Chapter 315

Men of the Cloth

 

Monastery Complex

Inside a chamber wider and more spacious than most in the monastery, three men of the cloth sat in idleness. A broad glass window opened to the west, catching the last glow of the setting sun and casting amber light onto the plastered wall.

The youngest of the three was in his mid-twenties, with a chubby face and plump arms. He chose to sit on the stone floor, legs folded loosely, enjoying the cooler surface beneath him. The second man lay sprawled across his bed in careless comfort, working through his second custard fruit with unhurried bites. Many called him Uncle, a title earned more through intimidation than respect.

Uncle was not the oldest. That distinction belonged to the third man, who sat apart on a wooden chair near the lone desk, his arms crossed as he watched the window at an angle. His hair had begun to gray, the strands catching the light until they appeared almost silver. His robe was gray as well, trimmed with a silver hem that marked his seniority. The other two were also members of the higher ranking Candidates.

Formally, they were scribes and clerks, the men who kept the monastery running. They oversaw food and clothing, assigned servants, arranged lodgings, handled the money, and provided the daily care of guests. The higher ranks dealt with finances, trade, and correspondence, managing everything that tied the monastery to the outside world.

While the Living Saint was technically their leader, they maintained their own hierarchy, with the Caretaker at its apex.

Because Saint Candidates were required to live cloistered lives, separation existed even under the same roof. The Candidates kept their own separate structure.

While the Saint Candidates lived in the inner parts of the Monastery, the Candidates occupied the outer layers near the gate, presiding over both the outer and inner courtyards. The placement of their living quarters reflected their duty as a bulwark, standing between the cloistered life within and the outside world beyond.

It was also a practical division. There were far more female Saint Candidates, as women were considered more holy than their male counterparts. But among the Candidates, the balance was reversed. They were predominantly men and were often called the Men of the Cloth.

Inside the chamber that faced the cliff and the western sky, the mood remained low, despite the clear sky and the gentle sunset marking the end of the day.

They had done nothing of worth, though that was not the cause of their unease. In truth, they welcomed the idleness. No one loved paperwork, but they loved the prestige, influence, and authority it granted. Their day had been spent lamenting, trading idle gossip, playing dice, and even wagering on where the goats grazing below might wander next. Silver was not lacking. They had plenty of that. What they lacked was good food.

All avenues to smuggle food had been closed. The Lord had raised his devil wire and dug ditches around every accessible approach to the hill.

“What is his troop made of, dwarves?” Uncle said, frustrated. It was inconceivable to many that the Lord's men could dig ditches around such a vast hill, one that encompassed a large monastery complex, two hot springs, and two neighboring hamlets.

There was no reply. Still sprawled on his bed, chewing the last of his second costard fruit, he continued, “At least they'll pull back for winter.”

“What makes you so confident?” the silver-haired man said in a casual, almost bored tone. “They don’t even return for the harvest.”

Uncle groaned, remembering his lost bet. “This is seriously a bad joke.”

“A nightmare, even,” the older man confirmed.

The Saint had lost a series of costly gambles. Tens of thousands of followers, along with a ridiculous sum of silver meant to equip and feed them, had been lost. It had all gone up in smoke and fire. While it was not their money, for those who did the records, it was nothing short of painful and dramatic.

Uncle tossed the costard core toward the plump man, who reacted too slowly. It struck his robe at the stomach before dropping to the floor. He snorted, already used to it, and crawled over to retrieve it. He rose slowly and tossed it out through the open window.

At the same time, the door suddenly opened, and in came a man in his mid-thirties whose gray robe could not conceal his broad shoulders. His deep-set eyes frightened most women at a glance.

“Where have you been?” Uncle asked.

“The tower,” came the reply, weak and flat, matching his slumped shoulders.

“Watching the sunset?” Uncle joked crudely, well aware of how the besiegers had paraded the men caught smuggling the night before. “So what did you see?”

“They whipped our brothers,” the man said as he approached the table and poured himself a drink.

“Ouch,” Uncle said with mock sympathy.

Hearing that, the plump man chuckled dryly. They had no respect for the lowest among them, those who tried too hard to prove themselves. They even called them rats to their faces when the congregation was not around.

