Matabar

Book II. Chapter 43 - Old Slimy

Ardi squeezed the flanks of his horse, and the animal drew to a halt. With a shake of its head, it lowered its muzzle to the grass and began to graze, picking out the tallest, most succulent stalks. The wind caressed its mane, and along with it, the young man’s own overgrown hair, which had escaped from beneath the brim of his hat.

Soon, perhaps tomorrow night, or maybe this very evening, a storm would arrive on the western shore of the Dancing Peninsula. It was the same storm that now raged somewhere in the Forian Bay—the most sheltered harbor in the world, one guarded by two forts built on man-made islands, each the size of a small town.

But that would come later.

For now, the wind, like a grim herald striding with confidence across the meadow of flowers, drove the massive cumulus clouds before it. They were fluffy and white as new snow, yet they held upon their tattered shoulders a heavy, leaden sky, across which the unseen artists of nature had seemingly spilled buckets of blue paint.

“It’s all right, spirit of the steppe,” Ardan soothed the agitated horse in the tongue of beasts. The animal’s ears twitched every time the stern, eastern wind fell upon the field. “I am here with you. Listen to my breathing.”

The horse snorted once more and silently returned to its grazing, utterly ignoring the veritable lakes of chamomile, the rivers of primrose and violet. As for the pools of marigolds—orange blossoms shaped like inverted bells—they drew from the steed nothing more than a flicker of irritation.

The monastery itself had found its refuge on a rocky plateau that split a sharp, stone-fanged cliff in two. A scattering of sparse trees, clearly planted and now tended to by the Sisters, served as a natural shield against the dust of the earth and the sometimes-cold sea wind.

The walls were old, gray and heavy, built from stones hewn from the local cliffs. They remembered a time when they were not a bastion for the Face of Light, but meant to defend the pass that led directly to the isthmus of the Dancing Peninsula.

All that remained of the monastery’s past as an unwelcoming military sentinel maintaining its silent, ceaseless vigil, were the high, massive walls. Once, they had encircled a fortress; now they served as something of a facade. Window frames had been cut into them, wooden verandas had been attached, and the former garrisons and munitions stores had evidently been converted into cells. Only at the monastery’s base, where the foundation descended like a broken staircase over sharp rocks, could one still find the last lingering remnants of its martial history.

There were marks left by the cannonballs of enemy ships, deep scratches from siege ladders, and a stark absence of flowers, which had been replaced by a low carpet of grass. It was as if the colorful princes of the meadow refused to grow where blood had been spilled for centuries.

And then the Empire had signed a military and trade agreement with the Union of Foria, Olikzasia and Lintelar, and its southern sea borders had found peace. The fort was not so much unneeded now (for no treaty in the world of politics is eternal) as it was movable. The Crown had gained the opportunity to relocate it from the continental coast to a large island west of the peninsula. That island had been called many things because of its proximity to the Dancing Peninsula and a shape that vaguely resembled a foot…

Ardan pulled his hat a little lower over his eyes. The sun was a minor nuisance. The monastery, as if mocking him, was nestled in the shade of the rocky cliff. Its russet roofs were tiled, with some being broken and others coated in moss. A string of windows more fitting for a palace situated along the streets of the Metropolis’ Central District winked with playful beams of light. Small turrets rose into the air, taking the place of domes, and sharp spires stood in for golden triangles.

The sacred symbols of the Face of Light were not permitted above convents. Why? Ardi remembered the catechism his mother had read to him, but not perfectly. Only the general shape of it. And in those “general shapes,” such a detail had not been preserved. All he knew was that, even in the largest and most famous convent in the Empire, the Monastery of the Martyrs, which housed five active temples, there was not a single golden triangle on its domes and spires.

The northern wing of the Larand Monastery of the Sisters of Light was situated above the meadow, and could be reached using a wide staircase carved into the stone. The western wing, however, hung over a cliff that dropped for many meters, its base battered by the tireless, frothing waves of the bay. And farther on, beyond a small, outstretched strip of land, the faint outline of a pier was just barely visible. This, apparently, was where the ships and pleasure yachts of the supplicants came to dock.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Ardi whispered, ruffling his horse’s mane. The animal answered with a placid silence broken only by the sound of its chewing.

In truth, monasteries were home to far more than just monks and nuns. If there were active temples on the grounds, the place could be flooded with parishioners during services. If the site held historical or religious value, pilgrims often outnumbered the permanent residents. Not to mention the lay workers—those who came to the monastery for a short time to perform auxiliary labor—and, in the case of a place like Larand, secular representatives as well.

At the orphanage, the Sisters surely did most of the work, but some subjects were taught by ordinary women from Larand, and likewise, some tasks were performed not by local lay women, but by hired men. They often didn’t do it for money, but for room and board—a roof, food and a community where they could find a measure of peace, however temporary. Many such men later moved on to monasteries, where they found their true calling.

Ardi, of course, had learned all this from his mother, and he had never before thought that Shaia’s piety and the knowledge she’d passed on would ever be of any use to him.

The Larand Monastery of the Sisters of Light housed a single temple: the Temple of the Sea Host. It was there, as one might’ve guessed, to honor the memory of the fallen defenders of the waterways of what was a very young Empire back then. And it was the presence of this temple that gave Ardi the opportunity not only to survey the Sisters’ abode from the outside, but to enter within as well.

Only, before that…

Swinging his right leg over, Ardi slid lightly to the ground. Dismounting, especially when helping with the grazing, had not been a frequent necessity on the farm, but it was one of the first skills the youth had mastered—both how to get into the saddle quickly and how to get out of it just as fast.

He had just opened his grimoire, intending to use the Demon Search seal he had first tested during his visit to the Irigov estate, but…

“This is foolish,” the youth chided himself.

