pallet bed. The small room with its tiny window would seem then like a prison cell.
On this night a storm was raging outside the monastery. Skilgannon walked barefoot along the corridor and up the steps to the roof, stepping out into the rain. Lightning blazed across the sky, followed by a deep rumble of thunder.
It had been raining that night too, after the last battle.
He remembered the enemy priest, on his knees in the mud. All around him were corpses, thousands of them. The priest looked up at him, then raised his thin hands to the storm. Rain had drenched his pale robes. ‘The tears of Heaven,’ he said.
It still surprised Skilgannon that he remembered the moment so powerfully. Why would a god weep? He recalled that he had laughed at the priest, and called him a fool. ‘Find yourself a god with real power,’ he had said. ‘Weeping is for the weak and the powerless.’
Now on the monastery roof Skilgannon walked through the rain and stared at the undulating landscape, gazing out towards the east.
The rain eased away, the clouds clearing. A bright, gibbous moon illuminated the glistening land. The houses in the town below shone white and clean. No rioting crowds tonight, no rabble rousers. The fires in the merchant district had been doused by the storm. The mob will gather again tomorrow, he thought. Or the next day.
What am I doing here, he wondered? The fool in the town had asked whether he was an idiot. The question dogged his thoughts. He had looked into the man’s eyes as he had stitched his wounded thigh. The glint of hatred shone there. ‘We will sweep your kind from the pages of history,’
the man had said.
Skilgannon had looked at him lying upon the tavern table, his face grey with pain. ‘You might kill the priests, little man. It will not be hard. They do not fight back. But the pages of history? I think not. Creatures like you do not have such power. ‘
A bitter wind rippled across the rooftop. He shivered — then smiled.
Pulling open his soaked robes, Skilgannon let them fall to the floor.
Standing naked in the moonlight he stretched the muscles of his arms and back, then moved smoothly into the Eagle pose, the left foot hooked behind the right ankle, the right arm raised, the left arm wrapped around it, the backs of the palms pressed together. Motionless he stood, in perfect balance. In this moment he did not look like a priest. His body was well muscled and lean, and there were old scars upon his arms and chest, from sword and spear. His breathing deepened. Then he relaxed. The cold did not touch him now, and he began to move smoothly through the exercises that had sustained him in another life: the Shooting Bow, the Locust, the Peacock and the Crow.
His muscles stretched, his body loose, he began a series of dance-like movements, leaping and twirling, always in perfect balance. Warm sweat replaced the cold sheen of rain upon his naked flesh.
Dayan’s face appeared in his mind. Not in death as he had last seen her, but bright and smiling as they swam together in the marble pool of the palace garden. His stomach tightened. His face betrayed no emotion, save for a tightness now around the eyes. Drawing in a deep breath he moved to the edge of the parapet and ran his hand along the foot-wide ledge.
Water droplets clung to the smooth stone, making it greasy. The man known as Lantern vaulted to the ledge and stood some seventy feet above the hard rock upon which the monastery had been built. The narrow ledge ran straight for some thirty feet, before a sharp, right-angled turn.
He studied the ledge for a few moments, then closed his eyes. Blind now he ran forward then leapt high, twisting his body through a tight pirouette. His right foot landed firmly on the ledge and did not slip. His left caught the lip of the right angle. He swayed, then righted himself.
Opening his eyes, he looked down once more on the rocky ground far below.
He had judged it perfectly. A small part of his mind wished that he had not.
Turning, he leapt lightly back to the roof and donned his robes.
If it is death you want, he told himself, it will be coming soon.
For two days the thirty-five priests remained mostly within the grounds of the old Cobalsin castle and its outbuildings, only venturing to the meadows east of the town. Here they tended the three flocks of rare sheep and goats from whose wool, and the garments they fashioned from it, the priests earned enough to support themselves and the headquarters of the church in the Tantrian capital, Mellicane.
The town itself remained ominously quiet. The bodies of the hanged foreigners were removed and the soldiers departed. Many among the priests hoped that the terror was at an end, and that life would soon return to normal. Spring was coming, and there was much to do, gathering the wild flowers to provide the dyes for cloaks and tunics, purchasing and preparing the secret blends of oils that would make the clothes they crafted waterproof, and help to maintain the depth of colour.
The garments made here were highly prized by the nobles and the rich of the cities. Lambing season was also in full flow, and the spring cull was due. Merchants would soon be arriving to buy meat and deliver produce and supplies for the coming season.
The mood in the monastery was lighter than it had been for weeks, and the injured Brother Labberan had overcome his fever and — it was hoped -
would soon be on the road to recovery.
Not everyone, however, believed the worst was over.
On the second morning Brother Lantern sought out the abbot.
‘We should leave and head west,’ he said. Abbot Cethelin, an elderly priest with wispy white hair and gentle eyes, beckoned Brother Lantern to follow him to his study in the high tower. It was a small room, sparsely furnished with two hard-backed chairs, a long writing desk and a single, narrow window, overlooking the town.
‘Why do you wish us to leave, Brother?’ asked the abbot, gesturing for Lantern to take a seat.
‘Death is coming, Holy Brother.’
‘I know this,’ answered the abbot softly. ‘But why do you wish us to leave?’
Brother Lantern shook his head. ‘Forgive me, but your answer makes no sense. This is merely a respite. The storm is coming. Even now the rabble rousers will be encouraging the townsfolk to come here and massacre us.
Soon — tomorrow or the next day — crowds will begin to form outside. We are being cast in the role of enemy.
We are being demonized. When they break through the gates they will cut us all down. They will rage through these buildings like a fire.’
‘Once again, Younger Brother, I ask: why do you wish us to leave?’
‘You want to die here?’
‘What I want is not the concern. This is a place of spiritual harmony.
We exist to offer love and understanding in a world too often bathed in blood and hatred. We do not add to that suffering. Our purpose is enlightenment, Younger Brother. We are seeking to enhance the journey of our souls as they yearn to be united with the Source of All Things. We have no fear of death; it is merely another step of the journey.’
‘If this building was ablaze, Holy Brother, would you sit within it and wait for the flames to devour you?’
‘No, Lantern. I would take myself to a place of safety. That, however, does not equate with the situation we are facing. Fire is inanimate and non-discerning. We are ordered to offer love in the face of hate, and forgiveness in the face of pain. We cannot run away when danger threatens. That would be like saying we have no faith in our own philosophy. How can we obey our teachings if we run in the face of hate?’
‘It is not a philosophy I can share,’ said Lantern.
‘I know. That is one of the reasons you cannot find what you seek.’
‘You do not know what I seek,’ answered Lantern, a touch of anger in his voice.
‘The White Wolf,’ said the older man, softly. ‘But you do not know what it is, or why you seek it. Until you do, what you seek will always be lost to you. Why did you come here, Younger Brother?’
‘I am beginning to wonder that myself.’ His keen blue eyes held to the abbot’s gaze. ‘How much do you
