The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) (13 page)

Montrose finished. He looked up at his friend. “Witness this oath for me, Garreth.” Garreth immediately obliged by dropping his bulk to one knee and meeting his master’s gaze with a nod. Montrose reached into his belt with one hand and pulled out his dirk.

Nadira stepped back against the wall. “That is not necessary, “she whispered.

“Aye, it is,” he snapped. He pulled his left sleeve back over his solid upper arm, hooking the cloth in the cleft between the muscles, leaving the arm bare, then he turned to her and looked her directly in the eyes. “There will be no doubt, no second guessing, no change of heart, not the flicker of uncertainty. What we swear here in this room will take us to our graves.”

His blue eyes narrowed. With the dirk in his right hand he laid the blade carefully over the smooth skin on his inner forearm and drew a line. Dark blood welled up and chased the blade, but never caught the silver edge. Garreth took the dirk as Montrose cupped his hand over the dripping blood. “Come here.” Nadira was afraid not to obey; besides, she had just sworn an oath of obedience. She stepped up. Montrose met her eyes with a frightening intensity. “What I am is what I give you as my token of my faith in you. Hold out your hands,” he ordered.

She did so. He cupped them, then slowly tilted his hand until his blood spilled over the edge and into her trembling ones, forming a crimson pearl on her palm. He closed her fingers carefully over the red jewel. “There. I have sworn a blood oath on my very soul. Let us hope that is enough to convince you.”

Now she would have to bind her oath to him. How? She gazed at the circle of cooling blood in her palm. He was not asking for her blood. How do women swear? She remembered playing at the window in the women’s quarters. Her child’s hands held a tiny red finch, a pet that sang for her mornings and evenings. Her mother, young and beautiful, brushed her hair before the open window. In the air, the sweet smell of sandalwood tinged her nostrils.

In the women’s quarters there were also very young boys living as promises of faith to her father of other men’s oaths. Those flesh and blood children sealed the bond man to man, she thought. How did a woman prove her faith to a man? She blushed. That she would not do. She thought about her mother, how had she sealed her oath to her husband and master?

Thursdays her mother spent at the baths with the other harem women, bathing, washing her hair in henna, perfuming her skin. Her mother’s night with her father came but once a week, yet preparations for it took the better part of two days. Nadira put her other hand to her hair, caressing its smooth warmth. Her mother had told her often that beautiful hair was a woman’s greatest treasure. She remembered how her mother would comb out her hair for her and braid it, all the while singing happy songs.

The black braid now swung low past her hips. Nadira squeezed her hand into a fist until the red oozed between her fingers. Then quickly, before she could change her mind, she grasped the root of the long braid with her bloody palm. She snatched Montrose’s dirk from Garreth’s hand and with a few hard jerks, cut her braid from behind her neck. Garreth gasped as she severed the last strands. She laid the long rope of her hair across Montrose’s knee as he knelt before her. The freed remnants of her hair touched her shoulders in a ragged arc.

“I have sworn on my mother’s soul and given you my token of faith,” she said, standing over him. She stood now as a free woman, not as a slave.

Montrose fingered the heavy braid silently, examining it along the entire length even to the end that now hung lifeless on the floorboards. Then he wrapped the braid around his knuckles like he would the reins of his horse until it was a shining ball. He stood, shaking, and tucked the braid into his jerkin.

“It is done,” he said quietly without looking at her. “We depart day after tomorrow. Your first task will be to pack food from Beniste’s larder. Three days for three men and a woman. The boys are staying here.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
HEY
rode out early in the morning, Nadira on a dull brown mare with the reins in her hands for the first time. She didn’t need them, as the mare followed the stallion in front of her without direction. Still, it was a new experience for her and she played with the leather in her hands, pretending she had control. The boys had sniffed and rubbed their eyes as they handed the horses over to the men. Montrose rubbed them both on the head and told them to be good for Beniste.