If the orphanage or the monastery itself was being used directly by the Puppeteers for their depraved research and experiments, there would be so much equipment and, quite possibly, so many precautions that the spell would not go unnoticed. And even if that wasn’t the case, if the orphanage served merely as a source of “materials” and nothing more, then the spell would show him nothing, but might still attract the attention of a watchdog stationed here by the Puppeteers.

Ardi was certain that there was an unknown observer monitoring the assets of the mysterious conspirators.

“No Star Magic,” the young man breathed out and squatted down.

He scooped up a handful of earth and drew in a noisy breath, inhaling the scent of the summer grasses, the scorching sun, the sea, and the wind that wandered carelessly among the rocks and forests. Ardi opened his hand and blew, sending the damp, loose motes of soil into the air. They settled like a dark, transparent veil over the flowers. The handsome lords and ladies of the meadow grimaced in displeasure and tried to shake themselves clean, but in that same moment, the shadow of Ardan’s hand fell over them.

The young man gently plucked several earth-dusted petals, brought them to his forehead, and then, with another breath, sent them flying.

The earth, which held the memory of mountains rising from its depths, and the flowers, like tiny sparks above a flame, withering before they could ever know snow and blizzards—they were the best at sensing the most fleeting changes in their lovely kingdoms.

This was not even the art of the Aean’Hane, but the simplest of spells, one of earth and flowers. It was something harmless, something Ardi had dabbled with more than once back in the Alcade.

His gaze followed the petals as they were carried on the wind, and Ardan waited with bated breath for a sign. If both elements were in balance, if the memory of the mother (the soil) did not differ from the perception of her children (the flowers), then nothing would prevent them from crossing the monastery’s boundary, which had long since become an inseparable part of the cliff face. Its walls had merged with the stones, and its people were steeped in the winds and the scent of the sea.

“Sleeping Spirits,” Ardan breathed, shaking his head.

Despite the wind blowing directly toward the high walls, the petals scattered in different directions and settled back onto the multicolored carpet of the flowering meadow, trembling with impatience.

Something was wrong here. Alas, that “something was wrong” was all Ardan could ascertain for now. But even this bare minimum was the best possible start to solving a puzzle. When you know that you are truly facing a problem, and not just chasing ghosts, it is far easier to search for the answer.

“What do you think about visiting a monastery with demons in it?” Ardan asked the steppe horse.

Of course, in the language of beasts, there was no word for “monastery,” nor a concept like “what do you think about an idea,” but Ardi spoke not in words, but in meanings.

The horse snorted.

It understood nothing.

“Domesticated animals,” Ardi smiled a little condescendingly and, patting its thick mane, he took the horse by the bridle and led it toward the monastery.

Once, a high road had existed here, crossing the field of flowers. It had been a wide, well-traveled thoroughfare used to deliver provisions and munitions to the fort. But it had long since become a part of bygone history, only occasionally reminding one of its existence with the cobblestones peeking through the earth and grass. And the ramp leading into the fortress had been replaced by that staircase carved into the rock.

Fortunately, its steps were small and wide enough for a horse to climb. It had likely been designed with that very purpose in mind. They had kept the possibility of delivery but eliminated the noise of carts, the voices of the loaders, and everything else that might’ve disturbed the monastery’s tranquility.

And it was precisely that—tranquility—that the quiet whispers of the wind, the rustle of the planted trees’ crowns, and the monumental walls gazing out at the sea’s expanse before them were meant to evoke. And perhaps Ardi would have also fallen victim to this suggestion if not for his little spell.

The young man knew that here, behind the massive wooden gates reinforced with steel brackets and rivets, something abnormal was happening, and so he felt not tranquility, but a certain apprehension. It was as if the wooden balconies and window jambs hanging overhead, which broke up the gray canvas of the stonework, were trying to tell him something. Something dreadful, something unnatural, something that was hiding under a mask of purity and peace, in order to…

The well-oiled hinges of a service door cut into the main gate turned without a sound. An older woman now stood on the monastery’s threshold, whose bell Ardi had rung just a minute earlier. She was wrapped in white robes that formed something akin to a man’s cassock, only looser. A kerchief of the same color covered her hair, a golden triangle swayed on her chest, and her belt was a string of wooden beads on a leather strap. A symbol was burned onto each one of them. Sometimes, they repeated. More often, they did not.

Ardi remembered that each of these symbols belonged to the Old Galessian alphabet from the time when the religion of the Face of Light had first come to these lands. The symbols represented the initials of the names of the Saints and the Eternal Angels.

“May the Light be with you, traveler,” the nun inclined her head slightly and made the sacred sign over Ardi. She pointed her palm first toward his forehead, then to his right shoulder, then his left, and then back toward his forehead.

A triangle.

This was the symbol of the infinite Light and its simultaneous Creator and Essence—the Face of Light.

“May the Light illuminate you as well, Holy Sister,” Ardan replied with a similar nod.

“Come in, Mr…”

“Egobar.”

“Come in, Mr. Egobar. Our home is your home.”

She did not ask why he had come, nor who he was in general, nothing that would interest any other person on whose doorstep a stranger had just appeared. The monasteries of Gales, and later of the Empire of the New Monarchy, welcomed everyone with equal kindness. Even the Firstborn…

Ardi crossed the threshold and felt a light, warm touch. There was no magic here in the conventional sense, like what Star Mages used—no generators, no Ley-wiring. The art of the Aean’Hane was also silent here—the earth knew no spells, no mysteries, no call of True Names.

And yet, the monastery possessed something of its own, something different, something Ardan could feel but not describe. It was as if he had suddenly moved from river water to lake water, or, while running across an autumn meadow, had suddenly felt a southern wind promising a summer that was still almost a year away.

The young man’s gaze fell upon a spacious inner courtyard crisscrossed with narrow paths of white stone, patches of flowerbeds, benches, and gazebos, some of which had nuns sitting in them. They were women of various ages, but all of them were dressed in the same white robes, white kerchiefs, with a golden triangle and beads at their waists.

