The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars #5)

The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars #5) Page 169

It was with a lightened heart that he set out at last beside Ratbold.

“Why did you not wake me that night?” Ratbold asked when they reached the main track and turned toward home.

“I fell asleep, Prior. I pray, grant me your pardon. I meant to wake you.”

“Nay, never mind it. You need no pardon from me.” Ratbold remained distracted as they strode along. He wielded his staff like a weapon, whacking off the heads of thistles as they walked. “That night I dreamed I stood in a high hall waiting for the king to hear my case.”

“The king? Not the abbot?”

“Nay, the king, for I was dressed in the garb of a soldier, as I once was in the king’s service.”

It seemed long ago that Alain had himself stood before the king. Henry had ruled against him, had disinherited him and stripped him of the county gifted to him by a dying Lavastine, but had shown mercy by granting him a position in his own humble Lions. Alain uncovered no anger in his own heart, remembering that day. He only hoped that Lord Geoffrey was proving to be a good steward over Lavas county, that his daughter, and heir, would prove as wise a count as Lavastine had been in his time. That he had failed Lavastine pained him; only that.

“What case did you bring before the king in your dream?”

“I know not.” Ratbold’s habitual frown was set as strongly as ever on his face although his disapproval in this instance seemed turned on himself. “All I did was wait my turn, like a man standing on the knife edge of the Abyss who knows not whether he is meant to fall into the pit or rise to the Chamber of Light. Then I woke. You know what happened next. I should have known. I should have trusted in God.”

They walked for a while without speaking. The peace of the morning sank over them. Here along the track they might have been the only two people in the wide world, alone except for the robins and a flock of honking geese flying north. Birds sang out of the depths of the forest, but the trees were silent, untouched by wind. Water dripped from branches. Shallow pools lay in perfect stillness in basins and ruts cutting across the wheeled track. The hounds padded along with ears raised, listening, alert, pausing now and again to lap up water.

“Why do you stay at Hersford Monastery, Brother?” Ratbold asked at last.

“You took me in when I was desperate and alone. Isn’t that reason enough? But I cannot stay any longer. I know where I must go next. I must find the one who will believe my tale and help me.”

“Alas,” murmured Ratbold. “So we are served for our lack of faith.”

“What do you mean? I, too, had a dream that night, Prior. Do not blame yourself or the others. Why should you? How can it be that any sane man could believe the story I told you when first I came? I can scarcely believe it myself, although I lived through it. Yet I know it is true, and that I must act—I don’t know how, or what I can do. Perhaps nothing. But I must act. I must try. I cannot bear any longer only to stand and wait.”

Ratbold missed a step, staggering, but righted himself as Alain paused to help him. “Let me go with you, Brother.”

“Go with me?” The request astounded him because it was so unexpected.

“I will serve you—”

“What can you mean? Father Ortulfus depends on you, Prior Ratbold. He can’t administer the monastery without your help. I must go alone. I mean to journey into lands held by the Eika.”

“The Eika! Will you become a missionary?”

Alain laughed as a tiny frog hopped out of one of the standing pools and vanished under a tangle of blackberry vines. For months now he had been paralyzed by grief, unable to feel or think or move, but that morning with the sheep when he had passed from sleep into waking had brought blood back to his limbs, warmth to his skin, feeling to his heart, painful but blessedly welcome.

Adica was gone. He had lost her.

But he still had a task to complete.

“I don’t know. I only know I must reach the one called Stronghand, whom I see in my dreams.”

Ratbold turned his face away and touched his hidden cheek with one finger as if to wipe away a tear. “So be it, Brother. There is no one here who can stop you.”

No one.

When they reached the monastery, they were brought to Father Ortulfus’ study where the good father entertained exalted guests, the same clerics who had passed them three days before, taking no notice of two humble monks standing alongside the road.

The eldest of the clerics was a lean man called Severus whose ascetic face suggested that he had passed many long nights on his knees in prayer after long days of solitary scholarly study. He refused to speak Wendish, using only Dariyan.