Still stretched out on the bed, Uncle continued, “Last night’s attempt was, how should I put it, dicey and stupid.”

Nobody argued. He exhaled and pressed on with his rant. “They think they’re mages or something, trying to carry a bag that big. They should have just used smaller bags and tossed them over so our watcher could pick them up. Instead, they forced themselves, got tangled in the demon’s wire, and were caught.”

The silver-haired man snorted. “They wanted a hero’s welcome.”

Low, mocking laughter rippled through the chamber.

Only the newcomer remained unhappy, standing motionless with the goblet still clenched in his hand.

Noticing him, Uncle asked, “What’s with the face?”

The man turned and set his goblet down, explaining, “I lost a handful of money. I need my medicine.” He flexed his hand, which already showed a slight tremor that not even a Saint Candidate could heal.

Uncle quickly downplayed the issue. “Just take the Saint Candidates’ medicine—”

“The whore at the apothecary won’t give me any."

“Ah, Anna. She’s pretty but always uptight,” Uncle remarked, licking his lips.

“Don’t do anything to her,” the silver-haired man warned sternly. “The Saint already killed the previous one, who was loyal to the old Caretaker. Now we have lost the Meister Apothecary. Only Anna remains. Without her knowledge, we can’t calm the masses.”

Uncle snorted, then muttered, “What a waste. She’s lovely too, soft in the right places.”

“Still a Saint Candidate,” the older man said. “She would overpower you even if intoxicated.”

Yet Uncle held an ominous smirk. “Maybe not alone,” he muttered to himself.

Despite not practicing magic like mages, Saint Candidates were still able to draw upon strength when needed, nearly equal to that of a common laborer. Meanwhile, the men here were mostly scribes, living an easy life behind desks and ledgers.

The newcomer finally sat down with a sigh and said, “Worse.” His word drew everyone’s attention at once. “The Black Lord brought his ducks.”

Several brows furrowed, including Uncle’s. He looked unimpressed. “Ducks? That sounds wrong. Are they planning to threaten us with tender, juicy meat?”

Even the plump man could not resist a merry chuckle.

But the broad-shouldered man was serious. “No. War ducks.”

Never interested in listening to survivors from the battles, believing they were all cowards making excuses, Uncle merely studied his strong-looking brother with a faint curl of disdain. “Well, probably leaner meat, but I’ll eat it all the same. Might just need to cook them longer.”

“You don’t understand,” the man insisted. “The survivors said—”

“Enough,” the silver-haired man cut in, raising a hand and bringing the room to a halt. “Brother, don’t raise your voice. It will only make you hungrier. Calm yourselves.”

He then glanced at the trembling hand and said, “I might have something for your ailment. Nicotiana.”

The man stared back. “I want nothing to do with Nicopola.”

“What?” the older man blurted, then corrected him at once. “No, brother, you are mistaken. This has nothing to do with that mercenaries’ land.” He rose from his seat and crossed to the cabinet where they kept their more precious items. From within, he took out a lacquered box and set it on the table. When opened, it revealed several small jars, each sealed with corks and cushioned in dried hay, neatly separated by wooden dividers, like medicine prepared for travel.

He lifted one jar, uncorked it, and held it up for the others to see. Inside were tightly rolled, dried leaves, dark and fragrant. “This came from across the sea. Only dukes and the High Minister have tasted it. They call it the Sacred Herb. It eases pains of the head and clears the thoughts.”

“Opiate,” the broad-shouldered man muttered disinterestedly.

The older man clicked his tongue softly, in the manner of a patient older brother. “No. This is not one. You can even work the numbers while using this.”

Even Uncle looked genuinely surprised. “No drowsiness?”

“No drowsiness,” the older man confirmed.

“If it is that good, then why have we never heard of it?” Uncle asked, not easily swayed.

“If you were to trust the stories, no less than the Ageless himself banned it, thoroughly,” the older man replied. “Only a few escaped across the border. But I do not believe that tale. It is more likely that it is simply too expensive. Low-grade poppy milk is far cheaper and everywhere. Common men take that, pass out, and are content.”

He then took a pinch of the still moist herb inside. Placing it at the end of a finely made clay pipe, he leaned toward the small lantern still burning incense and touched the herb with a sliver of flame from a wooden spill. The leaves caught slowly, smoldering.

