Augustine stood up, clapping his hands together. Old and soft as they were, they made a muffled noise, but the old man’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Come with me.”
He led them through the nave of the church. The other two monks must have known where he was going, because they grabbed a pair of dead torches off the wall and lit them from a white-coal brazier near the entrance. The church was little more than a large hall with a raised altar and a podium. There were paintings on the walls and ceiling, but in the dim light Hadrian couldn’t make them out. The middle-aged monk took Augustine’s hand as they came to stairs that led down into the solid rock of the mountaintop. When they reached a door, the abbot pushed it open. Inside, a shaft of light cut through the ceiling on a slant that shone on a pedestal, which was actually a stunning sculpture of four kneeling people, their arms upraised. In their hands they held a golden chest. The brilliant box dazzled under the beam of sunlight.
The abbot lifted the lid and revealed the contents—a piece of cloth.
Green, black, and blue plaid, the material seemed to be a simple shawl or small blanket. Clearly old, it was faded, tattered, torn, and badly frayed around the edges. The fabric was lovingly laid out and tacked in place so its full width was visible, like a tapestry.
“After his battle with the demon,” Augustine said, staring down into the golden box, his hands reverently clasped before him, “Bran the Beloved took off his shawl. In the morning, he left it behind. This is the One True Thing, the proof of my words. We believe this shawl—this very bit of cloth you see here—was handed down to Bran from Brin. If so, it would be older than the Novronian Empire, older by far than the Church of Nyphron, even older than Percepliquis. This is the Shawl of Brin.”
In that dark grotto, next to the gold case held up by those eerie stone hands and bathed in that pure white shaft of sunlight, Hadrian did feel a sense of awe. A presence of the mystical crept over him, raising goose bumps. An old blanket in a box was what he saw, but what he felt was an intersection with eternity, a window on a world beyond, an impossible wrinkle in reality—a footprint of a god.
No one spoke for several minutes. They stood transfixed by the simple woolen cloth, as if they were holding their own internal conversations with it, with themselves, and with Maribor. Then, without another word, the abbot closed the box, breaking the spell. He led them back out into the daylight of the tranquil cloister.
The sun felt good, reassuring. Everything was normal again. Still, no one spoke, and Hadrian took another drink from the pool. This time he splashed water on his face, then looked around.
Is it possible that some ancient hero really did fight and defeat an old-world demon on this mountaintop? Is this valley really blessed in some way? Hadrian pictured telling Royce that story and once more felt the grass beneath his feet.
His doubt must have registered, because Abbott Gilcrest patted him on the arm reassuringly and said, “Don’t worry, my son, if you don’t believe in Maribor and the blessings he provides. Belief in him isn’t a requirement. It doesn’t stop him from believing in you.”
Chapter Twelve
Lady Dulgath
The room they had lent Sherwood Stow was on the third floor of the south tower, and not as nice as Royce and Hadrian’s at Caldwell House. The space was smaller and had but a sliver of a sea-facing window, which left it gloomy. With three of the walls made from stone, the place was as comfortable as a dungeon. In his explorations, Royce had discovered better rooms left vacant. Perhaps those rooms had been occupied when Sherwood arrived, or they were reserved for the coming of the king and his entourage. Or maybe whoever had assigned Sherwood’s room wanted him to leave as soon as possible.
The artist had been provided with a bed, but even though evening drew near, no one had bothered to freshen the linens. Broken rocks of yellow ocher and ruddy iron littered a small table in the corner. A tiny hammer and a metal file lay among the debris. Hammer-sized impressions on the surface of the table suggested Sherwood held as much respect for his accommodation as those who had provided the room had shown to the artist. Chicken bones littered the floor near the chamber pot. Near misses, Royce guessed. From the rancid smell that greeted his nose upon entering, Sherwood’s pisspot hadn’t been dealt with any better than the bed.
“I don’t get visitors,” Sherwood said with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. He picked up the discarded bones, crossed the room, and dumped them and the chamber pot’s contents out the window and into the sea. When he turned back, a look of shock flashed across the painter’s face.
Royce didn’t suffer from a lack of situational awareness. Some people—most people—walked around oblivious to nearly everything. How they survived more than a week was a curiosity to him akin to why turkeys had wings. In Royce’s profession, being surprised was the same as being dead, so catching him unaware was a rare thing. Seeing the stunned look on Sherwood’s face, however, Royce was certain someone had been hiding in the corner as they entered. Cursing himself for his stupidity and expecting the worst, Royce whirled while reaching for his dagger.
No one was there, just the artist’s easel and paint tray propped in the corner.
Sherwood moved to the easel as if he’d forgotten Royce was in the room. He reached out and touched the tripod, running his hands over the surface of the paint-splattered wood. “Impossible.”
“What is?”
Sherwood untied a rolled-up canvas pouch. It unfurled, one end dangling from the easel tray. The thing was a sort of carrying case for paintbrushes, with little pockets for each. There had to be two dozen brushes neatly stuffed into the compartments. “They’re all here.”
Sherwood opened the lid of the tray and gasped. He jerked back as if a snake had been hiding there. Reaching out, he timidly touched each of the pigment bottles. Then he picked up the paint-smeared palette and stared at it. “It’s…it’s…” he repeated, shaking his head. “This is the same palette. The paint it’s…I just don’t understand.”
“Your easel, your paint, your room, what’s not to understand?”
“These don’t exist anymore, or I should say they didn’t—none of them. Last night Lord Fawkes went into the study and destroyed it all. This easel was snapped into half a dozen pieces, and the paint vials were shattered against the walls and floor. And this…” Sherwood held up the palette. “This was broken in two. But it’s all here now—not a mark, not a blemish.”
“No blemishes? There are dents, scrapes, and paint splattered all over that thing.”
“Yes!” Sherwood spun, holding up the palette like a tiny shield. “I know every mark, every drip of paint. This isn’t a replacement or a replica. This is my old easel. These are my old paints.”
Sherwood’s eyes went wide with thought. He turned and scanned the pigments again. “Beyond the Sea…it isn’t here.”
“That’s because I have it.” Royce held out the bottle.
“Yes.” Sherwood took the vial and put it in the gap where it belonged. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“Ponder it later. I have questions, remember?”
Sherwood faced him with a giddy smile. “Sure. Whatever. What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about Lady Dulgath. What’s she like? What are her habits? Her interests? Her—”
“Her hair isn’t black.”
“I’m actually more interested in—”
“People don’t know that,” he went on, staring at Royce in earnest. “They would if they paid attention, if they looked close, but people don’t. Everyone is so focused on themselves they never really take the time to look at others and rarely see them.”