Chapter 319

The Monastery’s Answer

 

Inner Sanctum, Apothecary Stores

It was midday, and Sister Anna had not returned to the apothecary. In her absence, the assistant worked as best she could to fulfil medicine requests and to record them as accurately as possible. Despite the lack of outside patients due to the ongoing conflict, there were still their own to care for, especially the elderly Sisters. The Monastery still had fourth, or even third, generation Sisters living within the complex.

They were advanced in age. One was already a hundred and forty years old and had younger Sisters constantly caring for her. Their shared chambers were located in a section overlooking the meticulously cared for inner garden.

Even healing magic could not mend everything, and so these elderly Sisters required many medicines to make their retirement years bearable. Balm for aching joints, tooth powder for teeth that no longer regrew, and common salves for itching or rashes.

While the assistant had some experience, when matters became more specific, she could not offer much help. She could only tell them to return at another time, as Sister Anna had not yet come back from her visit.

It made her worry. Anna was not the type to abandon her post. She took her role seriously.

Still, the assistant could not abandon her post. She could not search for Anna until around supper, when the shop could finally be closed.

Hours passed. The sunlight that shone through the small window high in the wall, overlooking the inner courtyard, was waning, a sign that daylight was almost over. Again, she heard footsteps in the corridor, and each time she hoped Anna would appear so she could rant about where she had been. Alas, it was not she who arrived, but the last person the assistant had hoped to see.

“Sister,” an old, white-browed man called her, his tone firm and impatient.

“Master Candidate,” the assistant replied quickly to the vice Caretaker, the second-highest authority within the scribes’ hierarchy. His appearance, accompanied by another Candidate as an escort, was bad news. He was not supposed to be here. Even if he needed anything, he had underlings to do it for him.

“I have been told you refused to provide the incense my assistant required.”

“I would never dare refuse your request, Master, but I do not have them ready.”

“You refuse to make the incense?”

“Not at all, Master. We were about to prepare it, but Sister Anna has suddenly gone missing.”

“Anna?”

“Yes. She is the apothecary. I am only her assistant. Still in training,” she hastily added the last part.

“How irresponsible.” His voice was cold and harsh. Then came the lecture. “Even as young Saint Candidates, your conduct should be exemplary. Do you know the suffering of the believers, who survive on so little food just to endure the siege? And yet you and your Sister deny them the things meant to soothe their minds. How careless. Shameful. Negligent.”

The assistant could only lower her head, hands clasped together in front of her, and remain silent.

“Now, with that knowledge in mind. Start making the incense right now.”

“B-but I d—”

“You have the ingredients, yes?”

“I have them, but—”

“You have seen your mentor make it, yes?”

“But the measurements—”

“That will be you and your missing mentor’s responsibility. So stop your mouth and get to work. I'm waiting.”

For a moment, the assistant could not believe what she had heard. She glanced at him, hoping he would leave or change his mind, but all she found were his sharp eyes beneath the white brows, staring back at her. She shriveled inwardly and hurried to the cabinet where they stored the materials for the incense.

Truthfully, the incense components, such as frankincense or agarwood, were already in processed form. They were delivered finished. The apothecary only needed to select what was suitable and then add to it. Usually, the process was meant to alter or enrich the aroma or the desired effect, such as soothing or calming. But after the wandering Meister had been recruited, the Monastery gained the knowledge to add even more potent effects.

The thought of adding only harmless ingredients to the mix crossed her mind. It would still burn and smell roughly the same, but she knew that without the proper effect, she would be risking her neck.

And it was not that she did not want to help the believers who supported the Monastery, even going so far as to defend them from the Black Demon’s army. The incense was meant to soothe the soul and cast away dread. It was necessary so that the believers could rest, despite their hunger, boredom, and anxiety.

She knew she had to make it without Anna. So she went to a different cabinet, one that was still forbidden to her, and took ingredients she knew had been used. She then recalled the measurements and tried her best to replicate them.