Some were reading, others tending to the flowers, a third group was talking, and sometimes even laughing. All in all, if you were to simply change their clothes, it would be hard to tell them apart from the ordinary girls and women of any city.

But that was what the eye could see.

The heart, however, felt something different. Something akin to what Madmir had described the previous evening. As he secretly looked at their bright faces, furtively examined their vivid eyes, and surreptitiously studied the habits and manners of the nuns, it truly seemed to Ardi like he had come to some… clean place. Yes, perhaps that word fit best. And, most unsettlingly, he could not understand why he felt that way.

He noted a small chapel for morning service and staircases of stone and wood that wound their way up to what had once been barracks or storehouses, and were now living quarters. The Larand Monastery of the Sisters of Light, not counting the orphanage, was home to about a hundred nuns, which wasn’t considered a large number, but was still impressive enough. And so, it was not surprising that in this former fort, every structure, even the most unassuming, had found its use.

“Will you be staying long, Mr. Egobar?” The question pulled Ard away from the stream of his thoughts and feelings. “If you need lodging, we can provide you with a private cell in the pilgrim’s wing, feed and water your horse, and heat water for you.”

“I wanted to make a donation, HolySister,” Ardan replied, seemingly going off-topic. “So I won’t take up much of your time.”

The Dead Lands and their artifacts…

Ardan doubted that the entire monastery and all its inhabitants were involved in the Puppeteers’ affairs. So, most likely, the vast majority of the sisters suspected nothing. But this also meant that any one of them could potentially be not a “Sister of the Face of Light,” but an agent of the Puppeteers. This made it so that any cassock might be hiding an artifact like the one Nathan and the sheriff had.

Ardan, of course, was not exactly burning with a desire to make a donation, but he was not strongly against it, either. And an artifact would not distinguish such subtleties, nor would it detect a lie.

They stopped at a fork between several buildings. Nearby stood a slightly disheveled haystack that had clearly been gathered for the local horses. The smell of the stable hid among the floral aroma, but the keen nose of a Matabar could detect it as well.

“You will not take up our time, Mr. Egobar, and if you are in need, if you are hungry or thirsty, if you are weary from your journey, or your spirit seeks peace, then we will give you all that we have,” the sister bowed her head again. “As long as you respect our seclusion and peace, you are at home, not a guest. For we are all children of the Light, and this is His home.”

“Thank you, HolySister.”

“Do you wish to make a donation to the temple or to the orphanage?” The nun inquired after a short pause.

Her tone was calm, soft, and in some ways, even friendly. The times of the Inquisition and the religious wars between the followers of the Face of Light and the Sleeping Spirits were long gone. In most parts of the Empire, except for the places where the minds of the inhabitants had been poisoned by followers of the Tavsers, the monasteries, churches and temples were open even to the Firstborn.

“To the orphanage, HolySister,” Ardan replied.

After all, there probably would have been nothing strange if he had “wanted” to make a donation to the temple as well, but it could have raised unnecessary questions and suspicions. Not many Firstborn and their half-bloods practiced the religion of the Face of Light. But the orphans among them…

“I understand,” the nun came to some conclusion of her own and waved her hand.

A few seconds later, a young girl, clearly not yet of age, separated from one of the groups of sisters. She was at most fourteen years old.

“Sister Mlada,” the nun addressed the girl. “Please take Mr. Egobar’s horse to the stable and ask the worker Nadir to water and feed him.”

“Yes, HolySister,” Mlada bowed. “Mr. Egobar, with your permission…”

Ardi handed the reins to the girl, carefully avoiding any contact between their hands. Firstly, men were strictly forbidden from touching the Sisters of Light, and secondly… it really seemed like he might soil her if he did so. And that was despite the fact that his hands were clean. And yet… They were not as clean as Mlada in her snow-white robes.

The horse, showing not the slightest bit of wariness toward a stranger, obediently followed the girl to the stable.

“Let’s go, Mr. Egobar,” the nun turned in the other direction. “I will take you to the Holy Mother, and she will explain and show you everything.”

“Wonderful,” Ardan replied with sincere but restrained joy.

The Holy Mother was the name for the abbess of the monastery—the senior nun who was something of a managing director, to put it in worldly terms. She was responsible for both the religious component of life in the monastery, and for quite mundane matters as well. A personal meeting with her could significantly help his investigation.

Leaning on his staff, the chains of his grimoire occasionally jingling, Ardan followed the nun, not forgetting to surreptitiously survey the area. But no matter how much he looked and observed, he found nothing unusual.

Nuns moved from building to building. Sometimes, they were alone, but more often in small groups. They whispered and talked about various things. Ardan eavesdropped on their conversations a couple of times, but overheard only mundane discussions about kitchen and temple matters, the nuances of religion, thoughts about the Face of Light, and other things that concerned the inhabitants of a closed-off society.

Among the lay workers, both male and female, who were either patching up grimy roofs, pushing grumbling carts, or carrying gurgling buckets of water from the wells into the buildings, there was almost no conversation to be heard. Not from the men, of whom there were quite a few, nor from the women. And if they did speak, it was only about work.

“Do you wish to stay with us and earn a blessing of labor, Mr. Egobar?”

A “blessing of labor” was an invitation to the temple. No one was allowed to simply stay within the walls of the holy abode. The lay workers received a “blessing of labor.” The nuns a “blessing of prayer.” And those who sought temporary shelter, be they orphans or travelers, a “blessing of salvation.”

“I’m afraid not, HolySister,” Ardi politely declined.

Apparently, his intense, inquisitive gaze, which he had tried to hide, had not gone unnoticed.

The woman lingered by another gate that led to the main temple building. She turned to her companion and looked him in the eyes.

“Your soul is in turmoil, Mr. Egobar. It would benefit from peace. Both it and the heavy thoughts that oppress you.”

