3 The Monastery of Pastoral Solitude

It was an hour before dawn, and ghostly wails and cries drifted across the Crying Fields like foul pollen. Teron lay on a thin grass-filled mattress in his ascetic monk’s cell. A sheen of sweat glistened on his skin in the light of the moons, and the night air cooled it so that his skin had the feel of a corpse. His quickened breath hissed between his teeth, and his hands clenched and unclenched as his legs twitched and pumped.

A cat appeared in the open window to his cell, leaping silently to the sill from somewhere outside. Its gray fur had black stripes and blended in very nicely with the moonlight and shadow. Its tail twitched as it aligned its ears to Teron. It sat and surveyed him for a while, and its ears slowly swiveled back, revealing its discomfort. The tail lashed even more. At last it crouched low and leaped through the darkness to the supine form. It landed heavily on his sternum, using the momentum of the jump to gather itself and leap immediately again for the low table in the corner.

The impact startled Teron from his sleep. He yelled, his voice tight and controlled but full of fear. He blocked an unseen strike as he sat up, then his frenzied eyes cast wildly about in the darkness. His gaze came to rest at last on the nearly invisible shape of the cat.

“Meow,” said the cat, in a voice that sounded far more like a kitten than a tom.

Teron blew out his lungful of air, half laughing and half relieved, and flopped back down to the mattress. He drew in a deep breath and stretched, running his hands through his hair. He heard the tomcat leap to the floor and walk over, then felt the heavy, padded step of the cat as it climbed onto his chest and settled down, kneading into Teron’s skin with its long, sharp claws.

Teron scratched the cat’s wide head, ruffling its dirty hair. “How do you always know when I need you to wake me up?” Teron asked. He found his answer in the half-lidded eyes of the cat. It started to purr, an uneven, raspy sound like a steel-booted gnoll slogging up a steep pile of gravel.

“Phew,” said Teron. “What on Eberron is that, Flotsam? Your breath smells like you ate a goblin chirurgeon’s gloves!”

Teron spent a long time stroking the cat, focusing on rubbing the tom’s muzzle and the base of its ears. The cat drooled, its saliva slowly collecting on its chin, dripping onto Teron’s chest and pooling at the base of his neck. Teron didn’t mind, though. The chance for his touch to bring pleasure instead of injury and death was well worth the nominal annoyance of some cat spittle.

Eventually he worked his hands down the cat’s back, massaging its muscles and scratching its pelt. The sky began to lighten in the east.

With the massage completed and the monastery starting to awaken, the cat knew its time was up. It stood, arched it back, licked Teron’s stubbled chin in thanks, and returned to the windowsill to groom itself and watch the day begin.

Teron rose slowly and easily. He limbered up, bending and stretching to get his blood flowing, then popped his neck, his back, his ankles, and finally cracked his knuckles all at once. When he was finished, he stepped over to the small window of his cell, placing his hands on the sill on each side of the cat. He looked at the growing dawn with a disinterested eye. The sky was a sickly hue, a wan excuse for a sunrise as was so often the case in this cursed portion of fair Aundair.

The tomcat meowed.

“I know, Flotsam,” said Teron. “I wake up feeling pretty much the same way.” He blew out a lungful of air.

“Let’s go see what’s in the larder, shall we?” he asked, and as he turned to leave his room, the cat hopped down the outside of the window.


Outside the wreckage of the front gate of the Monastery of Pastoral Solitude, Prelate Quardov’s carriage rattled to a stop. A roil of dust billowed about as the coachmen hopped off the rear of the carriage and trotted over to its ornate doors, windows sealed from within. In unison they opened the double doors, and a step automatically dropped into place for the single passenger.

Inside, the prelate blinked at the sudden onset of the bleary late morning sunshine. He extinguished the sole lamp in the carriage with a sigh of regret. He disliked the monastery—more so, he hated it. Visiting the place was a flagellation of torment. It reminded him of many things he’d rather forget, things that should have been abandoned in the past to wither and die, unremarked, unremembered. The Last War, the Quiet Touch, and …

He glanced out the open doorway; within the overgrown courtyard of the monastery, Quardov saw Master Keiftal leading several other monks to greet their visitor.