The ingredients she used were sedatives, in large amounts. Despite her concern, she had no other option. What she could do was ensure the mixture was measured as closely as she remembered her mentor doing it.

After carefully mixing three ingredients into a large bowl of incense, she added several spoonfuls of oil, turning the mixture moist rather than powdery. She saw that the consistency, color, and scent were different. She thought she could do better if given the chance, but the materials were limited, and originally, she was not even allowed to use them.

While still bothered by it, she prepared waxed paper to carry the incense, but found only a few sheets left. Even waxed paper was limited due to the siege. So she chose cloth instead.

As she passed the bundle of incense through the long window, she muttered, “I am not so sure. Can you not wait for—”

“No. This must do.” The white-browed man's answer was final, and he motioned for his assistant to take the bundle. The younger Candidate found the cloth bundle unusual, but remained quiet.

“Please return the cloth tomorrow. We are short on it,” she said, half pleading.

“Next time, prepare the incense beforehand, so we do not have to have this conversation again.” The old man left, his aide trailing behind.

The assistant sighed and peered through the long window, seeing that nobody was coming. She hesitated for a moment before rushing to close the wooden shutters, the sign that the apothecary was closed. She did not want to risk encountering another troublesome visitor.

Only after she cleaned the table did she prepare to leave. It was already dim inside, and she had no lantern with her. Just as she was about to step out, someone entered, startling her. She reacted out of habit. “Apologies, we are closed.”

“Hi, that is all right,” replied a soothing voice.

"Sister Emma,” the assistant recognized her at once. She had been in charge of the young for years, and the assistant herself had only graduated not too long ago. They had never spoken much, but in a small community like theirs, everyone knew one another by face.

Sister Emma returned her look with a gentle smile. “I am looking for your mentor.”

The assistant drew a quick breath and began explaining what had happened. Before long, the two of them were searching for Anna together, as quietly as possible. But despite all their effort, they found nothing.

With tensions running high between the groups, worsened by the Lord’s demands, many refused even to listen. Everyone was thinking only of themselves. After all, in three days the attack would come, and nerves were frayed.

Whispers spread that some groups might challenge the Saint in an attempt to appease the Lord. As a result, every movement was scrutinized.

No one wanted to get involved, and groups shut themselves off from outsiders. After all, many feared the Saint and her bodyguards.

...

 

Vice Caretaker

The white-browed Vice Caretaker walked along the corridor toward a decorated yard, a small open space within the complex that connected the Inner Sanctum to the rest of the Monastery. As usual, two senior Sisters in battle garb stood watch by the open gate, swords resting at their belts.

Yet he and his aide did not leave the Inner Sanctum. Instead, they turned toward a different office, located in a rarely visited section of the complex. There stood the chambers of the Healers Guild leadership.

Until a few years ago, the place had been lively, with senior Sisters overseeing the routine affairs of their order. Guests from outside the Monastery were received there, leave was requested and granted, and reports were brought in to be heard and judged. But with many of its occupants murdered during the Saint’s coup, it had grown much quieter. The Saint herself did not reside there.

He had just reached the chamber and realized there was no need to knock. An old woman in heavy robes was approaching from the opposite corridor, escorted by a younger woman, likely returning after making her rounds.

The older woman recognized him at once. “Is that you?” Her voice was sharp and authoritative, with a hint of irritation. “You are not supposed to be here.”

“Good day, Head Sister,” he greeted, ignoring her tone. He had known her for decades, and she had always been difficult.

The Head Sister did not quicken her pace. When she drew closer, she stopped and asked, “Do you have business with me?”

Though he was older, he bowed his head first, ever so slightly, to appease her. Like him, she was second in the hierarchy, a vice to the Saint herself. She had gained that position by being instrumental in the Saint’s escape and rise to power. Yet even the Saint did not care for her much, preferring instead to entrust a younger woman as her confidant. Possibly because of that slight, she had grown even more irritable.

