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THOUGH ART CAN BRING joy, it is often born of pain.
—Gemino, sorcerer and artist
* * *
FOR THE NEXT WEEK, Gwen spent daylight working alongside the monks and evenings in solitary repose in the little apartment where she gazed out of the window at the Tree of Plenty while mulling over her dreams and Mother Seema’s words. In truth, she found the routine peaceful even though she uncovered no meaningful answers as to what the dreams signified. She threw herself into learning all she could about the plants in Ohmahold from the two monks who specialized in them, splitting her working hours between assisting Sister Brunhilda in the potting shed during morning hours and helping Brother Bastian in his greenhouse in the afternoon.
Sister Brunhilda, aware of Gwen’s impending journey to the Southland, gave her a list of rare plants to locate, which reduced Gwen’s anxiety about setting off to meet her destiny, as Mother Seema had so onerously defined the purpose of the trip.
“This is a crude drawing of Terhilian skullcap,” Brunhilda said, handing Gwen a piece of parchment.
Gwen studied the image. To her, it looked just like the image in her own plant journal—mintlike leaves with hooded flowers and distinctive seed pods. “Terhilian? What makes it different from common skullcap?”
The old monk smirked. “Common skullcap can be helpful for settling nervous conditions, itching, irritations of the skin.”
“Yes, that is what I was taught,” said Gwen.
“Terhilian skullcap aids in vision quests.”
Gwen cocked her head. “Aids? Do you mean it induces hallucinations?”
Brunhilda shrugged. “Who can say? But it is extremely powerful as a relaxant, and some who struggle with clarity in visions claim Terhilian skullcap has helped them slip into the dream state more easily.”
“I see. I’ll make a note of that.” Gwen handed the parchment back to the monk. “Does it grow in the same places as common skullcap?”
“No, and that is why we must not miss this chance to get some while you are in the Southland. I’ve heard it prefers areas where the land is alternately marshy and wooded but with no more than half a day’s sunlight, not full sun.”
“I know nothing about the Southland and its landscapes or climate.”
“But Brother Vaughn is quite knowledgeable about such things. I have heard he will be traveling with you on his way to Drascha Stone to deliver a message and pick up some artifacts. That means you will pass through remote areas of the Southland, and as luck would have it, those areas are ideal for the herbs, seeds, roots, and cuttings I’d like you to gather.” She handed Gwen another parchment, this one containing a long list of plant names, some with specific instructions for the stage of growth they should be at before collecting them.
Gwen reviewed the list quickly. “I’m not sure what some of these are,” she said.
Sister Brunhilda reached into a drawer below the potting table and pulled out a stack of drawings, which she held out to Gwen. “Sort through these and copy any you need for your own journal. In fact, you can put the pages in alphabetical order while you’re at it. My eyes are not what they used to be. And be careful,” she added as she set the pile into Gwen’s hands, her own reluctantly drawing back. “These are the only copies I have.”
Gwen’s eyes widened at what she suspected were hundreds of individual sheets. “Of course, Sister. Thank you for lending them to me. I’ll have them back to you by morning if that suits you.” She had no idea how she’d get the task done but knew Brunhilda would be uncomfortable with her keeping them for more than a day.
“That will be fine. Now off with you,” the old monk said. “Brother Bastian will be waiting.”
“Yes, Sister.” Gwen turned and walked toward the greenhouse.
Before she shut the door behind her, she heard Sister Brunhilda call out, “And drop those in your apartment before you go to his grimy greenhouse.”
Gwen sensed some jealousy about Brother Bastian’s more spacious workspace. She nodded from the doorway. “I will.” As she closed the door, the thin glass insets that allowed extra light to flow in through the potting shed’s door rattled. She made a mental note to ask which of the monks specialized in carpentry and could reseal the edges of the panes so none fell out if a brisk wind caught the door and slammed it shut. Maybe sprucing up the shed would make Sister Brunhilda feel more appreciated.