“This will not knock you cold,” he said.

Soon, the chamber filled with a sharp, biting smoke, raw and acrid, clinging to the air and stinging the back of the throat.

The silver-haired man took the first draw, then passed the pipe along as the others followed in turn.

Some coughed outright, while others held their breath, waiting to judge its effect.

“It’s medicinal, but the taste isn’t that bad," the older man remarked softly.

Grayish smoke filled the chamber. There was no hurry, only time to enjoy themselves. After all, the upper tier of Candidates like them had little to do but lord over the guards and the hungry masses, people who did nothing but tend vegetable gardens and pray.

Between smoking high doses of nicotiana on empty bellies, Uncle suddenly recalled their earlier topic and muttered, “You know, a duck is still a duck. Fat and juicy.”

This time, with his nerves calmed and his thoughts dulled by nicotine, the broad-shouldered brother nodded. “Yes. They probably taste the same.”

The rest chuckled.

“What is the Lord trying to do, march them here to be slaughtered? If that’s the case, I’ll personally join the fun with a fork and a knife,” Uncle added merrily.

Again, relaxed laughter filled the chamber.

Whatever worries they had about the ongoing siege were lifted away, blown off like the gray smoke they had just exhaled.

...

 

Two days had passed.

Once again, the sun sank toward the west and darkness covered the landscape. Because of the ongoing siege, even the Candidates were forced to conserve everything. Candles and oil for light were rationed tightly. The corridors lay in darkness, with only the gate and the walls kept lit.

“To think we now have to order the rats to make rush lights,” the silver-haired man said as he lit another one in the chamber upon their return from supper.

“And they make a poor one,” Uncle observed, watching the unsteady glow of the long, naked wick of the rush light.

“Not as poor as our meal,” the plump man said as he sat on his bed, then added in a softer voice, “Chief, I’m still starving. Don’t we have anything?”

“You’ve already eaten my share of dried figs,” the older man replied. “I have nothing left but hard biscuits. But that's for emergencies.”

“I hope they have something other than oats tomorrow,” Uncle groaned.

“You should apply for night guard duty,” the older man suggested. “They still get bread and onion.” One of their brothers had done exactly that, which was why he was not with them in the chamber.

“Yeah, yeah,” Uncle replied quickly, disliking the preachy tone. As much as he could, he did not want to surrender his nighttime gentle comfort. “One day, I’ll arrange for the coarse robes to butcher a goat and blame it on the congregation.”

The silver-haired man turned to stare at him under the dim light. “Those belong to the Saint. And spare the people from your tricks. That might tip them. Even the rats have already endured a great deal of hunger.”

“You fear the congregation too much,” Uncle scoffed. “What can they do? Raise their dirty nails against the Saint Candidates?”

There was no argument.

The plump man exhaled and rose to drink, thinking water might calm his hunger. “Chief, you ought to tell the Caretaker to explain this to the Saint. Living on nothing but plain oats is unbearable. We cannot even make proper bread. They must share their stores.”

“Hard to do that,” the silver-haired man replied lightly, teasing, “unless you have grown thin.”

The younger man chuckled. “I’m just big boned.”

“Seriously,” Uncle cut in, “you met the Caretaker. What was his answer? He spoke to the Saint yesterday, right?”

Keeping his expression level, the older man explained, “The Caretaker did meet the Saint’s confidant. She said the Reverend One does not wish to open the inner stores at this time. Not yet. She believes it is wiser to keep them for a long siege.”

“Wise, my arse,” Uncle blurted out. “Her wars have already cost the Monastery so much. I did not spend my childhood sent here and kept behind these walls just to suffer like this.”

“Uncle is right. At this rate, we are going to starve. There are already people with weak gums and loose teeth.”

“Bleeding gums,” Uncle remarked in support. “A seaman’s disease.”

“I doubt it. I’ve seen castles endure months of siege and remain healthy,” the older man argued.

“Yes, but only the lord and his retinue stay in the castle,” Uncle countered. “Meanwhile, how many do we feed? A thousand rats inside, robed or not. They eat everything like locusts. I can’t even find a raisin. All gone.”