Nadira remembered the shock on both their faces as Montrose had lifted her up, set her on the mare, and given her the reins. He had given her some boy’s trousers and a tunic that morning and told her that she must look a boy for this part of their journey. The shoulder-length ends of her thick black hair were gathered up in a little blue cap and she wore soft leather boots. She had been given a warm cloak with a hood to cover everything else. She smiled to the boys and gave them a little wave, shaking the reins. Her mare turned one ear back as if to ask what she meant by that.

Alisdair rode directly behind her; she listened to him breathing, heard the occasional snort from his horse. Or maybe Alisdair snorted. Nadira never turned around to check; she did not want to meet his eyes. Since Marcus’ death, Alisdair’s face had faded to a dull mask of its former bright features: difficult to look at, harder to fathom. Better to stare ahead at Montrose’s back. He did not turn around either, though if her mare stumbled on the rough road he would tilt his head a bit to the side, listening.

The creak of leather never ceased and the
clop
clop
of the horses remained steady as a heartbeat. They traveled east, passed through the city gates and then along a narrow track that served as a road for the farmers and tradesmen. The sky was clear and the few travelers they met were friendly. Nadira took a deep breath and sighed as quietly as possible. Still, Montrose’s head made that little sideways dip. He turned his head just enough for her to briefly see the outline of his jaw.

They took a long break when the sun was high to rest the horses and water them by a small stream that followed the narrow path. She sat in the long grass in the shade of a small tree and waited for instructions to mount her little mare. The road turned slightly to the north a short time after their noon meal and rose steadily upward toward the mountains in the near distance. By late afternoon Nadira saw their destination. Gray stones and empty windows. She sighed again.

At the portcullis a faceless gatekeeper called down from above.

“Who goes there?”

“It is I, Robert Longmoor, Baron Montrose, here to speak with Father Bertram. I am expected.” A long pause followed.

“Forgive the delay, my lord. I must call Father Bertram to the gate, as I have orders to allow none to pass.”

“Very well,” Montrose called up. He turned to face his companions. “I want silence from all of you. Speak only out of courtesy. No one is to know our business. Understand?” There were nods all around. “Very well, then. Be sharp.”

A hooded face appeared on the rampart of the watchtower. Montrose looked up, “Hail, Father Bertram. It is I, Robert Longmoor.”

The hooded figure stood for a few moments, and then disappeared. A minute later, the clanking of the portcullis broke the silence as the wooden bars rose on a heavy chain. Nadira followed it all the way up with her eyes.

The stone walls of the entry passed them with echoes of the closing portcullis. The mare’s hooves sounded unnatural on the paving stones. Eerie voices were raised in song and prayer as they neared the front door. Nadira pulled her hood forward to conceal her curious eyes; still, they missed nothing. Monks moved in rank and file about the courtyard. In the fading light she glimpsed the garden near the stables. Above, the three stories of the great hall stared back at her through black holes, hardly windows, merely shuttered eyes in a cold stone face. She shivered
. I hope our business
here is quickly done
.

After the horses they had stabled the horses , Alisdair stayed with the animals and the baggage. The brothers promised them a warm meal. Montrose took Garreth and Nadira with him as he followed one of the brothers into the great hall. Nadira kept beside Montrose’s left arm, close enough to brush against him now and then. She did not want to be separated. Garreth brought up the rear, uncomfortable without his great axe. He clenched and unclenched his hands as they marched through the hall. The hall was drafty enough that she needed the protection of her cloak; staying disguised would be easy. They were led into a huge chamber with an high vaulted ceiling.

Nadira tried not to look too eager There were many fine things in Sofir’s house but nothing on this scale. The walls held niches to house the tall statues of disapproving saints. Cold eyes looked down on Nadira from every side. They came to the great fireplace where Father Bertram was waiting, seated in a chair large enough for two.