He scowled, wanton loathing in his heart, but finally mastered his face and exited the carriage, descending the folding wooden step with the sedate pace of a swan.

He stood fully and surveyed the surroundings—the broken stone walls, the charred remnants of the gate, the sickly yellowed sky, and the blood-red grass all around. Dissatisfied as usual with the area, he worked the wax-and-cotton plugs from his ears.

As he did so, a limpid wind stirred the air, bringing the echo of a warbling wail to Quardov’s ears. “They make no difference,” he grumbled to himself, fingering the waxen plugs in his hands. “Why is it that no matter how hard I try to seal my ears, I can always hear those noises?”

“I cannot explain it, my reverence,” said Keiftal, drawing closer.

“Excuse me?” asked Quardov.

“I said I cannot explain it, good prelate.”

“Explain what? Why the gnome is coming?”

“You asked why you hear the noises, my reverence,” said Keiftal, slight confusion furrowing his brow. “I cannot explain it, other than to say that this place in unnatural in many ways, and natural ways of opposing its influence may not be particularly effective.”

“You heard that?” asked Quardov. “Yet you tell me you’re half-deaf at best.”

“Mm. Perhaps my reverence spoke rather more loudly than intended,” said Keiftal, blushing.

“Be that as it may,” said Quardov, forcing much more joviality into his words than he felt, “I shall have to take care to watch my words while you are around, old man.”

“Shall we—” began Keiftal.

“Yes,” replied Quardov tersely. He strode forward to the monastery, trying hard to look at nothing. At last his annoyance got the better of him, and he glanced at Keiftal. “Why do you linger here?” he asked.

“Excuse me, my reverence?” said Keiftal, trotting beside Quardov like a well-trained dog. His slurred voice boomed in the empty courtyard.

Quardov stopped and turned to face the monk directly. “I said,” he repeated, enunciating carefully, “why do you linger here? You condemn yourself to remain trapped in the pain of the past. We must forgive our neighbors, but forgiveness does not come when we immerse ourselves time and again in the pain of the past. Forgiveness begins with forgetting.”

Keiftal nodded, but his brows, with their long wiry hairs, wrinkled pensively. “But my reverence,” he said, “how can we forgive something that we do not remember?”

Quardov’s face pinched in annoyance, then he regained his composure and clasped his hands, one fist inside another, behind his back. To him, the Crying Fields were a blight upon Aundair, and so, therefore, was this monastery, this twisting knife, this ruined relic that remained here in the face of all reason and kept the painful memory fresh. He wished he could remove the whole area from the world, cut it away and burn it like a gangrenous limb. Even walling it off would have been preferable. “Let us finish our business that I might leave this foul place,” he said.

“As my reverence wishes.”

The party crossed the courtyard, wending its way through the larger stones scattered years ago by the collapse of sections of some of the buildings, to what had become the main hall. This portion of the monastery had suffered less than other sections—especially the former Great Gallery—although it still had a few holes in its walls and roof from Thrane trebuchets.

Quardov entered the main hall and exhaled in relief when the monks closed the doors behind him. “Very well, then,” he said, turning to Keiftal and raising one gentle hand to his forehead, “has that blasted University gnome yet arrived?”

Keiftal’s brow creased with concern. “He has, my reverence, and—”

“Then fetch him,” he said. “Where have you stashed the academic little beast?”

“Actually, I’m right here,” said a bright voice.

Quardov’s heart skipped a beat, and he turned to look down the long hall. Light slanted in from several open doors, and Quardov watched as a small silhouette drew closer and then stepped into view, illuminated by the slanting light.

“Praxle Arrant d’Sivis, University of Korranberg, at your service, your reverence,” said the gnome, sweeping his hat off his head and wafting the scent of clove in its wake.

“Ah, here he is,” said Keiftal. “Praxle d’Sivis, this is Prelate Quardov Donrain, Patriarch of the Faithful in Fairhaven, High Archdeacon of the Cathedral of the Heavens, Blessed Apostle of the Church of the Sovereign Host, and Keeper of the Divine Wrath. My reverence, this is Praxle, famed son of the dragonmarked House Sivis and respected lecturer of the University of Korranberg.”