“I have come for an audience,” he answered, his manner and tone were polite and precise.

“Hmph,” she began. “All this siege business and these outrageous demands are making everyone frightened. The believers, poor things, are panicking. If I were not there to reassure them, their faith might crumble.” She sighed. “I doubt the army outside will come. Our hill entrance is narrow, our complex too vast, our walls too high. These demands are just another tactic of the Demon, meant to rob innocents of rest and sleep.”

“Yes, Head Sister. I have noticed the same.”

“So what did you come here for?”

“May we speak inside?”

She did not answer yes or no, merely motioned for her aide to open the door and walked inside.

Despite what she had just said, he knew she did not care about the innocents. After all, she was the one who had betrayed the old Abbess and many of her peers by allowing Saint Nay, back then still a Sister, to escape her mage cell. That single act had begun the bloody coup.

It never occurred to her that consequences would one day come for her. In truth, if the moment came, the silver-hemmed were ready to dispose of her along with her Saint. Someone had already calculated that they would only need ten surviving Saint Candidates to rebuild the Healers Guild anew. Even if most of the Sisters died, their money-making scheme would endure. They would simply take direct control, instead of relying on this foolish double hierarchy.

In the new order, they would stand at the top. Healers would do as they were commanded, plain and simple. Healers would be treated like potters toiling with clay, bound to quotas to fulfill. It was not radical. It was simply good business. He was even certain that the ruling Lord would welcome the idea. After all, mages were not to be trusted. Neither were Saint Candidates.

Once inside her office chamber, she took her seat and asked, without waiting for the older man to sit, “Speak fast. I am busy.”

“Head Sister,” he addressed her, knowing the title pleased her, while inwardly laughing at her claim of being busy. With the Saint now relying on her confidant to convey her wishes, the Head Sister had become increasingly irrelevant. And so she behaved like this, throwing whatever authority she had left at others. “As you know, it is becoming more and more difficult to control the masses. After hearing of the Lord's demands, if they were to slip away at the first crack of dawn, when our guards are tired, what do you think the guards should do?”

“The guards should do what they are tasked to do,” she replied, clearly without giving it much thought, simply removing herself from responsibility.

“And if the guards do not wish to draw blood against these frightened groups, who want to run away despite our generosity in feeding their hungry mouths?”

“Ungrateful disbelievers. They should be punished.”

“Indeed, Head Sister. Then would you object should harm befall them?”

She looked at him, unsure. His white brows, which marked him as older and wiser, made her uncomfortable, and her face turned into a scowl.

He clarified quickly. “If these disbelievers flee on their own after the morning sermon, march toward the camp, and are captured by the Lord’s men, will the Monastery hold the guards responsible for their actions?”

Beginning to realize his intent, she snorted dryly. She had already heard of the request to oust the believers. They numbered over a thousand, with hundreds of children and elderly among them. They were a burden to feed, and aside from the able-bodied, had little use. “If these hungry souls refuse our treatment and walk out on their own, why would it be anyone’s fault but theirs?”

“I am glad you are so wise, Head Sister.”

Their meeting ended. With her approval, the plan was set in motion.

 

***

 

Monastery Dining Hall

It was supper time, and despite rumors of Saint Candidates sneaking out to smuggle food, there was still no improvement. While the Sisters and Brothers Saint Candidates in the Inner Sanctum had their bellies kept full, the common Candidate scribes languished in hunger. Again, they were given oats and a little salt, which they pinched onto their tongues, because adding it to the water was futile.

Stomachs groaned. Many had grown up here since childhood and were used to being pampered. After all, the Monastery was rich, and they were its favored children.

They had normally eaten well, with hearty soups, meat, and desserts. Even exotic food, like bird tongues or stuffed dormice on special occasions. Now there were only oats. Drab, watery oats.

More stomachs groaned as people inhaled deeply, scooped the thin gruel, and swallowed it down. Each mouthful was followed by a grimace.

The absence of taste and the fact that it was not even hot made it all the more unbearable.