No, this was not Star Magic or a Witch’s Gaze at work. Rather, it was the life experience of decades spent among people fleeing the hardships and adversities of the outside world. She’d spent a lot of time among those who’d sought strength within the monastery’s walls in order to piece together what life had shattered with the hardness and cruelty of a bare-knuckle fighter.

“I do not believe in the human god, HolySister,” Ardi did not use Skusty’s art here. Why? Probably for the same reason he could not allow himself to touch any of those who wore the snow-white robes.

“We do not need to believe in our parent, Mr. Egobar, for Him to believe in and love us,” the nun replied and made the sign of the triangle. “The Face of Light is not so much a faith as…”

“A choice,” Ardi finished for her. “I know the Church’s teachings.”

“But you just said that you do not believe.”

Ardan just shrugged, and the nun did not press further. Instead, she opened the door carved into the gate. They found themselves in a stone hall, sleepily yawning with massive walls, a low ceiling, and an icy floor. Once, this had been the central hall of the fortress, and then the fort. And now, covered with carpets, its rough masonry hidden behind icons, and sparkling with the lights of chandeliers and candelabras, it diligently disguised itself as the abode of the human god.

Ardi easily recognized most of the images of the Saints (real historical figures whom the Church considered blessed by the Eternal Angels) thanks to the history lessons he’d had in Evergale, and then the lectures at the Grand University as well. But he had never seen images of the Angels. Shaia was one of those followers of the Face of Light who considered it sacrilege to keep an image of the “reflections of the Face of Light” anywhere but in a holy house—a church, temple or monastery.

It was curious to look at them. Artists depicted the Angels as silhouettes of light with only the outline of humanoid forms and wings behind their backs. Sometimes, they held objects resembling shields, swords, staves, and books—such beings hovered over battlefields or visited dying warriors who had met their last hour on blood-soaked ground.

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Sometimes, the Angels appeared to common people with a piece of bread on a hungry day, a sprout of wheat in a lean year, a bundle of brushwood in a cold winter, or a handful of water in a drought. Occasionally, they handed out scrolls and clay tablets to healers and scholars, whispered songs to bards, sat on the shoulders of scribes, and… many other things.

The Church of the Face of Light taught that a person following their path walks a road laid out for them by the Light. In common parlance, this was called fate; in mathematical terms, the invariance of determinism. But then, contradicting themselves, the clergy also mentioned freedom of choice and…

Ardan stopped in front of not an icon, but a painting. On it, in a dark, ruined kingdom, amidst a gloomy void that was pulling in the fading light, two crimson eyes gleamed. And nothing else.

The Unnamable…

One-in-the-Dark…

Or simply—the Darkness.

And how could one believe in fate if the Church itself claimed that a person made the choice to follow the path of Light? This meant that they always had the opportunity to step onto a much simpler, darker path that would lead them into the embrace of the one who could not be remembered, thought of, and, most importantly, whose existence could not be mentioned. It was believed that the very thought of the Unnamable could invite the Darkness into a person’s life.

If you thought about it, it was somewhat reminiscent of the Aean’Hane laws regarding Dark Names.

It was strange that such a painting hung here, in a monastery of the Sisters of Light. It was heavy, suffocating. Looking at it, one could all but hear the screams of mutilated souls being devoured by a hungry darkness; the rumble of crumbling cities shrouded in a gloomy veil… and the endless cawing and crackling of an all-consuming flame. This was not the pure and free flame born of the Ley and natural elements, but another. A completely different and-

“Mr. Egobar.”

Ardi tore his gaze from the painting and turned to the speaker. All this time, he had been standing by the door of the cell where the nun had disappeared. Lost in thought, he had missed her departure.

“Ah…”

“Sister Enida has gone to pray,” another nun anticipated his question. “My name is Belava. I am the Holy Mother of the Larand Monastery.”

She was tall, even taller than Alexander Ursky’s wife. She was also just slender enough to be called stately, with a disproportionately long torso and short legs. She also had an almost flat chest, sharp, narrow shoulders, but equally soft and regular facial features that had once been admirable. “Once” was the key word there because now a deep, ugly, wide scar stitched with horsehair marred her face. It started at her left temple, went across the bridge of her nose and lips, and then trailed down her neck until it disappeared into the collar of her robes.

Ardan was familiar with such scars. They were the result of orcish knives. And, despite the Holy Mother’s advanced age of more than five decades, her voice had carefully preserved a steppe accent. She was from the Foothills Province.

Mother Belava stood next to Ardi and turned to the painting.

“You are probably wondering why an image of this creature is here, in the abode of the Light,” she said. When she spoke, the scar, like a disturbed snake, would contract and then stretch, simultaneously mesmerizing and repelling one’s gaze.

Ardan remained silent. He did not know if this was a rhetorical question or not. And he had no idea if Mother Belava was connected to the Puppeteers. On the one hand, nothing happened, or was supposed to happen, in the monastery without her knowledge and blessing, but on the other, she did not give him the impression that she was capable of butchering children.

But then again, Professor Lea Morimer had not seemed like a mad scientist consumed by the weight of her own tragedies, wrong decisions, and desire for forbidden knowledge, either.

“It wasn’t here before,” the Mother continued after a short pause. “But I asked for it to be hung here so that the Sisters, in difficult times, would remember that even if we find ourselves deep in the Darkness, we can always make a choice in favor of the Light.”

She raised a wrinkled hand and pointed to the upper edge of the painting. There, in a snow-white whirlwind of bright flame, the silhouette of the only Angel whose name Ardi knew was visible. But everyone knew him, even those who had never held the Scripture in their hands.

“The First Light,” Ardan said.

It was quite easy to remember.

“The Oppressor of Darkness, the patron of those who fight against…” She trailed off and just shifted her gaze to the two crimson eyes lurking in the gloom. “He is the first of those who separated from the sparks of the Face of Light to bring his will to our world. He descended into the Darkness, where he began his eternal, unending struggle with… And as long as he fights, then… it cannot harm the creation of the Face of Light.”