Praxle bounced forward and kissed the prelate’s ring. Quardov’s eye twitched once with the realization that, Praxle being as short as he was, he didn’t have to bow to do so.

“My apologies to all if I stampeded your formal introductions by introducing myself,” Praxle said. “It was not my intent at all.”

“Professor d’Sivis,” said Quardov, a gracious if ungenuine smile smearing itself across his lower face, “it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Our thanks to you that you have troubled yourself to visit our humble monastery.”

“Humble is the word, all right,” said Praxle. “This place has seen better days. What in the name of the Mockery happened here? Urn, begging your pardon, your reverence, I … I didn’t mean to let my mouth run off like that.”

Quardov smiled. “It is of no worry, my good gnome. As a priest, I assure you that I deal with the Dark Six on a regular basis. Mention of their names bothers me not, and in fact it may be said that those gods are certainly more at home in this … territory than are those that we serve.” He gestured back down the hallway in the direction from which Praxle had come. “If you would be so kind as to accompany master Keiftal and me, we have a comfortable room in which we may talk.”

With a swish of his silken robes, Quardov strode down the hall. Praxle followed, while Keiftal trotted to keep up with Quardov, casting frequent glances over his shoulder at the gnome.

“Don’t look so flustered,” said Quardov. “We’ll meet in the choral chamber. Go open the door and shoo away anyone else who’s there. Now.”

Keiftal scurried ahead, leaving Quardov alone to gather his composure again. His gaffe, Keiftal’s bumbling introductions, and Praxle’s casual demeanor had put the staid cleric off kilter, and he was determined to regain control of the conversation. He needed to control the situation; the very presence of a University gnome was enough to send chills up his spine.

Quardov swept past Keiftal into the choral chamber, Praxle following a bit behind. The chamber was done all in wood, perfectly cut, lustrously polished and immaculately dusted; even the exterior stone walls were paneled over in oak. The arches in the room bespoke acoustic architecture. The room had been built for the pure pleasure of creating and enjoying vocal music. A thick carpet with a geometric design covered the floor and dampened the footsteps. Heavy, dark curtains covered the narrow windows that reached from floor to ceiling. Only a corona of light around each drapery proved that the sun still shone. Two simple iron chandeliers, each with a trio of everbright lanterns, provided a soft glow that failed to fully illumine the room.

Praxle whistled appreciatively, and the room resonated with the sound. “This room, the … choral chamber, you say? Now this is beautiful. Simply beautiful. You’ve done a masterful job of repairing it.”

“We have not repaired anything, if you please,” said Keiftal, glancing nervously at the prelate.

“Careful, easy now. You don’t have to talk so loudly, especially not in this room,” said Praxle. “Well, then, what did you do to protect it? How did you manage to keep this place from getting wre—well, damaged like the rest of the buildings around here?”

“The choral chamber never suffered any of the harm that fell upon our monastery,” explained Keiftal, his voice still too loud in the well-designed room. “It was divine providence, I am certain.”

“And likely the last miracle the Sovereign Host will ever grant this place,” added Quardov.

Praxle walked over to one of the windows and pulled the curtain back. Light flooded into the room, seeming to bleach the wood of its color. “Gack. Nothing but blood-red grass,” he said, and let the curtain fall closed again, “I can see why you leave the curtains closed. You have a choice between dim and somber or well lit and disturbing.” He turned back to the men. “My apologies, but I did not have time to research this area thoroughly before coming. What happened here?” he asked, gesturing about.

Prelate Quardov took a long, deep breath and let it back out. “Everything happened here, my good gnome,” he said, running his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “During the Last War, Thrane and Aundair fought over this ground two score times or more. It was all warfare, naught but death and destruction, and of very little interest to a spiritual person.”

Praxle sat on the carpet and folded his legs. “In truth, I’m not a particularly spiritual person, your reverence,” he said, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Take no offense, but I have a deep and abiding interest in history and in things that have definitively happened, far more than in philosophical debates over subjects that can neither be proved nor disproved. I’d love to hear the history of this place, particularly during the Last War.”