Not even the chandelier burned at a fifth of its usual light. The hall was dim and miserable.

Only now did the siege make itself fully felt, leaving a hundred of them staring down at the poor meal before them.

Despite the ongoing siege, the watery gruel was an insult. What stirred their scowls the most was that the Monastery was well stocked, and they knew this firsthand. Many of them were responsible for the records. They knew there was plenty still held in reserve. But the Saint and the Caretaker would not open it. Worse still, those two had taken in followers by the thousands, believing they would be useful during a siege.

Instead of being of any use, they were only hungry mouths, placing a heavy burden on the stores. They had even stripped the Monastery and its surroundings of food.

Even the bark of young trees had been peeled away and ground into flour, producing barely edible bread.

“How could there be no spice at all?” one man finally spoke, drawing everyone’s attention. They were all bored, and watching someone lose his patience was better than silently enduring another tasteless meal.

The speaker was in his mid-thirties and had been with them for decades. He continued, “It is not even winter. Why are we being fed so poorly?”

“Aye!” came a loud response from a man many of them called Uncle.

The silver-haired man beside him simply chuckled as the rest voiced their support aloud.

The Caretaker’s aide quickly tried to instill order. “Quiet. We are eating.”

“How can you be so peaceful eating this forsaken food?” Uncle shot back. “You cannot be satisfied with this. None of us can.”

“Manners,” the aide tried again.

But to Uncle’s ears, it sounded like an invitation. “Are you hiding something from us? Do you have a secret stash of salted meat somewhere, that lets you endure this? I see your bowl is almost untouched.”

Now the voices of a hundred throats in the chamber grew louder.

“Manners,” the aide repeated desperately.

The Caretaker, seated at the long table, turned toward the silver-hemmed. His stare pressed them to act, to discipline their men. But each of the group leader either shrugged or raised their hands, unwilling or unable to intervene.

Usually, the Caretaker relied on his vice to keep order in the chamber. Today, the man was occupied elsewhere, overseeing the preparation of incense meant for the believers. Without it, the situation downstairs could turn unruly. They had been fed so little that, without sedatives to dull hunger and fear, unrest would come quickly.

The Caretaker wished to discard them altogether, but the Saint would not allow it. Still, a plan was already in motion.

Uncle climbed onto a bench beside the long table, looming above the seated crowd. He began to chant, slow and deliberate. “We want food. We want spice.”

“We want food,” voices answered.

“We want spice.”

The chamber rose in support. The words merged into a chant, loud and insistent.

Finally, the Caretaker himself rose, his face tired, his frame tall and big-bodied. “Gentlemen, can you not see we are at war?”

“Then feed us!” another man rose, one of the most popular seniors, as old as the Caretaker himself. In fact, he had once been a rival for the Caretaker’s position. “Everyone knows you cannot fight on an empty stomach.”

His words were met with a chorus of agreement.

He continued, “We have large stores. The Inner Sanctum has them as well. Feed us more than this sickening, watery gruel.”

“We are at war,” the Caretaker tried again, but his voice was quickly drowned out.

The first man who had provoked the outburst called back, “What war? This watery gruel tells us we have already lost it.”

The popular senior laughed, and so did half the chamber.

“Then what do you propose?” the Caretaker finally asked, forcing his voice through the noise as he turned toward his old rival.

He thought he had the man cornered. Now the senior would have to offer a solution. But it was the wrong move.

Instead of offering one, he threw wood onto the fire. “I propose you give us the same food you secretly eat. Because I have noticed your girth has remained the same while we suffer.”

Mocking laughter burst. It was close to an uproar. The Caretaker’s close supporters tried to restrain the speaker, but the Candidates rose, shoving back in response. Long tables and chairs were overturned.

“Lies. Utter lies,” the Caretaker shouted.

“Bring the measurements and the tailor,” the senior shot back. “His book will prove the size of your girth.”

