‘Greetings, brother,’ he said.
The priest looked up, then bowed. ‘Greetings, Lord Abbot.’
The Abbot seated himself on a stone bench nearby.
‘Please continue,’ he said. ‘Do not let me disturb you.’
The man returned to his work, weeding the soil, his hands black with dirt and his fingernails cracked and broken.
The Abbot looked about him. The garden was well-tended, the tools sharp and cared-for, the pathways clean and clear of weeds.
He gazed fondly on the priest. The man had changed greatly since that day five years ago when he had walked into the monastery declaring his wish to become a priest. Then he had been dressed in garish armour, two shortswords strapped to his thighs and a baldric belt across his chest bearing three daggers.
‘Why do you wish to serve the Source?’ the Abbot had asked.
‘I am tired of death,’ he had replied.
‘You live to kill,’ said the Abbot, staring into the haunted eyes of the warrior.
‘I want to change.’
‘You want to hide?’
‘No.’
‘Why did you choose this monastery?’
‘I … I prayed.’
‘Did you receive an answer?’
‘No. But I was heading west and after praying I changed my mind and came north. And you were here.’
‘You think that is an answer?’
‘I don’t know,’ answered the warrior. ‘Is it?’
‘Do you know what order this is?’
‘No.’
‘The acolytes here are gifted beyond other men and they have powers you could not comprehend. Their whole lives are given over to the Source. What do you offer?’
‘Only myself. My life.’
‘Very well. I will take you. But hear this and mark it well. You will not mix with the other acolytes. You will not walk to the upper level. You will live below in a crofter’s hut. You will put aside your weapons and never touch them again. Your tasks will be menial and your obedience total. You will not speak to anyone at any time – only when I address you, may you answer.’
‘I agree,’ said the warrior without hesitation.
‘I will instruct you each afternoon and I will gauge your progress. If you fail in any way, I will dismiss you from the monastery.’
‘I agree.’
For five years the warrior had obeyed without question, and as the seasons passed the Abbot watched the haunted expression fade from his dark eyes. He had learned well, though never could he master the release of the spirit. But in all other things the Abbot was pleased.
‘Are you happy, Decado?’ the Abbot asked now. The priest leaned back and turned.
‘Yes, Lord Abbot.’
‘No regrets?’
‘None.’
‘I have news of the Dragon,’ said the Abbot, watching him carefully. ‘Would you care to hear it?’
The priest looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, I would. Is that wrong?’
‘No, Decado, it is not wrong. They were your friends.’
The priest remained silent, waiting for the Abbot to speak.
‘They were wiped out in a terrible battle by the Joinings of Ceska. Although they fought valiantly and well, they could not stand against the power of the beasts.’ Decado nodded and returned to his work.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Very sad, Lord Abbot.’
‘Not all your friends perished. Tenaka Khan and Ananais have returned to the Drenai and they plan to kill Ceska – to end his terror.’
‘May the Source be with them.’ said Decado.
‘Would you like to be with them?’
‘No, Lord Abbot.’
The Abbot nodded. ‘Show me your garden,’ he said. The priest rose and the two men walked among the plants, coming at last to the tiny hut that housed Decado. The Abbot walked around the outside. ‘You are comfortable here?’
‘Yes, Lord Abbot.’
Behind the hut the Abbot stopped, staring down at a tiny bush and the single flower that grew there.
‘And what is this?’
‘It is mine, Lord Abbot. Have I done wrong?’
‘How did you come by it?’
‘I found a seedpod someone had thrown from the upper level and I planted it three years ago. It’s a beautiful plant; it usually flowers much later.’
‘Do you spend much time with it?’
‘When I can, Lord Abbot. It helps me to relax.’
‘We have many roses on the upper levels, Decado. But none of this colour.’