Quardov hung his head and considered what to say, but just as he started to speak, Keiftal’s rough and untrained voice rolled over his words.

“It happens, good gnome, that I’ve lived here through a majority of the Last War. I’ll be happy to tell you all of what happened here.”

“Keiftal …” warned Quardov quietly.

“Please do,” said Praxle with a smile. He glanced at Quardov, his pleasure obvious. “My ears are piqued.”

“Well, I can’t give you all of it. I only began my learning here in, hmm, 939, I think, after my mother was killed on the Brelish frontier. I know there had been some fighting over this ground prior to that, but I don’t know the details. I passed my final student test in … let’s see, that would have been 943. The Thranes attacked that summer, and my master, he … he sped up our training to ensure we would be on the battlefield. You see, the problem was that we—the Aundairians as a whole, not this monastic order, of course—we had Tower Vigilant to the north and Tower Valiant to the south. No, wait, reverse that, Valiant north and Vigilant south, I think. Oh, but that doesn’t matter. The point is that we had nothing between them, nothing guarding the Galtaise Gap except this monastery.”

Praxle raised a hand politely, stopping Keiftal in his dissertation. “Forgive me, my good man, but I am not overly familiar with the geography up here. What’s the Galtaise Gap?”

“Ah,” said Keiftal, and he began gesturing dramatically on a large imaginary map in the air, “There are two ranges of hills sitting on our side of the Thrane border. The Thranes say otherwise, of course, but that is immaterial. These hills run north-south, and create a bit of a natural boundary. Towers Vigilant and Valiant stand in the lowlands just on our side of these hills. Now for Thrane to attack either of these towers would involve either marching straight across the hills, or else marching through the gap and then around the hills. Do you see?”

Praxle nodded.

“Of course, the towers are fortified, and the Thranes would need to bring siege engines to attack them effectively. Large, heavy things, difficult to get through rolling hills and annoying to drag the long way around. Instead, the Thranes decided it was easier to strike straight through the Galtaise Gap and make for Ghalt.”

“Why didn’t Aundair build another tower in the Gap?” asked Praxle.

“The crown attempted to do so a few times, but each time the Thranes would attack and destroy whatever progress had been made in construction. But even if a tower had been completed, I doubt it would have changed the Thrane strategy much, other than to make them bring siege equipment and sappers along. I do believe their long-term goal was to seize Ghalt, threaten the lightning rail line, cut the Orien trade road that connects southern Aundair to the rest of the nation, and then perhaps launch an attack up the rail line from the south to take Marketplace and the southern portion of the kingdom.” He paused and nodded, glad to share his interest in history with someone.

Praxle leaned forward, cupping his chin in one hand. “Keiftal, my good friend, with all due respect, you’re thinking too small. Thranes think bigger than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I remember right, the lightning rail passes Ghalt, then goes to Passage, then continues northeast to Fairhaven, right?”

Keiftal nodded.

Praxle smiled. “I’ll bet you anything they intended to raze Ghalt to the ground and push through to Lake Galifar. They get there, they cut the lightning rail north and south and isolate Passage against the coast. A quick siege, take Passage, and the southern half of Aundair falls. Issue terms of surrender to Fairhaven, then turn the army south into Breland. That is how a Thrane thinks.”

Keiftal stared at Praxle for a moment, his mouth flapping as he grasped the concept. “I … I thought you didn’t know much about our geography,” he said, for lack of any better commentary.

“Not the details, no,” said Praxle. “But I’ve spent a lot of time studying the history of the Last War, especially the campaigns of Thrane.”

“Really?” said Keiftal. “Why Thrane in particular?”

“Thrane Military Studies was the only empty chair in the University faculty,” said Praxle.

Keiftal laughed, while Quardov, having been completely ushered out of control of the conversation, forced his face into a reasonable imitation of a mirthful grin.

“Seriously, though, I believe strongly in studying one’s enemies. After our people allied themselves with Breland thirty or forty years ago, Thrane truly became our enemy. And,” Praxle added, rising to his feet, “thanks to the good relations between Breland and Aundair, the Aundairians—you—became our friends.” He beamed as he looked at the two clerics, but Quardov took the opportunity to commandeer the conversation.