She so easily and quickly skipped the forbidden name of the creature that it became clear—Mother Belava had given this speech many times before.

“The First Light fights to this day,” she raised the golden triangle to her lips, then pressed it to her forehead. “Every moment of his existence is filled with agony. The kind of suffering inexpressible in mortal words and thoughts. But he fights. Every day. And every night. For all of us.”

This was part of the mythology of the Face of Light. He’d given a part of himself to an eternal battle with the Darkness, so that his children—all who inhabited the planet—could live. However, the Scripture did not mention bacteria, which had not been discovered back then. Nor did it mention, say, chimeras or mutants, which did not exist in ancient times, so…

Ardan was not a believer.

He probably did not fully believe in the Sleeping Spirits, either.

He didn’t care much about faith.

Unlike knowledge.

Knowledge could be tested. An experiment could be conducted with it. It could be verified or refuted. But faith, that was…

He recalled a book with the title, “The Incompleteness Theorem.”

“I would like to make a donation to the orphanage,” Ardan hastened to change the subject.

“Yes, I know, Sister Enida told me,” the Mother did not take her eyes off the painting. “It is rare for someone of your kind, Mr. Egobar, to find themselves here. And even rarer for such supplicants to wear a book at their belt and hold a staff in their hands.”

For some time, a few denominations of the Church of the Face of Light had ostracized not only the Aean’Hane, but also Star Mages. This had most likely happened because of the War of the Birth of the Enpire and the creatures that both sides had managed to create.

Such denominations had found no place in the early Empire, which had literally declared them heretics and “cleansed them with fire.” This had later led to the Empire engaging in a small but heated war with the Theocracy of Enario, where the Inquisition was still active. This was not the kind of inquisition that hunted Firstborn, anomalies and the like. No. They hunted everything that was in any way connected with the Ley.

The only exception were their Gray Inquisitors. They were the only ones allowed to study and use Star Science and any of its branches.

A dreadful place.

It was perhaps no less dreadful than the lands of Makingia, which were closed off from the rest of the world.

“I have my reasons.”

“Please allow me, with the blessing of the Light, to know what those are,” Mother Belava responded immediately, without hesitation, and hastened to add. “I do not mean to insult you, Mr. Egobar. We live in peace and quiet here, but that does not mean that Darkness, in various guises, does not try to penetrate our walls. Perhaps even the opposite. So, I must know whom I am letting into a home for young, yet already unfortunate souls.”

Her words could be taken in two ways: both as a legitimate attempt to protect the orphans and as a way to find something out. Or perhaps Ardi was just being paranoid.

“I lost my father early in life,” Ardan replied, using Skusty’s art. “For a long time, my family and I lived in great poverty. And now I have some spare money. And since I already found myself here, in Larand, I thought it might be a good thing to help children whose problems I understand well.”

Perhaps the little squirrel would have been proud of his student. He had not spoken a single word of falsehood, yet he had not voiced a bit of the actual truth, either. Moreover, even if Mother Belava, if she was indeed collaborating with the Puppeteers, possessed a more powerful artifact that would allow her to sense lies, it would not help her in the slightest here. Ardan’s words, in their ambiguity, had covered not only the immediate reason for his visit, but also his investigation.

“May I know your father’s name, Mr. Egobar?” The Holy Mother still did not move from her spot. “Tonight, we will pray for the peace of the souls who have gone to the Light. To thank you for your noble impulse, I would like to mention him in my prayers.”

“Hector,” Ardan answered honestly. If Mother Belava was connected to the Puppeteers, she would know this anyway. And if not, it would mean nothing to her. “His name was Hector.”

“May the Eternal Angels receive him,” she made the sacred sign and kissed the triangle again.

“He believed in the Sleeping Spirits.”

“And in ancient times, people believed the planet was flat, Mr. Egobar, but that did not prevent it from being round.”

Ardi was tempted to correct her and say that the planet was not exactly round, but rather approximated the shape of an oblate spheroid, but he held back.

“Come, Mr. Egobar, I will take you to the orphanage, but, alas, you cannot stay there for more than a quarter of an hour,” Mother Belava finally turned and, with the same rustle of robes worn by the other Sisters of Light, headed into the depths of the intricate maze of narrow… not so much corridors, but rather fortress passages. They had sloping ceilings, narrow walls, changes in elevation, and countless stairs, so that, in case of a breach, the besiegers could not move freely.

“If I am greatly disturbing your routine, Holy Mother, I can simply give the money to you.”

Ardi had already reached for his purse, but Belava objected:

“It is not about you, Mr. Egobar,” holding her skirts, she quite easily overcame the steps despite her venerable age and bent down each time they passed through another door. “The beginning of summer has been windy. Many children are having health problems. But do not worry. It’s nothing serious. A cold, nothing more. But because we live so close together and are so isolated, it is difficult to get rid of. It passes from one to another. It feels like a kind of relay race, I must admit. But we are fighting it as best we can.”

Ardan had had no intention of handing anything over directly, he was just sticking to his “game.” This was almost like playing Sevens. And, without revealing his own cards, he already knew part of the combination called “Holy Mother Belava.” What she had just said was common knowledge… among medical students or those who’d studied Star Magic.

Maybe she really was connected to the Pupp-

“I can sense your surprise even without looking, Mr. Star Mage,” Mother Belava let a note of amusement color her voice. “I did not always serve the Face of Light, Mr. Egobar. There was a time when I stitched other people’s wounds, sawed off legs and arms, and listened to the screams of the wounded. I cannot say that I miss those times much. But it is not so easy to forget them. And perhaps it is not necessary.”

She’d been a field medic of some kind… That fit well with the characteristic scar on her face. But it also fit well with experiments involving human chimerization and demonology. The Puppeteers would clearly need a person with very specific knowledge, not just an indifferent overseer.

