The stallion stood quietly as Chareos stepped into the saddle. The rider looked back once at the smouldering remains of the village and then rode warily for the distant city.
*
‘I am deeply sorry that you have decided to leave us,’ said the Senior Brother, rising from his chair and leaning across the desk with one hand extended. Chareos accepted the handshake.
‘I also am full of regrets, Father. But it is time.’
Time, my son? What is time but the breath between birth and death? I had thought you were coming to understand the purpose of Being, to establish the Will of the Source in all things. It saddens me greatly to see you armed in this way,’ he said, pointing to the sabre and the hunting-knife.
‘Where I am travelling I may have need of them, Father.’
‘I learned long ago that the sword is no protection, Chareos.’
‘I have no wish to argue, Father. Yet it must be said that the monks exist here in peace and security only because of the swords of the defenders. I do not belittle your views – I wish all men shared them. But they do not. I came to you as a broken man and you made me whole. But if all men lived as you and I, there would be no children and no humanity. Where then would be the Will of the Source?’
The Brother smiled. ‘Oh, Chareos, how narrow is your thinking! Do you believe that this is all there is? You were an acolyte, my son. In five or ten years you would have been ready to study the true Mysteries, and you would have seen the magic of the universe. Give me your hand once more.’
Chareos reached out and the monk took his fingers and turned his palm upwards. The Senior Brother closed his eyes and sat statue-still, seeming not even to breathe. Slowly the minutes passed and Chareos found his shoulder stiffening as he sat with arm stretched. Easing his hand from the Brother’s grip, he waited in silence. At last the monk opened his eyes, shook his head and reached for a goblet of water.
‘Your journey will be long, my friend, and perilous. May the Lord of All Harmony travel with you.’
‘What did you see, Father?’
‘Some sorrows are not for sharing before their time, my son. But there is no evil in you. Go now, for I must rest.’
Chareos took a last stroll around the monastery grounds before walking on towards the Keep at the centre of the city. Several centuries ago the Keep had been built to guard the northern toll road, but when the Nadir hordes of Ulric first gathered they destroyed the great southern city of Gulgothir, the capital of the Gothir kingdom, and the land was torn in two. Refugees streamed north, over the mountains and far from Nadir tyranny. A new capital was built on the western edge of the ocean, and the Keep at Talgithir became the southernmost point of Gothir lands. It had grown in size since those early days, and now the Keep was but a small island at the centre of a bustling metropolis.
The Great Gates of Oak and Iron were shut, but Chareos joined the queue at the side gate which slowly filed through to the outer courtyard. There were the petitioners, men and women with grievances only the Earl could settle. There were more than two hundred people already present, and each carried a flat disc of clay stamped with a number. When that number was called, the petitioner would walk inside the main hall and present his case to the Earl. Of the hundreds waiting, only about a dozen would be dealt with, the rest returning next Petition Day.
Chareos walked up the wide stone steps towards the two guards at the top; their spears were crossed, but they lifted them to allow him to pass through into the inner chambers. Three times already he had tried to contact the Earl, to inform him of the deeds of his soldiers. But on each occasion he had been turned away and told that the Earl was too busy to be interrupted.