“We had onion soup today, and I still saw you with a seemingly endless supply of costard fruit,” the older man countered.

Uncle could not resist but grinned, explaining sheepishly, “The inner courtyard garden is thankfully sealed off from most.”

“But not to you,” the plump man quipped, much to Uncle’s delight.

"Then," Uncle returned his gaze to the oldest among them, “what else did the confidant say?”

“She said to conserve food for the guards and those able to bring change. And that was the Saint’s decision.”

Silence settled over the chamber until Uncle finally asked, “Do you trust her?”

The older man met Uncle’s eyes. “Who?”

Uncle grinned. “Both. I haven’t seen the Saint for months. She didn't even show herself at the gate to watch her tens of thousands of sacrificial pawns march off to die.”

The older man did not argue, but clarified, “Like it or not, this is a siege. The Saint needs to prioritize her fighters and the true believers.”

“I am one,” Uncle muttered, irritated.

“Well, at least you have gentle company at night,” the plump man said, trying to lift the mood.

Not only Uncle, but even the silver-haired man showed a thin grin.

Deeper into the night, the two often visited hidden places within the massive complex.

Despite the siege, they did not lack indoctrinated women, believers who, with little persuasion or coercion, would gladly spend the night with any of them. It was one of the vices the higher-ranking Candidates quietly indulged under the new leadership, Saint Nay’s rule. While it placed them at odds with some of the Saint Candidates, those lived cloistered lives and held no authority over them.

Besides, it was not as if the prey resisted their invitations. Even when intoxicated, it was merely the blessing of the wine. Furthermore, there was no rule of celibacy for the Men of Cloth, only that they were to remain within the Monastery or lose their position.

Still, to keep face, the silver-haired man scowled. “Oh, sod it. When the bowls and plates are empty, even women will slice men’s ears and pluck out their eyeballs.”

Hearing the gruesome saying, one drawn from an ancient and tragic war most did not know, Uncle merely laughed. “You should pick your women carefully. And speaking of wenches, where is Angela? I haven’t seen her since her return with that failure of a knight.”

“Sir Hohendorf,” the plump man replied, earning Uncle’s gaze. He quickly explained, “Similarly, I haven’t seen Saint Candidate Angela since she returned. That was more than a month ago.”

“More...” Uncle remarked bitterly. “Then the rumors are true?”

“I don’t want to discuss them,” the older man said.

Ignoring him, Uncle pressed on. “What about the other silvers? You can’t be the only one with suspicions.”

The older man turned to the plump man, who reluctantly rose and walked to the door. He opened it to a narrow slit, saw it empty, then closed it again before returning with a nod.

Only then did the older man explain, “Forget about those two. If they are here, it will only make things more complicated. If this siege goes on much longer, the other silvers have a contingency. The first step would be to oust the believers. The second is to hand over the Grand Gemstone and those responsible in exchange for food. If they are missing, then it works in our favor, since their presence would only provoke resistance to handing them over.”

Uncle sniggered. “I doubt anyone will protect Angela or a losing knight.”

“The Saint Candidates protect their own fiercely,” the older man replied.

Uncle sighed. “When will this happen? Not anytime soon, I guess. Meanwhile, I’ll have to endure watery oats.”

Watching him, the older man suddenly teased, “Want to hear some good news?”

“What?” Uncle asked, his interest piqued.

“There is actually another plan underway.”

“Another?” Uncle asked. “Wasn’t that the one that was just crushed two days ago?”

The older man answered with a full smirk. “I shouldn’t tell you this. But there is another plan already in motion.”

“Chief, away with the mystery and tell us,” the plump man demanded, even his spirits rising.

Instead of answering directly, the older man simply took his pipe and prepared his nicotiana. Only after a puff of smoke did he speak. “You see, smugglers failed to bring food. Disguises failed. Men failed. But what about monsters?”

The two stared at him in disbelief.

“You mean the Saint will order her Saint Candidates?” Uncle asked.

“Out of dozens, we have a few who are suited for this kind of matter.” The older man exhaled slowly, the smoke spilled from his mouth as he spoke.

“If they’re involved,” the plump man muttered, “then…”

“There will be more than just oats,” Uncle said aloud.

