Then the pastor’s son woke inside his tent with Magdalynn cradled in his arms, flushed sick but breathing. He glanced to where Adnihilo was sitting cross-legged. His legs were still crossed, but the rest of him lay sideways, snoring softly into the morning. Adam couldn’t help but laugh. Amusement was all that was left to him now that the cold had gone along with his nightmares, his memories. He couldn’t recall when he’d fallen asleep nor what had led him to be afraid. And he didn’t care; they were only dreams.
†††
They broke camp at dawn with hope-weathered hearts. The storm had gone, and they could see the walls of Qi Shi Monastery a stone’s throw from where they departed. Adnihilo was the first to arrive. He’d known about the ancient abbey from tapestries in Eyebrows’s fighting school. It was older than the city below if the images were true. If they weren’t, at least the half-blood might get to see some new Gautaman boxing.
Gazing upon the twin great gates, their chipped red paint and tarnished brass knobs, he waited for his companions to catch up with him, wishing Cain were still alive to see how far he’d come. He stood poised before a set of doors even larger than Eemah’s parish portal. And like the sacrifice, he stood fearless, eager to face whatever foe was to come. But none did. The walls were unmanned as far as the half-blood could tell. Even when he shouted and pounded on the monastery doors, no servant came, nor monk, nor sentry. Only his companions appeared from around the winding path.
“They won’t open up,” Adnihilo told them as they put aside their packs.
Ba’al ignored him, strangely vexed, and began hammering his clenched fist against the gate, screaming, “Open up! I know you know we’re out here!…fucking Gauts,” he murmured, pausing then pounding again. Still, no one answered, so louder the bishop cursed and battered the door till his white knuckles burst with blood. Then he turned away, red faced, and burrowed through his pack to retrieve the weapon he’d wielded against the golden-vested pirate. He knelt and ignited a stick of incense, rammed a paper cartridge into the muzzle, and held its wooden stock tight against his shoulder as he stuffed the incense deep into the breach. There was a quiet, searing sound, then fire and an explosion.
The whole mountain seemed to shake in the echo and smoke. Adnihilo had heard the weapon twice before, but it was the first time he’d seen it deployed, and it terrified him. It was something like the wrath of God, like calling forth a bolt of lightning. There was only the noise and the instant destruction: a hole blown into the monastery door. He looked at the painted wooden splinters and envisioned what would’ve happened to a man. He remembered the pirate’s head—mist and fragments.
Just then, an intact head poked over the wall, yellow and bald and wider eyed than any Gautaman the half-blood had seen thus far. A monk. He examined the strangers and the damage they’d done, then spoke a few words in his own tongue, looking as if they’d fed him a lemon. Someone on his side answered, then his head disappeared. Adnihilo could hear their chatter and footsteps, yet the gates remained closed. The bishop started loading another cartridge.
“God damn it, let us in, or I swear I’ll blow every last one of your Gaut heads into—”
“A Messah priest, here?” came a stranger’s voice. The gate creaked open, and a man slipped out from between the doors. He wore the plain gray cottons of a Gautaman monk, but his was purely western blood—that of Nuw Gard. He reminded the half-blood of the Messaii people who lived in Eemah, at once out of place yet touched by the culture. Adnihilo wondered how long this man lived here, if his hair had grayed and his face wrinkled all on foreign soil, under a foreign sky. He continued with a tone of familiar authority, “No, you’re not a priest, you’re a bishop, aren’t you? What is it that could have brought His Grace all the way up here? You’re not looking for me, surely.”
Ba’al spat, “Surely not. We’re here on private business, to see the master of the temple. But that’s not a question a layman would ask. You must be the missing pastor. The church assumed the pagans had killed you years ago.”
“Mercy, Your Grace. I left of my own accord. My covenant is with the inner spirit now—I am a pupil of Gautama. I won’t ask for your forgiveness, just that you keep my presence secret.”
“That depends. Will you let us in?” The bishop smiled.
The apostate glowered, sullen. “That is not my decision, I’m afraid. We don’t typically allow travelers inside, and after the damages you’ve caused—”
“Please,” begged Adam, lurching toward the man with Magdalynn in his arms, “she’s sick, and we’re out of food. We barely survived the storm last night. If you turn us away, we won’t even make it back down the mountain. She’ll die. Please.”
Ba’al’s smile widened. “Well?” he asked.
The apostate monk scrunched up his face, waging some internal war. It seemed to pain him, but eventually he gave in and agreed to vouch for them under the promise that no more damage would be done. “I’ll take you to the abbot. He must approve all arrivals. If he approves, you can shelter here a day or so. I can make no further promise than that. Now, if you would be so good as to relinquish your arms. There are no weapons allowed in the monastery outside the training grounds.”
Reluctantly they agreed, though Adnihilo was