“This has all been very interesting, brother Keiftal, but I am sure that such a learned gentlegnome did not travel across Khorvaire so that you could prevail upon him to listen to you practice your history lecture. Let us—”

“Oh, not at all,” interrupted Praxle. “This is fascinating.”

“You’re just saying that to be polite to brother Keiftal,” said Quardov. “But he is a good monk, humble and obedient if headstrong, and his ego needs no fawning praise. Pay him no further mind.”

Praxle set his mouth in disappointment. “As you wish,” he said. He sauntered over to the curtains again, and pulled one aside. He placed one foot on the windowsill and let the curtain fall behind him, partially concealing him from the two priests. “That is one of the strangest views I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Don’t you think, your reverence?” He maneuvered his hands through the gestures of a spell, hoping that Quardov’s answer would help conceal the small arcane noises of his action.

“I have long since grown more than weary of the spectacle,” said Quardov. “I would be happier if the grass were either to regain its normal hue or to die.”

Unseen behind the curtain, Praxle mouthed a few words.

“Quardov! Prelate Quardov!” came a voice, seemingly a long way down the hall.

Quardov stepped to the door and cracked it open. “What?” he bellowed.

“Prelate Quardov, the marn shurrn parvirmenir serembluten!” mouthed Praxle, a gleeful smile on his face. “Parumbleren megomnownan right away!”

Quardov sighed wearily. “I can’t discern a word they’re saying. Would that they’d simply come down here and tell me directly.”

“Maybe they know you wish privacy,” said Praxle.

“Respect my wishes? They should do so more often. If you will excuse me, Professor d’Sivis, I shall return anon.”

“Not a problem.” As soon as the prelate glided out of the room, Praxle reappeared from behind the curtain. “Well then, enough staring out at the red fields,” he said. “Tell me, Keiftal, we were discussing the Galtaise Gap?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Keiftal, eager to help cover for Quardov’s absence. “The Thranes had it in their head that this was the way to invade Aundair, and they did it repeatedly. I’ve lost count of how many battles I’ve been involved in, all fought for control of this area. Some were small, like when the master took all of us students out to ambush a Thrane scout patrol. That was our final test, you see. Then about thirty years ago, those were the huge battles. Biggest armies I’ve ever seen, thousands of pennants fluttering, tens of thousands of spear points shining in the sun, shield walls that seemed to run from here to the horizon. And when the cavalry charged, the whole ground trembled with the impact. Then the smoke and dust filled the air, and you couldn’t see more than a few hundred yards in any direction at best, and everything was shouting and yelling and utter chaos,” Keiftal paused, his eyes lost in the past. “Those were the biggest, and after that the battles started getting smaller again. I think both sides were losing soldiers faster than the populace could breed them.”

“And in all that time, the Thrane generals never succeeded in their campaigns?” asked Praxle.

“They succeeded to greater and leaser extents,” said Keiftal. “Many of their victories were too costly for them to continue. Others weren’t. For example, in the winter of 941 they defeated the main force just north of here. Then they bypassed the monastery and marched straight for Ghalt. They actually burned part of the town, too, from what I heard. Massacred the people who wouldn’t join the Church of the Silver Flame. But the remnants of our army reformed here, and we caused them such supply problems that the Thranes had to withdraw before Ghalt fell.

“They seized the monastery itself in 977,” added Keiftal. “Held it for a few weeks until the Quiet Touch killed all their officers.”

“The Quiet Touch?” asked Praxle. “What’s that?”

“The Quiet Touch is, well—”

“The Quiet Touch is not something we discuss openly,” said Quardov as he reentered the room and shut the door behind him. “My abject apologies for the interruption. We shall have no more such distractions.”

“So you took care of whatever problem they had?” asked Praxle.

Quardov smiled bitterly and nodded. “It appears that my presence was not needed after all.”

“How thoroughly annoying,” said Praxle. “Well then, this … this Quiet Touch … is it some kind of summoned spirit?”

“No, not at all,” began Keiftal. “It’s a … well …” He cast a glance at Quardov.

