The Fickle Winds of Autumn

Brother Simeon entered the study and bowed.

“I’m sorry Patrex, but Talmadge insisted on being accompanied by his votaries, and refused to leave them at the gates, as I asked.”

“That’s fine, Brother Simeon,” Steadman replied, “show them all in - and then deal with that other errand, please.”

A rough clatter of boots on the polished floor echoed into the chamber -the vaulted ceiling of the corridor amplified the sound. A slightly stooped, elderly man, dressed almost entirely in torn and dirty rags, entered. His dishevelled smell and worn appearance contrasted sharply against the clean comfort of the room.

Steadman peered at him and searched deep into his memories; the man’s head and face were partially covered by a woollen cowl, which made it difficult to determine too many of his features - a rough, grey stubble blurred across his jaw - but it could not disguise such a distinctive chin.

The crumpled clothing was draped across a wiry frame - he seemed smaller - and certainly much thinner - than the picture in Steadman’s mind; and yet, somehow, his presence in the room had become more tangible, more powerful and intense than previously, as if the magikant had shrunk in size, but grown in authority.

But beneath the collection of filthy, tattered cloth, those same alert inquisitive eyes pierced out; rich with an uncomfortable knowledge; penetrating and accusatory.

Steadman shifted his weight; his fingers tried to grip for the comfort of a sword that was no longer by his side - at least in the carnage of battle you knew how to face your foe - but this meeting, like the old man standing before him, could be as unpredictable as the blustering autumn winds.

Perhaps he too should have had some of the wine.

The ragged man was flanked by two acolytes - callow youths, untested in combat, who had obviously yet to taste the bitter disappointments that life had to offer.

They stood in silent obedience behind him. Like their master, their faces were also partly obscured by heavy hoods.

All the common folk knew that such garments should be removed within the sanctity of the Cathedral - more especially so in the presence of the Patrex himself.

No doubt Talmadge had instructed them to do this.NôvelDrama.Org copyrighted © content.

To provoke him, perhaps?

No - his ways were much more subtle than that.

They stared down intently at the polished floor, clearly determined to avoid eye contact.

It was difficult to be sure beneath their mud-spattered coverings, but the one on the left almost certainly had a feminine jaw-line and the round-shouldered frame of a girl.

But why would Talmadge have a female follower?

What possible use could a votaress be?

He could not pass on his knowledge or his craft to her - everyone knew a woman’s blood could not wield the magik.

Perhaps she cooked and washed his potion bottles?

But then, why dress her in male clothing?

The others were right - sometimes there was just no knowing what those imbued with the power of magik were up to - their ways were just too erratic and unpredictable.

Or perhaps the “star-taint” had finally caught up with the old man’s intellect?

Steadman’s experienced eyes analysed his opponent with a cursory glance as he approached to greet his guest.

“Welcome Talmadge,” he said.

“Patrex Steadman,” said Talmadge, nodding in his direction. “It has been several years, and they all seem to have been kind to you.”

“But you’ve lost weight,” Steadman replied.

“Oh! A recent enforced diet - I will soon regain my true size - if the kitchens here are as good as I remember them.”

“Please accept some water,” Steadman insisted as he passed a cup to each of them. “You must be thirsty after your journey.”

The three guests took the cups but did not tilt their heads back to drink. Steadman could still not get a direct look at their faces.

Perhaps the old man had remembered his ploy and had warned them?

“I’m glad you’re here,” Steadman continued. “There will be time to eat later, but what we need to discuss with you, Talmadge, is a very … sensitive matter… we cannot allow it to become public knowledge.”

He directed a glance toward the two young followers.

Talmadge bristled and stared directly back.

“Anything you wish to say to me can certainly be said in front of these two,” he replied.

“Well, I’d rather...”

“Speak Patrex,” Talmadge demanded. “Let us know what is on your mind.”