Crude laughter broke out, and then someone threw a punch. It quickly turned into a brawl among the scribes. Many of the wiser ones retreated to the rear, watching as innocent bystanders, including the silver-haired man and Uncle. The last thing they wanted was to leave with bruises.

Shouts and kicks, accompanied by groans and punches, filled the chamber. When everyone had taken their bruises or lost a tooth, the door suddenly opened, and a white-browed man entered.

“By the First Abbot,” the vice exclaimed as his eyes swept over the chamber. “You fools. Get outside, now. Or I will have you arrested and your belongings confiscated.”

More than a few looked ready to argue, but the vice was faster. “Go to your rooms, or I swear you will be sleeping outside the Monastery walls,” he shouted. Then he turned toward the doorway where the guards stood. “Guards!”

The scribes began to move toward the exit, Uncle among them, and many others took the hint. It was enough. They had had their say and their fun, poking at the useless Caretaker, who now sat there, angry and defeated, his chest heaving.

“You were part of this?” the vice said, spotting the popular senior.

“Our tradition allows it. We have every right.”

The vice clicked his tongue and waved him out of his sight, then turned his gaze back to the chamber, where dozens still remained. “We have an enemy outside eager to poke your bellies with spears and swords for sport. Meanwhile, you worthless buffoons start fights over a meal. You know what? How about I send you out tonight? In groups of twenty. No, make it forty. Maybe some will survive and tell us how we lost three Saint Candidates without a trace.”

The men turned to one another.

“Oh, spare me the act,” the vice lashed out. “I know you know. These walls have ears. We have leaks everywhere. I would even wager the enemy has ears inside the Monastery. You are all too foolish to know what is best for you. So eat your damn gruel or stay hungry. Until the situation improves, this is all there is.”

“Then, when will the situation improve?” the silver-haired man alone dared to ask. The man called Uncle stood next to him.

“Soon,” the vice answered, composing himself.

Under the watchful eyes of many, he walked to the Caretaker’s table and sat beside him. He accepted a bowl of watery oats and took a spoonful.

That act calmed the room. Order slowly returned, at least on the surface.

After witnessing how close the Candidates had come to open mutiny, the Caretaker finally gave up. He would not interfere with the vice’s plan.

The day gave way to night.

The first of the three-day limit had ended. But by morning, the Monastery made its move.

 

***

 

Second Day

At the crack of dawn, the hill lay quiet, almost too quiet. With no traffic along the winding paths, only green slopes stretched beneath the pale light. The sun was warm, casting a golden glow that melted the dew on the grass.

Within the Monastery, however, there was no stillness. Hundreds were already formed into lines. Those who wished were allowed to take helmets, gambesons, spears, or even sword and shield. From the kitchens drifted the smell of freshly baked brown bread, and after days of meager meals, it lifted spirits with amazing effectiveness.

A Saint Candidate Brother then delivered sermons and chants, the air heavy with incense. It was a different kind of incense. Not merely soothing, but invigorating, quieting doubt and dulling hesitation. The words of the sermon slipped easily into their minds. Prayers followed, deep and fervent.

Even more convincing, many who had been sick were cured. Stiff limbs loosened. Aching joints no longer pained them. Even broken bones were no longer debilitating.

Pain vanished, and the people took this as another proof of the Saint’s divinity.

Before the sun grew hot, the Monastery’s main gate burst open. From inside came column after column of believers, all pouring onto the winding path. After the sermon, everyone boldly bore arms. Spears rose above the crowd. Sword and shield caught the light. Others carried pitchforks and scythes.

There were more than nine hundred of them, enough to darken the path down the hill. They moved like a disciplined army, a single mass. Their steps followed the chants they sang. Fervor burned in their eyes. They were convinced the Saint had finally chosen them to act, and that whatever lay ahead would be salvation.

Watching the movement below, the Lord’s guards in the surrounding watchtowers sounded their trumpets one after another, warning of the impending attack.

The Monastery had given its answer.

 

***