“Or are you so surprised that I am as glad to see you as I would be to see any other supplicant?” They came out into an inner courtyard and narrow, paved paths stretched out under Ard’s feet again. “I can see that you have recognized my eternal companion from the past.”

Mother Belava lightly touched the mark on her face.

“I was a little luckier than the small military garrison that was defending the warehouse,” the Holy Mother lowered her hand and smiled faintly. “More than my husband and children, certainly. Their wives and husbands… I thank the Face of Light for taking my grandchildren to Delpas and preventing a complete tragedy.”

Given Mother Belava’s age, she had most likely served as a nurse in the days when the Empire had had no intention of dealing with the territorial claims of the Shanti’Ra. These days, the railway was being built along the edge of their territory, but forty or even thirty years ago, they’d tried to lay it straight through and cross the entire steppe by the shortest route. In the end, this had resulted in endless fighting and the fact that the leader of the Shanti’Ra was declared an enemy of the state and an order was issued for his execution without trial or investigation.

“I confess that, for many years, I harbored hatred for the Firstborn, Mr. Egobar, and if we had met in those misty times, I would not have let you cross the threshold of this holy house.”

“What changed?” Ardan asked with sincere curiosity.

The Mother stopped by a dog-rose bush. She passed her hand over it, as if she wanted to touch the sharp thorns and squeeze them hard. All so that the physical pain would overcome the one that had tormented her soul for decades. But she did not.

“Today is a good day, Mr. Egobar, sunny and cool. The heat has finally receded,” Belava answered, seemingly off-topic. “Today, I managed to turn to the Light and push away the Darkness hiding under the mask of my hatred and, at times, even my thirst for revenge.”

She turned to him and looked into his eyes. Not as a Holy Mother. No. She did so as an old, broken woman. For years, the only meaning of her existence had been a raw, bone-deep hatred. And not only for the Firstborn. For the whole world. For the fact that it lived, while a part of the Holy Mother remained lifeless in the dead earth of the blood-soaked steppe.

“Yesterday was a worse day, Mr. Egobar. Yesterday, you would have most likely remained outside the threshold.”

There was her answer… A real one. Unfeigned.

The monastery was a place where broken souls found a way to patch their aching wounds. Only… with every new morning, they had to start mending themselves anew.

“I am sorry for your loss, Holy Mother.”

“You have a kind heart, Mr. Egobar,” Belava turned away from the dog-rose, but she still ran her palm over its thorns. “I will pray for your father.”

They did not exchange another word until they reached the orphanage. It was located in a building that, a century ago, had clearly been used as a barracks. It was long and low, almost flush against the walls. A kitchen had been added to it relatively recently. How did Ardan know that? Because of the smell coming from the smoking chimney and the fact that there was also a warehouse nearby, which smelled of flour, cheese, cured meat, and a huge amount of fish.

In a small front garden, children were bustling about. They all wore gray clothes—the girls were in light dresses and capes, and the boys in shorts and jackets. All of them also had hats or caps. Some were kicking a ball around, others were jumping rope, laughter could be heard, and occasionally, the shouts of the governesses as well. They were three relatively young Sisters and one lady of about thirty wearing secular clothes and thick-rimmed glasses.

She was scolding a rosy-cheeked boy for frightening a girl with a frog he had found in the bushes. It had been scurrying to a small pond. Some of the girls were reading books on the shore of that very same pond. Even without going inside, this sight alone banished any thoughts one might’ve had of Puppeteers and demons.

The air all but sparkled with genuine happiness and carefree summer days. The kind where, instead of studying in dusty classrooms, children could play and have fun.

Sometimes, one of them would run up to an old man sweeping the yard.

“Grandpa Driba, Grandpa Driba, will you tell us a story today?”

“I will,” boomed the stooped, gap-toothed, wrinkled old man wearing cheap, baggy clothes. They’d clearly been mended more than once, but were still clean and even ironed. “If you help Aryana with the dishes after dinner.”

“Oh, come on… Will you tell us just one?”

“Maybe I can ‘just’ give you a little something with my broom instead.”

“You can’t catch me, you can’t get me!”

And the children would skip away, laughing. At some point, they would notice the Holy Mother and the stranger and…

“Hello, Mother Belava. Hello, unfamiliar gentleman,” and they would then keep running around.

They were not really interested in anything other than their own games. And even the staff in his hands and the book at Ard’s belt lost the unfair battle against the excitement of children’s adventures.

The governess in secular clothes, leaving a group of her charges to the sisters, approached the Mother.

“This is Mrs. Linda Day,” Belava introduced her.

“Holy Mother,” the governess bowed. She was a pleasant, somewhat… rumpled and slightly tired-looking woman with a wedding ring on her finger and deep marks on her face from a childhood illness. She’d tried to hide them with makeup, but had not been very successful.

“Mrs. Day, please take care of the supplicant Egobar and, when you are finished, escort him to the exit. I will take my leave. May the Light be with you.”

And without waiting for an answer, Belava quickly headed back to the main building. Day, slightly lowering her glasses, followed the head of the monastery with a thoughtful gaze.

“How strange,” she drawled. “I would even say it’s almost impolite. Usually, the Holy Mother does not behave like this.”

“It’s all right,” Ardan hastened to assure her. “I get why she did that.”

Only then did Mrs. Day’s gaze focus on Ardi. Or rather, on his eyes, then his upper lip, and then it slid over his figure as a whole.

“Ah, then it is indeed understandable…” was all the lady said. “Come, Mr. Egobar, I will take you to our, so to speak, treasury, and at the same time, I’ll show you how the orphans live.”

“Is that necessary?”

Ardan hoped for a positive answer because he needed to get inside the orphanage, but on the other hand, an ordinary supplicant would clearly not want to waste time on a formal tour.

“Those are the rules,” Day sighed, slightly weary. “The supplicant must see what exactly their donation is being spent on, otherwise it is a sin—one cannot help what one does not know about.”