“As direct as ever, I see! Very well. As you may know, we have had problems recently with witch attacks. We sent for the Harmonist, and he was confident that a Cleansing Spell would deal with them. However, something seemed to go wrong - the ceremony was attacked and regrettably, the Harmonist, along with many others, were killed.”

The acolyte on the left shuffled uneasily; their cup clattered to the ground. Their fingers seemed far too clumsy to be those of a pot washer.

“Yes, I have heard this news,” said Talmadge.

“This … unfortunate set of circumstances has put us in quite some trouble. The Harmonist was one of the few magikants with the ability to perform such a powerful ceremony and defend us against the witches - without him, we are left almost defenceless against these abominable attacks. We need someone of great power and wisdom, someone with experience in such powerful spells. So, of course, I thought of you, my old friend - you were always amongst the strongest of your generation, and with your background, you have all the experience necessary to perform such a spell.”

“Forgive me Patrex,” Talmadge replied, “my memory is not perhaps what it once was - but I do not ever recall us being friends. I only seem to recall being expelled from this place - and from the Church forever - by you, and this… collection.” He nodded toward the rest of the Pleiad.

Steadman shuffled on the rug.

It seemed his guest still felt the old wounds and bore a grudge - but who could blame him?

“I assumed that our messengers had informed you of our sincere pardon and amnesty - and also of our dire situation, and that’s what brought you here?”

“No.” Talmadge replied. “I have encountered no messengers. My journey here has been … somewhat less direct.”

“Well anyway,” Steadman continued, “you see our situation - not just the situation of the Church, but, it seems, of all humanity - for these creatures appear determined to destroy us all. You are our only hope, the only one who can save us. We ask you please, for all our sakes, to help us.”

The old man glared out around the room. Clearly, he wasn’t going to make this easy.

“I know we did not part on the best of terms, Talmadge, but you know I personally never blamed you for what happened; and I hope you will not let our past blind us to what must be done now - for the sake of all humanity.”

Talmadge’s frame stiffened; he drew himself up to his full height.

Rowe gulped at his wine; Odal’s chair legs scratched on the floor.

There must be some way of getting through to him - some way to make the stubborn old goat understand the severity of the situation.

“I remember of course, that you have vowed only ever to use your skills to heal,” Steadman tried again, “but under the circumstances, we had hoped…”

“And really, this is in itself a form of healing,” ventured Lanqvist, “because you would be healing our entire community by cutting out this terrible infection; saving not just an individual patient, but our entire Church and way of life - restoring a balance of health to the whole world.”

“Witches have never harmed me,” Talmadge replied. “It seems that the balance, as you put it, has only been upset by human intervention and foolishness, not by them. Was it not the axes of men that felled the trees in the great forests?”

“This is clearly a discussion for another time,” Steadman intervened, “time that we simply do not have - we must act, and do so quickly, if we are to survive. You were always the strongest, most powerful magikant of your generation - that is why you were the Harmonist - you are now our only real hope, you must help us, or we shall soon be over-run.”

The acolyte on the right twitched out a glance towards the old man. Some of the water from his cup spilled over onto the floor. They certainly seemed a fumbling and cumbersome pair to choose as followers.

“Enough of this snivelling and grovelling,” Caldor erupted. “Why waste your time mixing potion bottles and ointments for old women’s haemorrhoids when you could do something of use to the entire world?”

“Please,” Steadman continued, “at least stay and rest here for a few days while you consider our request - you look as if a hearty meal and good night’s rest would do you good - and a storm is pulling in tonight.”

“Very well,” Talmadge replied. “I will consider your words - but know this - if I am to help you in any way, I will require the use of the entire Library - I will need to research the problem and assess the situation more fully.”

“Yes,” Steadman said. “I had anticipated as much - I remembered your ways of old - your keen fondness for books and scrolls - you were always a great one for study and learning. Brother Simeon should be bringing the Librarian to us as we speak - this sounds like her now.”

