the most rare manuscripts in existence. Or at least, that is what is rumored.”
Brother Jacques broke the pensive silence that followed. “Of course, one cannot draw conclusions from such a singular incident or the exuberance with which it occurred. There are many orders of faith who do not interact with others. The Zjhon are not alone in such a stance.”
The schoolmistress turned to Gwen and smiled. “Do you see? It is as I told you. He is the perfect mentor for you at this stage of your path to the monastic life. There is none more knowledgeable about orders of faith than my dear, old friend.” She reached over and patted Jacques on the shoulder.
“You regard me too highly, Sister,” he replied, his words delivered with honest humility.
“That’s rubbish and you know it, Jacques.” She laughed.
He shrugged and looked down.
“When we were in lessons together, Jacques was always the first to understand every subject. He could find the most obscure references. We all knew he’d become a scholar.”
“You grew up together?”
Madame Gabaldi smiled. “Indeed, we did. Jacques was my first love.” She giggled like a moonstruck young girl.
In his first ungraceful movement, Brother Vaughn reached for the pitcher of water and toppled it over, sending a wave of liquid splashing across the tabletop and onto Madame Gabaldi’s lap. The monk rose to his feet and rushed around to the other side of the table, offering the schoolmistress the cloth from the tray. “I am so terribly clumsy, Sister. Forgive me.” His face looked as if he were in pain from remorse.
Madame Gabaldi let out a loud laugh as she stood and dabbed at her drenched skirt. “Nonsense. It was an accident. There’s nothing to forgive, Brother Vaughn.”
“We can provide you with a robe, but I’m afraid that’s all we have,” he said to her.
“That won’t be necessary,” she replied. “It’s just damp. It’ll dry. I should be on my way now anyway.”
“But you haven’t eaten. Let us see to your sustenance, Sister.” Jacques stood.
“Thank you, dear friend, but I should get back to the guild to gather my things. My friends will be awaiting my arrival, and I’m eager to assess their children’s level of education. Sutherhold is a treasure for teaching the young. So many monuments. So much to see and do.”
As Gwen also rose from her cushion, she watched Brother Vaughn, who folded his hands and stood silently next to Madame Gabaldi. He’d recovered the gracefulness in his demeanor, but Gwen noticed his expression had flattened. Gone was the anguish it had shown when he’d apologized. She wondered what had been so disturbing to him that he’d lost his poise momentarily and what had pained him so much. It was just a silly accident, after all, not some harm visited upon his guest. While she was thinking about him, Brother Vaughn looked directly at her with a disapproving glance before he gathered up the toppled pitcher and the mugs and placed them on the tray.
The look took her aback, and Gwen almost lost her footing amid the squishy pillows.
“Gwendolin has a trunk at the fighter’s guild where my husband has taken his pupils.”
“Say no more,” interrupted Jacques. “Brother Vaughn, will you have two of the neophytes accompany Madame Gabaldi to retrieve Gwendolin’s belongings, please?”
The monk gave an affirmative nod and left the room, carrying the tray. Two white-robed young men about Gwen’s age appeared from the same doorway in what seemed like only an instant.
Madame Gabaldi approached Gwen. “I know you will find your destiny, Gwendolin Ahlgren. It is most assured by the guidance of Brother Jacques. He knows where I’ll be residing until the boys are ready to return to Vasterberg. He’ll send for me if you are in need.” Assurance had underscored every word the schoolmistress had spoken, and Gwen appreciated it for what it was.
“Farewell, Madame Gabaldi. And thank you for all you’ve done to help me and . . . the others.”
The woman nodded a silent acknowledgment and turned to Jacques. “Take care, my friend. I hope to see you again during my stay.”
“As do I, Sister Gabaldi. As do I.” He smiled at her and folded his hands in the now familiar prayer gesture before dipping his head, this time keeping it lowered until the schoolmistress and the neophytes had exited the building. Turning to Gwen, he said, “Let’s get you a warm bath, a clean robe, some food, and a bit of rest. Follow me, Sister.”
Jacques escorted her down a long hallway to a room filled with steam, which rushed out and blasted Gwen in the face when he opened the door. “That one,” he said once inside, pointing to another door, “will take you to a passageway. The first door is where you’ll stay while with us. The second leads to another hallway that’ll bring you back to the reception room where we sat earlier. There is a robe for you.” He pointed to a mound of folded cloth then left before she could thank him.
Gwen couldn’t remember a bath feeling more soothing. She lay in the wooden tub, steam soaking her face and hair, until the water cooled and the steam disappeared. After dressing in the white wool robe, which was much softer than she’d expected, she combed her wet hair and went to the small chamber Jacques had told her about.
When her hair was almost dry, the neophytes arrived in her chamber with the trunk. They came and went without speaking a word, although both did smile at her before leaving.
The same two neophytes returned in a few minutes with a platter of fruit and more water, and once again, they came and went without speaking. As she nibbled on the fruit, she picked up a book lying on the bed. In the first few pages, she learned it was a book about the Varics, an order advocating knowledge and learning in all aspects of living but also free, open, and balanced public discussion of matters related to government and laws. The thought of such a mission made her head throb.
Gwen concluded the monastery must have been an outpost for the Varics, which seemed a good fit for a scholar such as Brother Jacques. Many of the ordination rituals she’d read about required neophytes to do the very opposite of what their orders practiced, so silence seemed a likely part of the neophyte phase of ordination in a faith such as that of the Varics, which encouraged free speech.
With a full belly and her muscles relaxed from the bath, Gwen’s eyelids grew heavy. The bed looked as comfortable as the pile of cushions she’d sat on earlier, and she wanted to sink into it. First, she thought, she needed to find something to wear so she could return the robe to Brother Jacques after she’d napped. After all, she’d wear a robe for the rest of her life once she joined an order, she thought as she opened the trunk to take out one of the dresses she’d packed. Inside, she found the contents in disarray and not just from the wagon’s tousling. The things she’d packed on top were scattered throughout the layers, and some of the clothing had been bunched up and stuffed into corners. Someone had searched her belongings!