Faerie Lord

Fifty-Eight

They let her eat in peace (a bowl of cold soup, some wonderfully crumbly bread, a selection of home-made cheeses, sliced meat, fruit and, best of all, a jug of clear, cool water) although they watched every mouthful as if they were starving themselves. When she finished, the Abbot said, ‘There is something we would like you to see.’

From the outside, the monastery was deceptive. When she’d approached, it had appeared to be a single, rambling building. Now she realised it was more like a small community, a village of several buildings, some of which appeared to be dug into the mountainside itself. The structures surrounded a hidden garden, more lush and carefully tended than the agricultural strip Blue had seen as she arrived. They passed a shallow, worn stone basin elevated to shoulder height on a pedestal. Inside it the monks had planted a miniature replica of the garden embellished with a tiny brick-built pagoda.

‘The home of our last Abbot,’ the Purlisa remarked when he noticed her looking at it.

‘A model of his home?’ Blue inquired politely.

‘Oh, no, he lives there now. He has grown very small since he became immortal.’

She was still trying to work it out as they led her from the garden through an archway into one of the structures hewn into the mountainside. The corridor they entered seemed to descend and eventually led to a flight of narrow stone steps, illuminated by flickering torches: no glowglobes here, of course, in this anti-magical country.

‘This portion of the monastery was once a military fortress,’ the Abbot explained. He looked mildly pained, ‘I’m afraid below we will find the dungeons.’

‘Nonetheless,’ the Purlisa chipped in, ‘we must descend. Are you psychic, Queen Holly Blue?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Blue said hesitantly.

‘Ah good,’ said the Purlisa. ‘Psychics often find the atmosphere disturbing. So much suffering. We blessed the cells and torture chambers, but I’m not sure it’s made much difference.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘However, we will not be delayed long; then we can return to more cheering surroundings and discuss our plans.’

Blue noted the word our. It seemed she was being drawn into the monastery’s problems whether she wanted it or not. But she couldn’t see what else she might do. Without help, she could only go back to her aimless wandering in the desert.

‘Please be careful,’ the Abbot said. ‘The steps are rather steep.’

Psychic or not, Blue found the tunnels horrid. They were rough-cut in the bedrock, gloomy, claustrophobic and, surprisingly, dank: in one area water streamed down the walls. But perhaps it wasn’t so surprising. A monastery, as much as the ancient fortress before it, needed a reliable water source. This monastery was probably built on top of one.

The tunnel opened out suddenly into an underground plaza, leading in turn to what had clearly once been holding cells. Their doors all stood open so Blue could see some had been converted into austere, joyless bedrooms (only a monk on penance would elect to sleep here), but others remained in their original condition, with chains and fetters hanging from their walls.

‘Renovation programme,’ muttered the Abbot, as much to himself as anybody else. ‘Not much funds, so it will take a while.’

‘We just want you to look for a moment,’ said the Purlisa, without explaining at what.

‘To your left,’ said the Abbot and pointed.

The chamber was much larger than the miserable cells and seemed to have been used for torture. There was still some rusting equipment left in place – a metal chair with a fire drawer beneath its seat, a broken rack, a whipping post. In the centre of the room, a cage hung suspended by a chain from a hook in the ceiling. Inside it was the huddled figure of an old man, his head turned away from them.

‘What are you doing to him?’ Blue asked, appalled.

‘Look again,’ said the Purlisa quietly.

Blue looked again. The door of the cage, like that of the chamber itself, hung open.

‘Why does he stay in there?’ Blue whispered.

‘He won’t come out,’ the Abbot told her quietly. ‘We tried putting his food in the centre of the floor so he’d have to leave the cage, but he starved for three days rather than come out. So now we feed him there.’

Blue licked her lips. ‘But he must come out for… you know…’

The Abbot shook his head. ‘Not even for that. You can tell from the smell. Fortunately he eats very little.’

Blue’s stomach was knotted. She felt such a wave of pity for the creature in the cage that tears began to well up in her eyes. Then the crouched old man turned his head. ‘My gods,’ Blue gasped before she could stop herself, ‘it’s Brimstone!’

The Purlisa reacted at once. ‘You know this person?’

Blue knew him all right. Brimstone was the demonologist who’d once tried to sacrifice her brother to the demon Beleth, who’d helped the Prince of Darkness attack her Realm by way of the Analogue World. What was he doing here, on the edge of the Buthner Desert? What interest did the Abbot and his little Treasure have in him?

‘What’s the matter with him?’ Blue whispered.

‘We think a cloud dancer may have got to him,’ said the Abbot.