The light footsteps of a small, grey-haired woman tapped into the room. Her silver key-pendant caught the fire-light and glinted softly around her neck as she approached. She had always seemed shy and reticent in his presence - although she was alert and thorough and clearly intelligent.

Her cheeks flushed as she glanced about the room and realised that she was now the sole focus of attention.

“This is our guest - Talmadge,” said Steadman. “He is here to help us with our witch problem.”

The Librarian turned to face the magikant.

“Then, of course, you will want access to the Apotropaic Section,” she said.

“Perhaps,” Talmadge replied. “But my request was to use all of the Library - including access to the section which deals with the Lore of Presage.”

The Librarian’s faced blushed a slightly deeper red.

“Unfortunately sir, Library rules forbid this - only elected members of the Pleiad can have access to this section.”

“Our current situation is far too critical to stand on such ceremonies,” Steadman interrupted. “I grant our guest access under the power of my authority.”

“But Patrex,” the Librarian continued, “you are aware that some of the manuscripts in that section are our most ancient and often the most difficult to understand fully - only the most spiritually qualified would be capable of interpreting them properly - without the danger of lapsing into heresy.”

“The pages in that section do touch on other matters,” Lanqvist said, “matters that I have been forced to bring to your attention.”

“No! No!” Caldor interjected. “This is strictly forbidden! Only members of the Pleiad can read the archaic documents - only we are strong enough to interpret them without the taint of corruption - only our faith is strong enough to shield us.”

“Really, Brother Caldor, would you have the whole Church fall about our ears rather than grant this access?” asked Steadman. “Can you not see that soon there will be no Church left at all? No men left to preach to, if we do not stop the witches from annihilating us all. And do I need to remind you once again of the terrible discovery of Brother Lanqvist’s work?”

“But if these primitive stories were to fall into the wrong hands,” Caldor persisted, “they could cause a mass panic amongst our beloved flock - the dread of hysteria would engulf and kill them just as surely as any witch attack.”

“We have no choice,” said Steadman. “We must fight with all the weapons the Surrounder has granted to us. I give full access to you Talmadge, on the strict condition that you do not remove any of the books from the Library, or allow anyone else to read them.”

He glared out around the room; the others sat in silence - clearly, none dared challenge his authority.

“There is a room for you here in the Cathedral building, Talmadge,” he continued. “I am sure you will be comfortable and able to study. We can show your two…votaries… to some suitable quarters in the pilgrimage hostel.”

“No,” Talmadge replied. “That will not be acceptable - I must have them both with me - here within the Vallum boundary.”

“What!” Odal said. “But they are not priests - they have no right to be housed within our sacred enclosure!”

“You over-reach yourself, Talmadge!” Caldor erupted. “You have indeed grown self-important in your dotage!”

“My self-worth has noting to do with it!” Talmadge flashed, “we will all stay within the sanctuary of the Vallum, or I will not be able to help you - those are my terms, gentlemen.”

Steadman gazed intently at his guest.

It was difficult to piece together the old man’s strategy.

Clearly, he intended to house his acolytes here.

A girl would never be allowed to sleep within the Cathedral walls - even the Patrex could not overturn that Law - and that would account for her disguise.

But why seek the shelter of the Vallum?

What possible use could this magikal shield be to him?

Surely his own spells would be strong enough to offer protection outside its sheltering dome?

And its ancient properties would prevent him from being able to wield the magik from within its boundaries.

Did even one as powerful as he fear the witch attacks?

But the situation did not allow the luxury of choice - he would have to accede to this request - he must play out the game to see where it led.

“Well, as luck would have it,” Steadman said, “your old chambers in the west quadrant have recently become available - perhaps it is all part of the Surrounder’s good providence. I trust they will be sufficient for your needs?”

“Perhaps the Surrounder’s providence, as you put it, has indeed led us all down this same path,” Talmadge replied. “Although I do not believe that any of us will enjoy what lies at the end of this particular journey.”