He was an old man, withered and wrinkled; his face long, his whiskers sparse and badly shaved. He had no need for a tonsure; he was completely bald, the hood of his monk’s robe hung down his back. His eyes were bright and rimmed with red.

Montrose knelt at his feet and crossed himself. Father Bertram laid a heavy, ringed hand on his forehead and mumbled a few words. Bertram glanced up at Nadira and Garreth. She quickly knelt and crossed herself as she had seen Montrose do. She felt movement behind her and knew Garreth had done the same. Under her cowl, she watched as Montrose raised himself with effort. Nadira wondered if his wound was bothering him; she had not looked at it since the day before they left Beniste’s house. Behind her Garreth did not move, so she did not either.

“Father, I have come with my companions, Garreth of Montrose and…my servant to discuss some important business of my brother’s.”

The old man peered intently at her and at Garreth. Nadira stiffened, but kept her eyes as low as possible while still taking in the scene around her. Father Bertram was satisfied, for he turned his rheumy gaze on Montrose. “Your brother…?”

“Yes, Father. He is with God, gone two weeks past, in Barcelona.”

The old priest blanched. His mouth trembled and his voice cracked with effort. “My sincere regret: I knew him as a fine man, and an extraordinary scholar.” His whole body began to shake as though he had the palsy.

Montrose bowed. “He is gone, but his urgent task remains undone. I mean to finish it. For his sake and for all of us.”

Nadira watched carefully as the old man’s eyes narrowed. The fuzzy white brows knit together beneath the baldpate. His jaw worked back and forth and Nadira heard his teeth grind. Father Bertram drew in a great breath that seemed to inflate him to twice his size before answering in a deep rumble. “That is impossible!”

“Father, do not stand before me in this matter. You know what is at stake.”

The old man rubbed his jowls, and closed his eyes. “I stand not before you, Montrose my son, but beside you. None but your brother can stave off this threat. I fear all is lost without him. We must prepare for the worst.” Color returned to his face as a bright red circle on each cheek.

Bertram stood suddenly, with no trace of infirmity and began pacing to and fro on the raised dais. “What shall we do?” he muttered. “And then? And then? I do not want the infernal thing here, in this house. Unless it can be rendered harmless, it is dangerous to acquire it. Without your brother to read it, I daresay it must be harmless before bringing it here. At least to us. It will only destroy those who fail in the attempt…maybe...” He sounded doubtful.

“So it is no longer here.” A look of pain crossed Montrose’s face. “Others may yet decipher its contents.”

“No. The book,” Father Bertram paused in his pacing, “must be destroyed, but do not bring it here. I’ve had enough of it,” he said.

“With all due respect, father, we cannot destroy it before reading it.”

The old man’s face erupted with fury. “You do not decide the fate of the world or this Church, little man! Do you know what it did to Brother Henry? It is not for you to say what is destroyed or saved!”

Montrose’s reply was no less heated. “I am to risk and perhaps lose all? Yet have no say in the matter?”

“Do you plan to use it? Have you acquired a reader?” Father Bertram looked suspiciously at Garreth and Nadira.

“No, father,” Montrose snapped, in order to return the old man’s attention to him, “I merely cringe to think of my brother’s quest as futile.”

“It was lost when he drew his last breath.” Father Bertram was nervously fingering his rosary.

The last sound of the word ‘breath’ echoed in the great hall. Neither man spoke. Nadira’s knee was beginning to ache from the hard stones. Behind her, she felt Garreth fidget uncomfortably. The old man and the younger man stared at each other for a long moment. Nadira dared not even breathe, lest the sound rupture the room.

“Go then. Find it but do not bring it here. You have my blessing. I assume you will need bursary?”

“No, father,” Montrose let his breath out. “We are adequately funded. However, I will need to speak with Brother Henry.”

Dark clouds filled the old man’s face again. He pulled on his chin with skeletal fingers. “Henry is in seclusion.”

“Yes, I know, father. I must speak to him about the book …” Montrose let the words drift.