Celebration
The return to Isofal Cenobium was a solemn and silent ride. That trend continued when they reached the fortress itself, as word rippled out through the ranks of what had happened.
When Idallik Knights died, the Order marked the occasion with honey on the table, cheese, fruit, and—for one night—permission to speak freely at dinner.
Which guaranteed there would be at least one table full of cheer.
“Tell us what happened,” demanded Iduan, bright-eyed leader of a trio of adorable monsters. Her partners in crime, the twins Yasib and Mudiya, solemnly nodded in support of their sister novitiate.
Taris, the oldest girl in the novitiate dorms, leaned over the table at this. Her “whisper” was loud enough to make Master Wadera frown. “We heard there were grimmocks. Were there really? What kind?”
To which little Ayiad added, “Were they the same kind that killed your parents?”
“Ayiad!” Master Wadera scolded. “That is inappropriate.”
A wave of heat slammed through Math. For a second, the table blurred, muffled. He blinked it away.
He hadn’t told that story to Ayiad, so one of the older novitiates must have.
Children were the worst gossips.
Math pointed his fork at Taris. “First, yes. There were grimmocks. They were a kind we’ve never seen before and very dangerous.” He started to tell the children that the monsters looked like trees, but Tri-Mother help him, if he did that the younger ones would panic every time they went outside.
Math shifted his attention to Ayiad. There was no point in avoiding the question. Even if he distracted her, one of the others would demand an answer. Yasib was tenacious when he sank his teeth into a mystery.
“I doubt these were the grimmocks that killed my parents,” Math told the little girl. “Because it’s unlikely that the grimmocks who killed my parents stopped with them. That means some knight, either from this cenobium or another, must have found and destroyed them.”
Then Satu, one of the quiet ones, whispered: “I heard four people died.”
The table fell quiet.
Math and Master Wadera exchanged a look. This was a delicate subject when dealing with children expected to one day face such risks themselves.
Wadera tapped a knife twice against his cup. “Four knights died,” he said. “But a great many more than four people died. We should not forget that. Their losses are not less meaningful just because they weren’t knights.”
Satu looked down, embarrassed. Math’s lips twitched in irritation. He didn’t disagree with Master Wadera, but it was hard enough to get the boy to speak up as it was.
Math caught Satu’s eye. “It’s okay. You didn’t know.”
The little boy gave him a small, sad smile.
“You killed the monsters, though, right?” Jaiik asked, in keeping with the boy’s need to know justice had been served.
Math hesitated and hated himself for it. “We did,” he said. “We killed the monsters. I’ll tell you all about it later.”
Taris squinted at him, skeptical, before sharing a look with Jaiik. Her arm moved—she’d probably taken Jaiik’s hand, under the table. Math said nothing. It was long past the point where it would do any good.
Those two were inseparable.
At least, for now. They would, of course, be separated at some point. It was pretty much inevitable, if for no other reason than because the dormitories were separated by gender.
Why was he thinking about this? It was depressing.
Math covered for his disquiet by eating, and while the children didn’t entirely get the hint, they moved to other topics, if only until “later” arrived.
The serious turn in conversation reminded Math that he’d come to dinner with a goal. So he scanned the great dining hall for Captain Yihura, who he found wasn’t sitting with her own section, but over next to Captain Rabu.
Speaking of problematic behaviors …
They sat too close. Captain Yihura laughed, throwing her head back, glass catching the light. Whatever Rabu said, it probably hadn’t been that funny.
They were not being subtle.
Math could understand why. Both captains had lost people today. They wanted to commiserate.
Math sighed. If he knew Nuhzar—and he did—the lieutenant would keep his captain from doing anything too foolish.
On a more personal level, though, it meant two things. First, that Rabu wasn’t likely to change his mind about “Kaliri grim witches” if it meant contradicting a theory Yihura had suggested in the first place. Two, that Math would have to avoid his favorite sleeping spot in the garden.
He felt it building again—that creeping pressure behind his ribs. Maybe not tonight. But soon. Something was coming, and no one else seemed to feel it. He hadn’t seen Tanxi all evening, so he couldn’t go to her for advice.
He needed someone to believe him.
Math finished his meal and picked up his dishes to return to the kitchen. On the way, he paused next to Master Wadera. “Do you need me tonight?”
The older man glanced at the children. Specifically at Hamu, who wasn’t the youngest, but was blind and prone to seizures. “I have everything well in hand. You should rest.”
Little Nula pulled her thumb out of her mouth for long enough to give Math a sulky look. “No stories?”
He kneeled down next to the toddler. “Not tonight, Nula. Tomorrow night, though? I’ll tell you a great story tomorrow.”
She pouted at him, because “tomorrow” was an impossibly long period of time to a three-year-old. That pout was seconds from turning into a full-blown tantrum.
“If you’re patient,” Math told her, “I’ll tell you the story about the three hyenas and the dragon, hmm?”
She contemplated this idea with adorably grave seriousness. She didn’t want to wait, but it was her favorite story.