The older man chuckled. “There is no reason for us to deal with this siege on empty bellies. If the Saint won’t offer us access to the inner stores or remove her congregations, then she must provide us with assistance.”

“We’ll be eating good as soon as they return," Uncle remarked. "No ditches or barbed wire can stop them. Some of them can even see in the dark.” He then stared at the older man. “Chief, is this why you’ve been so calm? Damn it, you should have told me sooner.”

The older man cackled. “You’re not silver hemmed yet,” he said, then added, “Somehow, I think we’re going to remember this siege with fondness.”

The plump man walked to the table and began pouring wine into the silver goblets. “This calls for a toast.”

They all reached for their goblets. Uncle then said, “Praise the Black Lord who has given us the time of our lives.”

Chuckles filled the chamber.

The Candidates cared for no one but themselves. Not the Lord who besieged them. Not the congregations of believers. Not even the Living Saint. For them, survival and the continued existence of the Monastery were the only goals.

If not for fear of reprisal, they were ready to give up those responsible for the rebellion. After all, they had found an inexhaustible source of money. Everyone needed healing, and money would certainly return to flow once this matter was resolved.

They would not give the Monastery up for anything in the world.

To be rich and powerful without risking the ire of the nobles was the greatest loophole they could have ever dreamed of. And all of it was legal, without dealings in mercenaries or the slave trade.

They only needed patience.

In a decade or two, even the Black Lord would succumb to natural illness. And they would be there to offer assistance. If his rule proved beneficial to them, they would preserve him. If he were of no use, they would depose him, either gently and quickly, or in a long and painful one.

After all, medicine was the knowledge of using poison in the smallest and right dose.

Raising his goblet, the older man spoke in a more solemn tone, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “To the Living Saint. May she live forever.”

They laughed again, their smiles edged with mockery.

 

***

 

Monastery Hill, Western Side

This part of the hill was the most treacherous. It had no paths but those made by mountain goats. Yet the three dark-robed Saint Candidates chose it, as it was naturally the most unguarded approach to the hill. They had been informed of this by the watchers and had confirmed it themselves through observation. Now, the Saint’s confidant had ordered them to break through the barricade.

What would have been impossible for common men was trivial for them.

Without needing light, the three men climbed down the steep slope in total darkness. In many steep drops where a human would break bones, they simply landed without much strain on their legs.

“Hey, we need to memorize the path. We still need to climb back up,” the oldest said to his brethren. He was only in his early thirties.

“Yeah,” another replied, turning his head slightly. “Laden, too. And to think we’re doing all this just to feed those Candidates.”

The third remained silent. Compared to the other two, he was a newly found talent, discovered barely two years ago, but he possessed a gift for strengthening magic.

“If only the Candidates were any good,” the first Saint Candidate remarked as they climbed down again.

“A bunch of incompetents. They should let us govern ourselves.”

“So we can have all the ladies?” the older brother quipped.

A smirk tugged at the second man’s lips. “You know, we don’t need those stinking Candidates. They’re just common scribes. Why do they have permission to order us around? I hope the Saint allows us to manage the money ourselves, instead of begging those Candidates every time we go out and have our purchases scrutinized. It’s our heals, our patients, our money."

"I hear you brother."

Meanwhile, the youngest simply listened.

Around them, it was quiet and dark. There did not seem to be anyone watching them.

“Honestly,” the second man said as he jumped down onto the rocky ground below, “they should just let us assassinate whoever guards the barricade. It would be less of an issue that way. Then we kill the camp leader. After that, we’ll see if anyone has the guts to threaten our home—”

The man stumbled over something.

Watching him, the recruit was forced to stifle a laugh.

“You okay?” the older brother asked. Without proper training, their night sight was imperfect, only showing gray against black, nothing like what mages or hunters possessed.

“The fuck is this—” He stopped short. “H-human bones!”

The older brother moved closer at once and warned him quietly, “Keep your voice down.”

“There are several. Skulls. Is that human ribs?” he said, his training as a healer allowing him to recognize some.

Then came a low chuckle, deep and feral, as if it rose from something large lurking nearby.

The Saint Candidates had not been mistaken. These passes had been unguarded until a few days ago. Now, far worse creatures watched over them.

 

***