Again, if one tried, they could hear notes in these words that resonated with the laws of the City on the Hill, but such was the nature of the historical process and cultural exchange. This, again, was the case according to his lectures at the Grand University.

“Then, Mrs. Day, I entrust myself to you.”

The governess adjusted her glasses.

“If it were not for your completely carefree gaze, Mr. Egobar, I would have thought that you were one of those brainless capital mages who dream of luring a nun into bed.”

“But-”

“Or a governess,” Day finished. “And I am glad that you are not one of them. Unless, of course, I am mistaken in my first impression… Let’s go quickly, before these little monsters decide to overwhelm you with a thousand requests and questions.”

Looking sternly at the children who were gradually gathering around them, Mrs. Day led Ardi to the entrance of the orphanage.

Once they went inside, it became clear that the building had been rebuilt more than once, the layout had changed, and even a suspended wooden floor had been added. Partitions had been erected, painted, the stones covered with carpets so that feet would not get cold. Closets and wardrobes had been arranged, and an abundance of light had been provided, guarding against possible candle fires with suspended oil lamps. This was apparently to ensure that the children could not get into any mischief.

All in all, it looked as if an ordinary school had also acquired living quarters in which there were several beds at once.

In the rooms for the little ones, there could be up to a dozen of them, and for the older ones, four or six. Six for the boys, four for the girls.

“As we’ve learned, young men get along better in a large group than young women,” Day explained. “The latter have an unpleasant habit of ganging up on someone and holding grudges. However, young men substitute this tendency with their endless zeal to split someone’s lip or break a nose. And all over a mere trifle.”

“And where are they now?”

“Who?”

“The older children.”

Day closed the door leading to one of the rooms of the older children.

“From the age of thirteen, the male educators and workers take the children to farms and the local artisans…” Day was distracted for a second, stopping to shout at a group of rascals who were running in the corridor. “Sorry…”

“It’s nothing.”

“What was I… ah yes… At sixteen, right after receiving their documents, they will leave us,” holding her hands behind her back and maintaining a perfect posture, Mrs. Day looked not like a governess, but a local ruler surveying her lands. “They will receive a payment from the state. This year, if I’m not mistaken, it’s a check for twenty-eight exes and forty-nine kso. And also a regular income of one and a half exes a month for two years. And then that’s it. They’re on their own.”

Ardan had known that orphans received payments for a time after leaving their orphanages, but not the specifics.

“And even that’s only been the case for the last twenty years, praise be to His Imperial Majesty. Before, a child leaving an orphanage could only count on a blessing from the Holy Mother and a set of clothes,” she stopped by a mirror and adjusted her tight bun. “And so, we make sure that, upon graduation, they have, if not a profession, then at least some skills that will help them find employment. And also…”

She went on to talk about their internal routine, the curriculum, and some other details about their leisure and upbringing. Ardan listened, but with only half an ear. He was much more interested in what he could see and smell.

But no matter how hard he tried, or how much he struggled, he could not detect a single sign of not just the presence of demons, but even any Ley-devices. This was a most ordinary, unremarkable building. And its inhabitants were just as normal, albeit very small.

He did not encounter Lusha’s sister and it would have been too suspicious to outright ask about her. And so, he had to turn to Skusty’s art again.

“It’s good to see that there are enough rooms.”

“Sometimes, a few are even empty, but you’d never think it possible right now,” Mrs. Day informed him. “Sometimes, there are more children leaving than coming in. Sometimes, it’s the other way around.”

“And what is the reason for that?”

“The fact that we are quite far from the larger cities, Mr. Egobar. And also at a monastery,” Day said as if it were self-evident. “If someone is brought to us, it is for a specific purpose. And then there is the Day of Weeping… A very telling name, by the way.”

“Why?”

“The children are taken very rarely,” the governess shrugged. “They are all like one big family here. So when someone is taken away, the wailing lasts all evening. It’s simultaneously joyful, because someone was lucky, sad because of the parting, and by the middle of the night… By the middle of the night, the whole orphanage envies such a lucky girl. And they even resent her, but that’s understandable. The poor things…”

“You said it’s specifically lucky girls that are taken?”

Day nodded restrainedly.

“As far as I can recall, Mr. Egobar, in the sixteen years of my service as a governess, only one boy and fifteen girls have been taken,” her voice sounded somewhat strained. “It’s somewhat reminiscent of a kennel or a cattle market. Girls are taken more willingly, forgive my frankness. But don’t worry! It’s not as bad as it might seem. We maintain contact with the guard corps of all the cities and provinces where our wards are taken. They are all fine. In the entire history of the orphanage, only once, about forty years ago, was a child taken by… not very good people.”

By all rights, Ardan should have pulled out his Cloak identification then and there and demanded to be taken to the archives. After that, he would’ve locked the monastery down before gutting the consciousness of every person there, even, albeit with great reluctance, the Sisters of Light. Because if everything was indeed as Day claimed it was, then things truly looked grim…

Day approached one of the doors and pulled the handle.

“Locked… the head of housekeeping must have stepped out… Forgive me, Mr. Egobar, but you’ll need to wait a couple of minutes. I’ll go get the key, and I’ll take your donation myself.”

“Of course.”

Once she left, Ardi was left standing alone in the corridor. Outside the window, waves splashed. More and more boldly and furiously, they threw themselves at the bared stones of the cliff. The drop was twelve meters, at least. The barracks, which were now the orphanage, were connected to the walls. Before, this had been necessary for the defense of the fort, and now… now nothing was clear to Ardan.

A couple of hours ago, his simple spell cast on the flowers and the earth had clearly indicated that something was wrong here. The fact that this slightly strange tradition—the Day of Weeping—created the perfect cover for any machinations was not lost on him. But at the same time, he’d found nothing, absolutely nothing, that warranted further investigating.

If not for Oglanov’s information, if he’d simply been an inspector from the guard corps who regularly visited orphanages, he would have signed any document attesting to the acceptability of these conditions without batting an eye.

