“The dwarven king’s name was Gronbach, his heart so black it bled ink. He was worse than any fiend of Phyre.”
“I’ve heard of that dwarf,” Hadrian said. “He’s in nursery rhymes. An ugly creature that promises girls treasure and then betrays them. He locks the poor child in a prison of stone, but the girl—usually a princess—manages to escape by some clever trick or magic.”
Augustine nodded. “Which demonstrates how such tales take form. It’s a less-than-accurate retelling of a real event between the mighty Brin and the evil Gronbach. But that’s a tale for another day. I merely wanted to set the stage, and let you know that Brin’s adventures ranged far and wide. It’s because of Brin that we have blades like the ones you carry.”
Everyone was staring at Hadrian’s swords, heads nodding in unison.
Hadrian smiled politely and was thankful the abbot wasn’t telling the whole story, or this would be a very long visit.
“There are many legendary tales of adventures featuring Brin. It is said he slew the last of the dragons, invented writing, and fought beside Novron at a crucial battle in the Great Elven War. He even saved the first emperor’s life.
“But his greatest feat was leading a band of heroes into the underworld—into the land of death itself. That trip changed everything. Bran’s tales of his teacher’s adventures taught us about the real gods. Did you know that long ago men worshiped every tree and leaf?”
“I told him,” Scarlett said.
“Oh good,” he replied, but his face suggested otherwise. “Well…” Augustine stumbled, trying to find his place. “It’s from Bran—the founder of the Brotherhood of Maribor—that we know of Phyre and the truth that there are only five gods. Erebus is the father of all; Ferrol, the father of the elves. Drome brought forth dwarves, and of course Maribor created mankind. As for the plants and animals, that was the work of Muriel.”
“What about Novron? The Nyphron Church worships the son of Maribor as their god. Do the Monks of Maribor not?”
Scarlett cringed, but the abbot just smiled politely, as if placating a child who didn’t know better.
“We are the keepers of the truth. We don’t involve ourselves in what others believe.”
Maybe monks were as adept as nobles at obfuscation, because Hadrian noticed Gilcrest hadn’t answered the question. Still, he wasn’t going to be rude and dig deeper.
The abbot once more stumbled to find his place. “While Brin’s accomplishments are legion, his most important contribution is the knowledge that no one, no matter how vile their past, is beyond redemption.”
“Sounds like a great guy,” Hadrian said. “But what does this have to do with Dulgath?”
The abbot grinned, and a twinkle shone in his eye. “Several years after the Elven War, when the empire was still young and the capital city of Percepliquis was just being built, Bran heard of the hardships the people in this valley were up against. So Bran the Holy, student of Brin the Magnificent, came to help. He stood in this very place, the ground where this monastery now stands. On this hilltop, Bran faced the Demon of Dulgath. He wrestled with the monster and forced it to yield. Wise as he was, Bran didn’t slay it, but rather made it repent for its cruelties. He charged it with making right every wrong it had perpetrated against the people of this land. Exhausted from his efforts, Bran took off his shawl and rested. Then he prayed for Maribor to bless this valley. Overnight everything changed. The waters became pure, the thorns were replaced with ivy, and the weather turned ideal.”
Hadrian asked Scarlett, “You believe all this?”
“I’ve lived here for five years,” she said. “I’ve never seen a drought, a storm, or a famine.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“The winters here are never very cold and always stunning. It’s as if the only reason it snows is for the beauty it brings. You can see for yourself how lush everything is. Ivy is everywhere, and plants usually found much farther south thrive here. We have oranges, and there are palm trees along the coast. The growing season is incredibly long, and the land is never exhausted, no matter how often the farmers plant. They don’t even rotate the crops. They plant whatever they want, wherever they want.”
“Still doesn’t—”
“Five years, Hadrian,” she said with a smirk. “I’ve been here five years, and I’ve only seen it rain once in the daytime. You can see storms that devastate other parts of Maranon from up here. Hurricanes that wreck ships on the coast—or dark clouds filled with rain and hail—never reach us. They either turn aside or die altogether. If you travel, you’ll find it blistering hot or deathly cold just outside this valley, but here, in this place, it’s always sunny, always warm, always—perfect.”
The monks nodded in agreement.
“Fruits grow heavy, there’s never a blight, and crops are always plentiful. This land is blessed, Hadrian. Either we’re benefiting from the efforts of a reformed demon or Maribor loves this valley—maybe both. The only problems we face are the occasional accident or sickness, and for those we had Maddie Oldcorn and now Lady Dulgath. Augustine can tell you about that. He was there when it happened.”
The abbot turned thoughtful, a sadness leaching through his previous energy and making him appear old for the first time. “Her Ladyship had been in the steeplechase and fell. Landed badly. Blood was in her eyes and leaking from her ears.” He shook his head, grimacing. Having a few gruesome memories of his own, Hadrian knew the abbot was seeing it all over again. “She was close to death when they carried her into the castle and laid her on the bed. Maddie was called. She had always been the thorn on the rose, the sting of a bee, but she had the heart of a racehorse and would come when needed, no matter how late the hour. She would kill herself racing for the finish line. Most people think that night was what did her in. Maddie saved Nysa Dulgath and poured everything she had into the effort. The old woman saved that girl, but died doing so. We buried her on a hill in the village where folk lay flowers in her memory.”
“And after that Lady Dulgath started healing people?” Hadrian asked.
Augustine nodded. “Apparently Maddie gave her more than just life. Maybe she knew she was dying and wanted to pass on her gift. In any case, it wasn’t long before Lady Dulgath began healing the sick the same way Maddie had.”
“No explanation for how she does it?”
Augustine raised his hands to the sky. “She has the grace of our Lord, and he listens to her.”
“But you’re the abbot. Shouldn’t you be the one your Lord listens to?”
“Maribor chooses whom he works through. He has his reasons. That we might not understand them is a fault in us—not him.”
That was more the sort of talk Hadrian was used to hearing from clerics. Experience had likely taught Augustine to expect skepticism. Hadrian figured the abbot had encountered it often—getting people to entrust their souls to something they couldn’t validate had to be a hard sell. Doubt must have been readable on his face, as Hadrian hadn’t learned Royce’s art of the dispassionate stare.