helm a warrior of five centuries past might have worn. His braided beard was gray and tattered, and his blank eyes shone with a pale green light.
“Thy doom is upon thee, mortal,” the ghost whispered. “Thou shalt sleep under cold stars this night, and never again the sun shall find thee.”
Geran’s horse tossed its head in panic, and icy dread seemed to rob the swordmage of his will. He stared at the apparition for a long, terrible moment. Then he tugged at the reins and turned his horse away from the dour spirit. He kicked his heels to the animal’s flanks, and with a shrill whinny of terror the black charger bolted off into the night. Geran leaned down low over its neck and let the animal run; he heard the hoofbeats of Hamil’s mount falling behind him. Finally he slowed the horse’s pace, and Hamil soon caught up.
“Don’t stop now!” the halfling said. “I think it’s following us!”
Geran kicked his mount back to speed and led Hamil over the moors. Whatever track they were following was long behind them, and he did not want to try to find it again. They came to a steep-sided gully that cut across their path, and Geran swore. He had to detour one way or the other around it. His sense of direction told him to veer left, but in that direction the terrain generally became more rugged as the land descended toward the Winterspear Vale. To the right they had a better chance of finding a place to cross, but he was afraid that would set them even farther off course. The swordmage grimaced and decided to head right first. They rode westward for several hundred yards, and the gully shallowed enough to cross. When they scrambled back up the other side, Geran caught a glimpse of a dim yellow light far across the moor.
“Thank Tymora,” he breathed aloud. “I think that’s the abbey.”
“Good,” Hamil replied through chattering teeth.
The travelers picked up their pace, following the distant light. For a long time it seemed to recede before them, never growing brighter, but finally they began to make up the ground, and a sprawling heap of broken towers and grass-grown stone appeared atop a short, steep-sided hill. Faint light showed from a few shuttered windows and a lantern swinging in the wind. They crossed an old stone-flagged causeway and scrambled up onto the road, and Geran breathed a sigh of relief as they stretched out into an easy canter and hurried the last few hundred yards.
They rode up to the weatherbeaten door in the crumbling wall and dismounted. Geran found a pull-rope by the door and tugged on it. From somewhere inside he heard the flat clang of a small bell. Nothing happened for a while, and he rang the bell again. Then he heard the rasp of wood on wood, and a small port in the door opened. The eyes of an aged man gazed out at him.
“Yes?” the fellow asked. “Who are you, and what do you want at this hour when no honest folk are abroad?”
“I’m Geran Hulmaster; this is my companion Hamil Alderheart. I ask shelter for the night. And I’d like to speak with the Initiate Mother.”
The monk’s eyebrows rose. “Geran Hulmaster? What in the world are you doing out here tonight, lad? It’s the dark of the moon. Don’t you know who walks the Highfells on nights such as this?”
“I’d rather not find out. Can we come in?”
“Yes, yes, just a moment.” The port closed. Then a heavier timber slid somewhere out of sight, and the abbey gate opened. The old monk appeared in the doorway a lantern in his hand. “Come on, then. Hurry, lads, it’s not safe to linger outside the walls tonight.”
Geran and Hamil led their horses into the doorway, and found themselves standing in an old courtyard. The monk pushed the heavy door closed and slid the bar back in place before turning to face them again. “Welcome to Rosestone,” he said with a wry smile. “I know the abbey has seen better days, but you’re safe enough inside these walls. I’m Brother Erron. Here, let’s stable your mounts and get you something to eat.”
“Thank you, Brother Erron,” Geran murmured. He glanced around at the crumbling towers and the broken pavement of the courtyard, then followed the old monk to a stable that evidently had not seen a horse in quite some time. Still, it was better than spending the night outside. He could no longer hear the chill voices in the wind, which led him to guess that old priestly wardings likely kept the restless dead far from Rosestone Abbey.
After stabling their animals, Geran and Hamil followed Erron to the abbey’s refectory. A handful of other monks waited there, and they provided the two comrades with a plain dinner of cured ham, boiled potatoes, black bread, and sharp white cheese, washed down with a tankard of hot cider.
