Meremont paused, setting down his mug before continuing in an even voice, 'Which is why, ultimately, I wished to speak with you.'
Drakken stared at the old cleric, trying not to feel like a rabbit caught in a carefully prepared snare-and failing.
'Until we have received help from Theymarsh,' the abbot said, 'I want you to investigate the murder of Brother Arranoth.'
'Me?' the half-dragon nearly shouted. 'Why-?'
'Simply because,' Meremont interjected, 'I ask it.'
Drakken caught the dangerous flash of fire in the stern abbot's eyes and stifled his protest.
'Besides,' the cleric reasoned, 'you have been servant to the brethren for many years. Your coming and going will remain unnoticed by any of the brothers. You are uniquely suited for this investigation'
'And,' Drakken said at last, not quite keeping the bitterness from his voice, 'if the murderer does dwell among us, I am quite capable of 'dealing' with him.'
'Perhaps,' the abbot offered with a slight frown. 'But there is something else, as well. Rangers from the Winterwood have reported a large band of humanoids-ores-heading out of the forest toward the surrounding hills.'
'What do they seek? Are they a warband? What are their numbers?' Drakken asked.
Despite his time as a servant to the Servants of Ilmater, martial instincts long buried flared to life. He found himself calculating the best means of defending the abbey walls from orcs.
'From what the rangers have reported, they are fleeing the depredations of the green dragon known as Foilsunder. A few tendays ago, the beast began rampaging through the Winterwood, apparently destroying everything in its path. The rangers have not been able to come up with a final tally, but they suspect the band of orcs measures over a hundred, with several shamans in tow.'
'Then we should seal the abbey gates and post scouts in the hills.' Drakken stood and began pacing back and forth. 'There is much to do.'
'Yes,' agreed the abbot, 'and I have already done it. Messengers are even now making their way to the nearby villages and offering sanctuary at the abbey. Every brother is preparing for the influx of refugees. That is why I need you to focus on finding Arranoth's killer. I can spare no one else.'
'But I wouldn't even know where to begin,' Drakken protested weakly.
He was born for war, not slinking around in the darkness. Somehow, he would make the abbot see the mistake he was making. But Meremont held up his hand in a gesture that forestalled any further deliberation.
'Begin by looking in Brother Arranoth's cell,' the abbot ordered. 'Perhaps you will find something useful there.'
A knock on the door interrupted the cleric.
'That will be Brother Prior,' Meremont said. 'We have much work to do. Now go, and report back to me anything that you find.'
Drakken nodded numbly, unable to fathom exactly how he had been drafted to that duty when danger threatened the abbey from without. The abbot called out Ilmater's blessing on the half-dragon as he turned to walk out of the abbot's room.
Night covered the abbey like a shroud, cloaking the chill stone halls of the chapter house in inky darkness. Drakken held a battered lantern in one hand, its feeble illumination casting a gray pall before him. Thick shadows danced madly at the edge of the meager lamplight. For the third time in as many minutes the half-dragon found himself cursing the strange fate that brought him to wander the halls of the brothers' residence like an ancient wraith.
Twice that day he had attempted to see Brother Abbot, hoping to convince the abbey's leader that he would be of greater use to White Willow coordinating its defense, if indeed the fleeing orcs made their way to the monastery's borders. Both times Meremont had been locked away with his advisors. Drakken had eventually resigned himself to carrying out the abbot's orders until such time as he could plead his case once more with the cleric. So, the half-dragon had gone about his regular duties-cleaning, cooking, and otherwise serving the needs of the abbey's inhabitants-all the while keeping a careful ear out for any hint of gossip or whisper of truth that might have a bearing on Brother Arranoth's murder.
One thing was certain, Abbot Meremont's belief that Drakken would remain largely unnoticed as the Ilmatari spoke freely among themselves proved quite true. Though at first treated with a fair degree of suspicion, anger, and-among some brothers-downright hatred, the half-dragon's attempts at humble service and penance, while not completely successful, especially in the early months, had eventually softened the community of clerics. Quite simply, the gray-robed half-dragon realized that he had, over the intervening years, become a quiet fixture in the monastery, as much a part of the daily rhythms of contemplative life as was the bowl-shaped bell that called the brothers to prayer. It was amazing that Drakken had never realized it before.
Once he had noticed, however, he had felt a rising surge of anger at the casual dismissal he witnessed in the eyes of the Ilmatari. All day this anger had ebbed and flowed like the raging tide of a tumultuous sea. More than once he had stopped himself from challenging an unsuspecting brother, forcing the man's attention by an act of violence. He had fought this growing anger, all day as he went about his duties, focusing ultimately on the task at hand-bringing Brother Arranoth's killer to justice.
It would have been a great deal easier, however, if the signs didn't point to him.
Despite his privileged position as a nearly invisible eavesdropper, Drakken had heard nothing of real substance. To be sure, Arranoth's murder had been on everyone's mind. In fact, it was the most popular topic of whispered conversations in the whole abbey. No one, however, had made mention of anything useful. The most interesting thing that he had heard involved three ancient abbey servants and their belief that Arranoth was murdered by the angry ghost of a novice who had drowned near the abbey a decade past.
And so he found himself skulking through the sleeping expanse of the chapter house.
Drakken stopped his reverie as he came to a closed wooden door. Pushing it open, he entered the brother's vaulted dining hall. He had to move carefully through the large room, avoiding long wooden benches and thick oak tables. Not for the first time, the half-dragon cursed his adopted habit of carrying a light source-even though his draconic vision would more than suffice for piercing the veil of darkness around him. He'd given some of the abbey's older inhabitants quite a fright the first few times he'd surprised them wandering through the pitch black halls in the dark. Since then, he always made sure to carry a lamp or candle with him to warn others of his presence.
Beyond the dining hall, Drakken found himself in a curving stone passage. Three more turns brought him to the simple staircase leading to the second floor of the chapter house. A few more twists and the half-dragon stood before the stone door to Brother Arranoth's cell.
He hesitated for a moment, listening to the soft murmurs of whispered prayers and the creaking of settling stone and timber. All around him in the darkness, the holy house hummed. Drakken took a deep breath, and opened the door, blowing out the wildly flickering lamp as he did so.
It took a moment for the half-dragon's eyes to compensate for the darkness. Drakken experienced a passing disorientation, and the contours of the room resolved in ever crisper detail. A simple straw mat lay neatly against the far wall, coarse wool bedding folded neatly at one end. Beneath a closed and shuttered window, Drakken could see a solidly made oak desk and a simple, straight-backed chair. A somewhat drab armoire stood in the far corner. The half-dragon found the starkness of the dead cleric's quarters heightened by the black and white lens of his darkvision.
Everything in the austere cell, from the placement of the simple furniture to the orderly arrangement of quill, paper, and ink upon the desk, spoke of the man that Drakken knew. For Arranoth was an ascetic, even by the rigorous standards of the Ilmatari. Contemplative and serious, the cleric's wisdom was known throughout the community, and yet he had carried himself with an air of true humility. The sub-prior's only concession to his exalted place within the abbey's leadership was an old, dented coal pot stored beneath the writing desk. For some reason, the presence of the decrepit metal pot brought a smile to Drakken's face. He thought of the bright light that shone behind the sub-prior's eyes whenever he was asked a question that required thought, a light that death's domain had dimmed. The smile faded.
Remembering why he had come, the half-dragon gave the room a perfunctory search, uncomfortable with the thought that the ghost of Arranoth might even then be looking at his killer as he ransacked the man's humble sanctum. He rooted through the cleric's frayed robes hanging in the armoire, looked around the mattress and