As promised, she set the stack of parchments on her bed before walking the distance to Brother Bastian’s greenhouse, taking care to follow the directions she’d been shown. She’d quickly learned most of the corridors inside the monastery looked alike, and she’d been warned not to wander because some of them contained death traps. Only some of the sisters seemed to understand the designs marking which halls were safe and which weren’t, which restricted the movements of everyone else, and so Gwen, not being among those who understood what the designs portended would lay beyond, had stuck to the routes she knew would take her only where she needed to go to safely eat, meditate, sleep, and work. In the back of her mind, she wondered if something should be done to prevent monks from accidentally taking a wrong turn and ending up maimed or dead, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
The second she opened the door to the greenhouse, the scent of pears filled the moist air. It reminded her it was past midday already and she hadn’t eaten since early morning.
“Hello, Sister Gwendolin. Please shut the door before the bees escape.”
Gwen hurried in and closed the door behind herself, noticing the panes in the door panel didn’t rattle when the door clicked shut.
“Brother Vaughn tells me you will depart for your journey tomorrow.”
Her stomach knotted. It explained why Sister Brunhilda had given her the list. But why hadn’t Brother Vaughn or Mother Seema told her?
“The Southland has an abundance of fruit trees and shrubs, and though I’d very much like specimens of all of them, I’m afraid you won’t have the means to carry them safely back. There’s simply no need to overburden the mule and uproot samples if they won’t weather the trip. I’m eager to experiment with some of the more exotic seeded fruit trees. I suppose I’ll have to settle for a fig and a pomegranate this time, as I suspect dear Sister Brunhilda has requested a hoard of herbs.”
A smile sneaked onto Gwen’s lips, but she said nothing.
Like his apparent rival had done, he handed her a single parchment, his not a list, however, and much more elaborate than any of Brunhilda’s drawings. His bore images of two trees and their fruits, but his sketch also included carefully labeled, colorful cross-sections showing the layers of skin, flesh, and seeds of the fruits, as well as the pattern of the root system. “I’d like young saplings, as they’ll stand a better chance of surviving, but be sure to gather some near-ripe fruit from larger trees too. Not completely ripe or they’ll rot before you get back. I’ll study the seeds and preserve what I can. Experiments do fail and extra seeds may be needed. Wrap the base of the trunk and all of the roots in this,” he said, handing her a roll of rough burlap tied neatly with twine. “And be sure to wet it first. Keep it moist or the roots will go into shock. Oh, and leave a small amount of soil on the roots. They will need the nutrients.”
Gwen nodded. “I understand.”
Brother Bastian put a hand on her shoulder. “Am I asking too much of you, Sister Gwendolin?”
Flustered, she sputtered out, “N-no. I just hadn’t expected to leave so soon.”
His face glowed with a warm, comforting smile. “I understand. Perhaps you should go back to your cell early today. I’m sure you have packing to do.”
Gwen smiled back. She liked Brother Bastian, and she appreciated his kindness. “Thank you. I can stay if you need me, though.”
He shook his head. “Nothing is urgent today. In fact, I’d like to watch the bees for a while and see which flowers they prefer. When Sister Ellena relocated them here, she said they might be a bit confused at first and that I should be certain they have enough of whatever they like until the colony has settled in.” He turned his head and squinted. “There goes one now.” As he crept away from her, peering into the rows of potted trees and shrubs in search of the bee, he spoke more loudly, “Travel safely, Sister Gwendolin. And thank you. You’ll do a fine job bringing back the trees, I’m sure.”
“Good-bye, Brother Bastian,” Gwen called out as he disappeared behind a row of thick, flowering bushes. She let herself out of the greenhouse, taking special care not to open the door until she was certain no bees were nearby.
Her apartment, which had seemed cozy and comforting, felt cramped as she sat on the tile floor in the small amount of open space between the bed and chair. She spread out Sister Brunhilda’s parchments in a circle around her and began sorting them alphabetically, a task that proved exceedingly more difficult because the monk’s penmanship reflected a shaky hand and uneven pressure. Smudges distorted some of the letters, and Gwen had to use the images as aids for identification. Some plants she recognized on sight; others eluded recognition. She gnawed on her lip as she studied the parchments and flinched when she accidentally bit down too hard and drew blood.
As she licked the tender spot and tasted the saltiness, at first strong then dissipating, the vision of Rolf holding the arrow and silently begging forgiveness flashed in her mind. She stiffened when she heard her name spoken by a woman.