“All right, Geran,” Hamil admitted. “This is better than huddling in some barrow out in those dreary hills, waiting for ghosts to come for us. But we were lucky to find the abbey when we did. There was a whole company of ghosts following us for that last mile.”
“You didn’t say anything about that,” Geran said.
The halfling shrugged. “I wanted you to keep your eyes on what was ahead of us. I was keeping watch behind.”
When they’d finished with their supper, Brother Erron appeared by the table and bowed. “Gentlemen, if you please, the Initiate Mother would like a word with you. Will you follow me?”
The two companions pushed themselves away from the table, rose, and followed the aged monk. He led them through a maze of passageways that took them through the main chapel-a tall room whose eastern wall was graced with a great window of stained glass depicting a glorious sunrise in panels of red, rose, and gold-and then a dark scriptorium filled with wooden writing desks and scroll racks. For all of the abbey’s weathering and the poor condition of its outer walls and towers, the interior seemed to be in good shape. On the far side of the scriptorium, Erron led them to a sturdy wooden door in a deep stone arch and knocked twice.
“Initiate Mother?” he called. “I have brought Geran and his companion.”
“Enter,” a muffled voice called.
Erron opened the door and led them into a small study or office, sparsely furnished. A stocky woman in yellow robes with iron-gray hair and a nut-brown complexion waited for them by the fire. She had a stern, lined face that would have been quite severe if not for her warm brown eyes, well creased by crow’s feet.
“Ah, Geran Hulmaster,” she said in a rich, melodious voice. “I have not laid eyes on you in ten years or more. And this must be Master Alderheart. I confess I am more than a little surprised to find you on my doorstep on such a bitter evening.”
“Mother Mara,” Geran said with a smile. He’d always liked her. From time to time he and Jarad had passed by the abbey in their youthful ramblings, and the monks of Amaunator had always been happy to set places at their table for two hungry young hunters. He crossed the room to bow and take her offered hand, raising it to his lips. “I’m glad that Brother Erron let us in. It would’ve been a long, cold night otherwise.”
“We are honored to be of service,” she replied. “Please, sit. I’ve heard that you were back in Hulburg, but I would love to know what business brought you out on the Highfells this evening.”
Geran looked around and found a plain wooden chair. He seated himself, while Hamil scrambled up into a matching one nearby, and the Initiate Mother took a seat across from them. “We’re looking for tomb robbers,” he answered. “My uncle told me that Jarad Erstenwold was found near a broken barrow, and that he’d been chasing after some gang of robbers who were opening burial mounds when he was killed. I decided to look into it for myself, and Hamil here offered to help me. We spent the day visiting tombs that had been broken into recently, but I suppose we stayed out later than we should have.”
The abbess nodded. “Yes, I know about the tomb-breakings, but I hadn’t heard that they were connected with Jarad’s murder. Have you learned anything new?”
“Maybe,” Geran said. “We’ve got reason to believe that one of the merchant houses in Hulburg is involved. And we might have learned something important this evening: All of the barrows that were broken into were burial mounds of priests of Lathander.”
The abbess sat up straighter and locked her eyes on Geran’s. “That I did not know. Go on.”
“The tombs we’ve seen look to be about the same age. Going by the inscriptions we can make out, I’d guess they date back about four or five centuries to the time of Thentur,” Geran continued. “Do you have any idea why the tomb-breakers would choose those barrows and ignore any others? What could they be looking for?”
The priestess frowned and looked down at her hands, thinking for a long time. Finally she shook her head. “I can’t imagine what they expect to find, Geran,” she said. “As you know, Amaunator was called Lathander in those days, so these are the tombs of the fathers of our faith you are speaking of. But to the best of my knowledge none of my antecedents were buried with any great treasure. I expect that the barrows of old Tesharan chieftains or ogre kings would be much more attractive to those who seek to plunder the wealth of the dead.”