“Maybe Oglanov was wrong,” Ardi told himself in the Fae language. “Maybe there is nothing here that… The spell. It worked. But, if you think about it, it could have worked because a temple was not always here. The earth might not have had enough time to get used to it yet.”

It would have greatly helped him if he could see Lusha’s little sister. It would have been logical to hide in the shadows right now, get to the archives, and find confirmation that Arkar had indeed, as he had promised Lusha, delivered Zirka here. Because if not, if everything was not so, then…

Milar was right. Ardan did not want to believe that Arkar had been one of the links in the Puppeteers’ grim supply chain all this time. Yes, the orc was a gangster who, by and large, deserved if not the gallows, then hard labor, but harming children…

“Human children,” Ardan reminded himself. “And Arkar has a very peculiar attitude toward…”

Ardi turned sharply. Around the corner, it smelled of baked potatoes and gingerbread, and a small heart was beating quietly.

“Don’t be afraid and come out,” Ardan said gently.

The child did not come out immediately, but eventually, she emerged from her hiding place. It was a girl in a gray skirt and shirt. She was holding a toy. A toy that was very familiar to Ardi. He had seen one like it before. In Lusha’s memories. Only the girl herself was far from being Zirka. She was taller, younger, with brown hair and a harelip that had been stitched together in her infancy, leaving a scar behind. It was small, but noticeable.

“You’re a wizard, aren’t you?” The child asked, approaching carefully. “Were you casting a spell?”

Ardi squatted down and bent his back slightly so that their faces were on the same level.

“And why would I be casting a spell, little one?”

“To find Old Slimy,” the girl answered with some apprehension.

“Old Slimy?”

The child nodded and looked around like “Slimy” could hear her.

Ardi slightly loosened his control over his Witch’s Gaze and the girl relaxed.

“Nobody is friends with me,” she drooped as she spoke, but her voice sounded lighter now. “But she was. She didn’t make fun of me and call me a rabbit. She didn’t ask me to gnaw on a carrot or dig a burrow.”

Ardi remained silent, allowing his Gaze to do its work.

“I think… maybe… she didn’t believe in Old Slimy. Nobody does,” the girl was losing her train of thought, which was strange. The Gaze, even though it was not directed straight at her fragile child’s mind, should have made her tell him everything as it was, not allowing her to get confused and start jumping from one thought to another. “They use it to scare us: Slimy will come, Slimy will take you, and everyone will forget you. You were, then you weren’t, only Slimy knows where to look, but no one will find you, even if…”

She seemed to be trying to recite a poorly thought-out rhyme, but something was preventing her from doing so. Something that was not allowing his Witch’s Gaze to direct the child’s mind.

“I’ve never had a toy like this,” the girl showed him a crafted horse that had been clumsily but diligently carved from a piece of lumber. “And now I do. And every time I look at it, I feel sad… Something was written on it… See, Mr. Wizard?”

The girl pointed her finger at the horse’s belly, where, besides a black, scorched spot, nothing was visible.

“I think her name was written there… but I don’t remember it… Someone’s name… a boy… No, a boy wouldn’t be friends with me… they only tease me. Rabbit. They say I’m a rabbit…”

“Daria!”

Ardan was so engrossed in the child’s words that he heard Mrs. Day’s footsteps too late. The governess had returned with the key to the office.

“Daria,” she walked around Ardan and took the toy from the child’s hands. “You cannot accept alms without the blessing of Mother Belava.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, Mrs. Day,” the girl drooped again.

“And you, Mr. Egobar,” the woman turned sharply to the young man. “Weren’t you told that everything has to be done with a blessing? Take your toy back.”

She literally thrust the wooden horse into Ard’s hands.

“Can I have it?” Daria suddenly asked. “It’s so beautiful… I’ve never saw one like it.”

“I’ve never saw one like it…” At these words, her little heart suddenly calmed and started beating steadily. She was telling the truth. Or she thought she was telling the truth.

“With the blessing of the Holy Mother,” Mrs. Day repeated. “And now go. Don’t take up more of Mr. Egobar’s time.”

“Okay,” the girl’s face lit up with a smile. “Goodbye, sir.”

And, skipping merrily, the girl headed off down the corridor. It was as if there had been no strange conversation just now. Or perhaps she did not remember it.

At all.

Ardan, watching her go, whispered softly:

“Ahgrat.”

“Bless you, Mr. Egobar. Be careful with that sneezing. We’ve had a cold rampaging around here for three weeks now.”

***

Stopping in a small pine grove, Ardan dismounted and, patting the horse on its mane, looked up at the sky darkening in the east. Night was approaching.

He had quickly settled up with Mrs. Day, giving her two five-ex bills. The governess had been overjoyed, and Ardan had made a mental note that his travel allowance was running out fast and that it was time to start keeping track of his expenses.

Day had then escorted him to the exit, where his washed, fed and contented horse had already been waiting. Together, they’d left the monastery and, after circling around a bit but finding nothing strange, they’d gone up into the forest. And now they were in the grove.

“We’ll wait for her a bit, shall we?” Ardi whispered in the language of beasts. “She didn’t follow us all day for nothing.”

Approaching the nearest tree, Ardan sat down on the grass and pulled his hat over his eyes. He did not have to pretend to be asleep for long, and within a few minutes, he dozed off.

He even dreamed of something. Something from his childhood. Or maybe from a childhood dream. He did not remember.

He woke up half a minute before she arrived. Her heralds were broken branches, the rustling of tall grass and moss, and also the fact that the wind was at her back, carrying with it the smell of sweat, gunpowder and another horse. And the steppe horse snorted in displeasure.

But Ardi did not move. Not even when she stood right in front of him and, covering the mechanism with her hand, cocked the hammer of her revolver.

“Wake up, Mr. Mage,” Sheriff Maryana Sestrova ordered in a steely tone, pressing her revolver to his head.