“Forgive me for interrupting, Sister Gwendolin.”
She blinked away the vision and looked toward the sound.
Mother Seema stood in the open doorway. “We missed you at our evening meal.” The monk motioned, and one of the blue-robed neophytes entered with a tray, atop which sat a pitcher, a mug, and a plate covered with a tea towel. “I thought you might be hungry.”
The silent, young monk placed the tray on Gwen’s bed and left the room, gently closing the door behind herself.
“I see Sister Brunhilda’s keeping you busy,” said Mother Seema, a grin twisting her lips.
“I don’t mind. I’m thankful for the distraction.”
“Are you nervous about the journey, Sister Gwendolin?”
“A little, I guess.” She looked down at the disorderly pile of parchments and avoided eye contact.
“I’d be a lot more than a little nervous, especially if I were having visions I didn’t understand.”
Gwen made eye contact. “How do you know that?”
Mother Seema smiled. “Some of your more perceptive friends here are worried about you because you aren’t discussing your troubles with anyone. I count myself among those friends, Sister. I can’t know what your visions portend, if anything, but I do have an empathetic ear and do care to lessen your worries if I can.”
“I keep seeing an image of a boy I knew. A hunter. But he’s in a Zjhon uniform, and he’s holding a bloody arrow.” An immediate sense of relief washed over her.
Mother Seema sat on the bed, steadying the tray to keep the pitcher from toppling. “A hunter with a bloody arrow. While the vision isn’t a pleasant one, I’m not sure why you would find it disturbing.” She lifted the edge of the tea towel and peeked at the food on the plate before covering it up again.
“In the vision, I can’t hear him speak, but his lips move. He is saying, ‘Forgive me.’”
“Hmm. And has your friend done something warranting forgiveness? Something you might know about?”
Gwen shook her head. “No.” She remembered the Zjhon soldier behind the crates in the alleyway. “Well, maybe. I didn’t see him do it, but I think he might have killed a Zjhon soldier when Brother Vaughn and I were in Sutherhold.”
“Brother Vaughn has told me about the soldier,” Mother Seema replied, her voice calm and nonjudgmental. “He said the man was tied up, though, not killed. And didn’t your friend put on his uniform?”
“That was the other friend. And . . . well, I’m not sure my friend Rolf didn’t kill him after Brother Vaughn and I left the alleyway. Rolf stayed behind.”
“I see. But you’re also not certain he did the soldier any harm.”
“There’s more. Before all of that happened, I had a vision of Rolf holding up a little girl. A little girl named Bonita. He was older and I think the child was his.”
Mother Seema’s expression was the picture of serenity as she listened. “Go on.”
“The shaft of the arrow in the other vision had words written on it—Bonita’s freedom.”
The expression of serenity faded, and Mother Seema said, “I do not see a connection between the two visions and what happened in Sutherhold. You said your friend was older. Perhaps you merely saw a glimpse of one possible future, one in which he might do something warranting forgiveness? The line of time is not unbending, Sister Gwendolin. Unrelated memories and assumptions often cloud the meaning of a vision. I am sure you’ll decipher what you need to help your friend, most likely when you least expect.”
Though she found no comfort in the lack of resolution about the visions, Gwen did feel better for having revealed the details to Mother Seema. “You’re right, of course. Maybe I’m just a bit more anxious about this trip than I thought.”
“I don’t profess to infinite knowledge or even a shred of wisdom on most days, but I do know you have undergone a great deal of turmoil—leaving your home and family, discovering your teacher was not what she claimed to be. No wonder you have disturbing visions.” She stood and reached out to Gwen.
Gwen got up and clasped Mother Seema’s hands. “Thank you for listening.”
The monk smiled warmly and squeezed Gwen’s fingers tightly. “Know this, Sister Gwendolin: This journey will change forever the course of your life, just as a similar journey turned the tide of mine. You will know joy and love. Above all, love.” She let go of Gwen’s hands and nodded to the piles of parchment on the floor. “I should let you return to your work. Sister Brunhilda will not be denied.” She winked then exited the room, turning to say, “May your travels be safe and bountiful,” before closing the door and leaving Gwen in a room filled with the warmth of her kindness.