“No, but that’s what our ancestors thought. Ages and ages ago, long before the empire, people lived in scattered villages like—well, like Brecken Dale, and every one of them had its own personal god. They worshiped a statue of him or her, and even took it with them when they charged into battles. There were hundreds of spirits and demons back then. But all that changed, starting here.”
“Starting here? What happened?” Hadrian asked, but Scarlett had scampered ahead and disappeared around a bend of cliff. Catching up, he discovered they had reached the top.
An open, rocky slope, covered in sedge, matt buckwheat, and forget-me-nots, spread out before him. He stood above the tree line, and below lay the world. Hadrian felt as though he could see into infinity. Green-blue ridges of forested hills ran south toward bluer, rocky mountains, and beyond those were white peaks. A cloud was caught between two ridges, a tuft of milkweed trapped in a cleft. Far below, the village was merely a smudge and the river only a shining ribbon wriggling through the green. To the east, and what looked to be just below their feet, the silver waves of the ocean shimmered. But what astounded him the most was the clear, blue sky threatening to engulf him. “Whoa.”
Scarlett had stopped; she watched him, grinning. “Amazing, isn’t it?” she asked. “It’s like you’ve come to the end of the world and can see clearly for the first time.”
On the still-rising slope that formed the bald head of the little mountain stood an ancient stone building. Massive, rough-hewn slabs were stacked without mortar. Corners had been worn and rounded, and while no ivy grew there, emerald-green moss and gold lichen decorated every block.
“Welcome to Brecken Moor,” Scarlett said.
Augustine Gilcrest looked like a monk, old and weathered, with a face that had suffered from the merciless sun, the wind, and the cruel whims of gods. But in his eyes was the blue of an endless sky. A long white beard showed he hadn’t shaved in decades, and the haphazard hair sticking out in all directions beneath a miserable flop of a hat told Hadrian the cleric likely hadn’t seen a mirror in about as long.
Seeing Scarlett, the abbot of Brecken Moor howled with joy, then embraced her tightly, kissing her three times on the cheek. She returned the squeeze with the same comfortable closeness of a family accustomed to hugging.
“I’m so glad you’ve come to visit. Let’s sit down in the shade. I know what a long stroll it is to get here.”
They were out in the cloister, an enclosed garden surrounded by a pillared walkway. At the center, an artesian spring trickled down into a naturally formed pool. Around it, carefully cultivated plots of vegetables, herbs, and flowers grew. Around those, walkways and stone benches had been constructed.
The monk led them to one of those, in the shade of an old and twisted bristlecone pine. He gestured for them to sit. “It’s so wonderful to see you again.” He beamed at Scarlett. “You need to visit more often.” His eyes darted over. “And who is this young man?” His tone was playful, mischievous, and his brows made an insinuating jump.
“This is Hadrian Blackwater, just a curious stranger from up north,” Scarlett said. Her face looked a bit flushed, but it could have been from the mountain hike.
“The question is,” Augustine said, continuing in his baiting tone, “what is he curious about?”
“Actually,” said Hadrian, who was sticky with sweat and fixated on the trickling water, “I was wondering if you had anything to drink.”
The abbot held out a hand to the bubbling spring. “That’s what it’s there for, the same as the air you’re breathing. Maribor provides.”
Scarlett walked over, bent down, and sucked water from the surface of the pool as if she were a deer in a glade. She stood up, wiping her mouth. “Best you’ll ever have.”
Hadrian followed her example. The water was cold, clear, and perfect. He drained almost half an inch before standing. Refreshed and revitalized, he took a deep breath of the fresh air and sighed.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Scarlett asked.
“I could live here,” Hadrian replied.
“If you wish, you can,” Augustine told him. “We welcome anyone interested in a life of worship.”
“Really?” Hadrian hadn’t seen more than two other monks—or at least two other men in the same drab habits. “Not a lot of takers lately, I’m guessing?”
Augustine smiled. “We’re a bit out of the way here.”
“Certainly is beautiful,” Hadrian said. “Everything here is. Even down in the village—across this whole valley, really.”
“Yes, Dulgath is a little sliver of paradise perched at land’s end.” The abbot winked at Scarlett.
“So much natural beauty in one place, and yet…”
“Yes?” the abbot asked.
“I don’t know, just doesn’t feel natural. Something strange about this place.”
The abbot and Scarlett exchanged looks. “Would you like to know? Would you really?”
Hadrian wasn’t sure he did. He wasn’t one for sermons. In the manor village where he’d grown up, they didn’t have a church. A priest of Nyphron would visit a few times a year. He came to perform weddings, to bless the dead and the harvest, but mostly to break bread and drink with Lord Baldwin. No one in Hintindar could be considered devout, and Hadrian’s father held an open contempt for the church.
The years Hadrian had spent in the military, not to mention his time in Calis, had done nothing to improve his indifferent view of religion. He supposed it served a purpose: calmed fears, eased suffering, gave hope, and occasionally helped those whom others ignored. Still, he’d never understood the blind worship of the faithful.
Deacons, priests, and bishops were ordinary men and just as prone to acts of good and evil as anyone else. From his perspective, there was only one difference: The religious loved to talk. Soldiers, merchants, even nobles were men of action. The devout were men of words—usually lots of them.
That afternoon, however, Hadrian was tired from a long uphill walk, and sitting down to listen to a story didn’t sound so bad. It didn’t matter that he was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be a good one.
“Okay.” Hadrian found his own slab of stone and got comfortable.
Augustine smiled at him, then stood up. He lifted his eyes to the sky and took a deep breath.
“Long, long ago,” he began, fanning his fingers as if he were evoking the birth of existence, “our people came to this valley and thought to make a life here. But their dreams became a nightmare, for this place was ruled by an evil demon of the old world: a monster capable of leveling mountains, blotting out the light of the sun, and calling down bolts of lightning. Paths were guarded by cruel thorns, soil was made barren, and the water”—he pointed at the trickling well—“was poison. This was a cursed land, an awful, terrible place of darkness and death…until Bran came.”
Scarlett grinned at the name like a child hearing a favorite tale and eager to share—to experience it again through the reactions of someone new.
Augustine’s attention was distracted by a pair of monks who entered the cloister. “C’mon.” He invited them with a wave.
One young, one middle-aged, they shuffled over silently and sat on the ground. They, too, had the eager, excited expression.
It must be really boring up here, Hadrian guessed.
“Now then,” Augustine went on, “Bran was the protégé of Brin, the legendary hero of old. When Brin was a boy, no more than fourteen years old, his parents were killed by a marauding army of giants, who were so big they used trees as toothpicks. Brin slew every last one with his bare hands. But that wasn’t his only exploit. He stole the secret of metal from the dwarven king, who back then ruled from the ancient city of Neith.” The abbot pointed to the southwest, causing Hadrian to turn and look, but all he saw was a cloud-covered mountain range snaking down the back of Delgos like a jagged spine.