But this dragon refused to be enchanted. It jerked its head away, tugged at its harness, lashed its tail this way and that. Had Iridal been an experienced dragon-rider, she would have recognized these signs as indicative of another dragon somewhere near.
Dragons are very companionable creatures, fond of their own kind, and this dragon of Iridal’s was much more inclined for a friendly chat than sleep.* The dragon was too well trained to call out (they are taught to keep silent, lest a cry give away their position to an enemy). But the creature had no need to vocalize; it could sense a companion in many other ways: smell and hearing, among other, more subtle means.
*A note on dragons. The creatures who live permanently on Arianus are true dragons, an advanced species of reptile, who possess varying degrees of magical power, depending on each creature’s own intelligence and a variety of other factors. The dragons on Arianus are not to be confused with those who occasionally appear in the guise of dragons—such as the serpent-elf Sang-drax or the dragon-serpents of Chelestra.
If the other dragon in the area had responded, Iridal would have been forced to resort to firm measures in order to subdue her mount. As it was, the other dragon refused to acknowledge in any way its fellow’s presence. Iridal’s borrowed dragon—a mild creature, not exceptionally quick-witted—was hurt, but was too stupid to be deeply offended. Tired from the long journey, the dragon finally relaxed and listened to Irida’s soothing words.
Seeing its eyelids droop and noting the tail begin to curl about the feet, the claws to dig more firmly in the ground to gain steady purchase, Iridal quickly intoned the spell. Her dragon soon slept deeply. Never thinking to wonder why it had been restive, her mind preoccupied with thoughts of this coming meeting that she knew would not be at all a pleasant one, Iridal forgot about the odd behavior of the dragon and set out to walk the short distance between herself and the monastery.
No outer walls surrounded the monastery. No gate barred entrance. The death monks needed no such protection. When the elves occupied human lands and entire villages were razed and destroyed, the Kir monasteries remained untouched. The most drunken, blood-mad elf sobered instantly on finding himself anywhere near the black, chill walls.*
*It is rumored that the Kenkari elves feel a kinship to the Kir monks, whose death-worship religion derived from a failed attempt to emulate the Kenkari in the capture of souls. Many believe that the powerful Kenkari stretched a protective hand over the human monks, forbidding elven soldiers to persecute the Kir.
Repressing a shiver, Iridal focused her mind on what was important—the recovery of her lost child—and, drawing her cloak more closely about her, proceeded with firm step to the baked clay door illuminated by the glowlamp. An iron bell hung over the door. Iridal took hold of the bellpull and jerked it. The iron tones of the bell were muffled and almost immediately swallowed up, absorbed by the building’s thick walls. Accepted as a necessity for contact with the outside world, the bell was permitted to speak, but not to sing.
There came a grating sound. An opening appeared in the door. An eye appeared in the opening.
“Where is the corpse?” the voice asked in a disinterested monotone.
Iridal, her thoughts on her son, was chilled by the question, alarmed and startled. It seemed a terrible portent, and she very nearly turned around and ran off. But logic prevailed. She reminded herself of what she knew of the Kir monks, told herself that this question—so frightful to her—was perfectly natural for them.
The Kir monks worship death. They view life as a kind of prison-house existence, to be endured until the soul can escape and find true peace and happiness elsewhere. The Kir monks will not, therefore, come to the aid of the living. They will not nurse the sick, they will not feed the hungry or bind the wounds of the injured. They will, however, tend to the dead, celebrating the fact that the soul has moved on. The Kir are not disturbed by death in even its more horrible forms. They claim the victim when the murderer has done. They walk the fields of battle when the battle is ended. They enter the plague town when all others have fled.