“Hey, Newt,” Jaiik called out to her. “I can tell you a story tonight.”
That settled the matter; she nodded in emphatic agreement.
Math waved goodbye to the children and headed to the most important place in the entire cenobium, the one place he could always count on to find the solution to any problem:
The libraries.
He couldn’t go straight to the commander. Not without evidence. Talu would laugh, ruffle his hair, and assign him to the stables until he died. No—he needed proof. And in Isofal, proof meant books.
Fortunately for Math, he happened to live in the middle of one of the largest libraries in the known world.
Protecting the archives was, after all, one of the main reasons the Idallik Order existed. Without those archives, mankind would still be hunting with sticks.
It was just a matter of finding out if the Queens were already recorded in the records somewhere.
The Forests section dealt with the practical: lumber types, pests, sap rot. What Math needed wasn’t the practical, but the mythical—folklore, legends, and histories.
Math went to the Lore section.
Normally, there would be members of the Order in the libraries even this late. Visitors came during the daytime and left by sunset. The evenings were for the Order members themselves.
With the celebration, though? The stacks were empty.
Or, at least, they should’ve been. Instead, he saw the summoned light of a Sun spell betraying someone lingering at a reading table: Captain Danvi of Idols.
The old woman had spread out books across the entire considerable table length.
She’d also dragged a stuffed chair closer and propped her feet on the table’s edge, one leg crossed over the other.
She glanced up when Math approached with his own light, then snickered.
“Well, if it isn’t Commander Talu’s favorite pet. ”
Math froze, unsure how to reply in a way that wouldn’t get him into trouble for using rude gestures.
She waved a hand. “Teasing. It’s not my business who the commander mentors—so long as that’s all it is.” She looked up from her book. “That is all it is, yes?”
Math flushed. “That’s … yes. That’s all that happens.”
He’d received more than a few inquiries over the years as various members checked to make sure no one was taking advantage of him. They usually took longer to get to the point.
“Good. Glad to hear it.” Her eyes returned to her book. She turned a page and, without looking up, said, “I assume you’re here for the same reason I am.”
“Same reason?”
Captain Danvi snorted. “Yes. You saw them.” She peered up over the book’s edge. “The tree women.”
“I—” He bit his lip. “I told Captain Rabu about them, but he thought it was a hallucination caused by the spores.”
She nodded absently as she turned a page. “Going to Rabu was your first mistake, Novitiate. But honestly, I doubt any of the captains would’ve believed you. The consequences are too terrible.”
Math tilted his head. “Consequences worse than this being a Kaliri magical plot?”
She turned another page, then another, before answering. “Did you know the earliest depictions of the Tri-Mother show her with leaves in her hair? Specifically, as a tree goddess.”
Math’s mouth felt dry. “But that’s got nothing to do with—”
“Doesn’t it?” She glanced up again. “If you compare the religions of Kalast to the other continent, Navre, I think you’ll find tree-related divinities are significantly more common in our religious faiths than any others.
Even the Kaliri, before they decided worshipping grim lords was a fine idea, worshipped tree goddesses. ”
“I … didn’t know that.” He frowned at the table, then belatedly realized how judgmental he must look, staring at the woman’s feet.
She slapped a hand against her thigh. “Don’t worry about me breaking the rules. I have permission. Bad veins in my legs—helps if I keep them elevated. Anyway, what were we talking about?”
“Heresy.”
“Right. Yes, so we were.” She waved a hand.
“What if, my young novitiate, those early pagan religions were an attempt to propitiate genuine threats? Not gods, but forces beyond their comprehension? What if the reason we’ve never heard of these tree creatures before isn’t because they’re new but because they are, in fact, exceedingly old? ”
“You’re saying those weren’t grimmocks.”
“My dear boy, grimmocks aren’t what we think they are, but yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
He pulled out a chair and sat down. “With all due respect, Captain: What?”
The old woman’s eyes lit up with delight before they dropped back down to her book. “A grimmock is supposed to be a creature made by grim magic. Necromancy, if you believe the old texts.” She flipped a page. “But tell me, Mathaiik—how many of the monsters we face today look like corpses to you?”
“None,” he admitted softly.
“Exactly. And yet we still call them grimmocks. Because we must.”
Math frowned. He was pretty sure the Order’s charter covered more than … “Oh. You mean the Innalova Accords.”
“Yes, I mean the Innalova Accords. If we’re only allowed to use magic against grimmocks, it stands to reason that the definition of ‘grimmock’ must occasionally expand to fit our needs.” Captain Danvi made a moue at her book before flipping to the back. “Does this damn thing have an index…?”
Math reached for a book. “If they’re not grimmocks, what are they? And how can I help?”
“That is the question, isn’t it? So grab a book and start circling first-circle Sky spells. We’re looking for any mention of tree people.”
Math nodded and cast the spell, which didn’t improve perception so much as comprehension. In a quiet place with minimal disturbances, its major benefit was the ability to read fast.
Just the thing for an order obsessed with books.