“It is a magic spell developed by the Arcane Congress,” said Quardov, “a ritual that required a number of mages to perform. It … smothers its victims, rendering them unable to breathe or speak. Hence the name.”

“I see,” said Praxle, carefully eyeing Quardov.

“Never mind that,” said Keiftal, stampeding his overloud words across the conversation. “Those are the two major times that the monastery failed to hold the Galtaise Gap. Many of the Thrane invasions were stopped right here, or near here. Our martial training is very good.”

“It sounds like there’s been a lot of bloodshed here,” said Praxle.

“Indeed, a modern tragedy,” said Quardov. “Likewise is it a tragedy that Keiftal has dragged you back into a discussion of war. I am sure you are here for more … academic purposes than to dredge yourself through such an ugly bit of history.”

“Tell me, Keiftal,” said Praxle, utterly ignoring Quardov, “some of the people I spoke to in Ghalt say that this area is cursed. They say the tainted grass is some sort of divine condemnation for the amount of blood spilled here during the Last War.”

“Oh no, not at all,” answered Keiftal.

“Why do you say that?” asked Praxle.

“Because if it happened slowly, over time, then that would be a reasonable conclusion.”

“Keiftal?” said Quardov.

“But it didn’t,” continued the monk.

“Keiftal,” said Quardov again.

“Rather the change came upon us rather suddenly, over a few weeks at most.”

“Keiftal!”

With this last outburst, Praxle gestured, and Keiftal looked over at his prelate. “I’m sorry, my reverence?”

“Attend me, my son.”

“As you wish. I apologize if I was warming overmuch to my subject.” Keiftal hurried himself over to Quardov’s side.

“Not at all, my son,” said Quardov as Keiftal approached. “I was just beginning to fear you might be boring our guest with an excess of events in which he and his people had no part. After all, he is here on business, and we must accommodate him.”

“Pray continue,” countered Praxle. “This is becoming truly fascinating. Do you think something happened that caused the grass to turn red?”

“Absolutely. It all started in the wake of the Thrane invasion of 974. A terrible time. It set the stage for the fall of the monastery a few years later. The Thrane army was marching, and we were awaiting word on reinforcements.”

“And what happened?” asked Praxle, involuntarily stepping forward.

Quardov rubbed his upper lip with his thumb and forefinger, then rested his hand across his lower face to cover his mouth. “Say nothing more on the subject,” he said under his breath.

“The Thrane army had some sort of magical device,” said Keiftal, his voice quaking. Lost in memory, he did not notice Quardov’s sudden glare. “It was very powerful, whatever it was. It killed people by the thousands.”

“What happened to it?” asked Praxle, his eyes gleaming.

Prelate Quardov clamped Keiftal’s elbow in an iron grip. “We do not know, my good gnome,” he said. “Presumably the device was either consumed by its use, or removed by the Thranes after the battle. I understand it was not to be found in the aftermath.”

Praxle pursed his lips. “I see. Well, we can always hope it consumed itself; such a powerful artifact could be quite … destabilizing.” He stepped over to the window and pulled the curtain open again. “I would hate to see somewhere else become as blighted as this place.”

Quardov sniffed. “You came here with a purpose, professor d’Sivis,” said the prelate. “Shall we table these military reflections and address your University’s needs?”

Praxle raised his free hand dismissively. “I find myself fatigued, good prelate. While this conversation has been most diverting, it is a very long trip from Zilargo, I would prefer to have a bath first, and perhaps a good midday meal while we address the University’s research. Would you please arrange these things for me? I am happy to pay for whatever inconvenience this shall incur.”

Quardov pressed his lips together in annoyance, “As you wish. I shall have one of the monks see to your needs, although I fear our board may be somewhat less sumptuous than what you are used to in Korranberg.”

Praxle let the curtain drop. He faced Quardov and gave a gentlemanly bow. “I thank you, your reverence. We shall speak later.”


High above the ground, the Shadow Fox hung on the side of the monastery, her feet braced on opposite sides of one of the tall, thin windows.

She pulled her ear away from the small tin cone she had pressed to the windowpane and glanced down. She saw the curtain swaying near the ground, and thanked whatever gods might be listening that she’d decided to climb high rather than hunker low.

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